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Twilight Zone Volume 3 Issue 1
= TWILIGHT WORLD - Volume 3 Issue 1 (January 23rd 1995) =====================
You can do anything with this magazine as long as it remains intact. All
stories in it are fiction. No actual persons are designated by name or
character and similarity is coincidental.
This magazine is for free. Get it as cheaply as possible!
Please refer to the end of this file for further information.
= LIST OF CONTENTS ==========================================================
EDITORIAL
by Richard Karsmakers
TORVAK THE WARRIOR
by Stefan Posthuma
CADAVER
by Richard Karsmakers
THE LADY WORE BLACK
by Richard Karsmakers
THE PROMISED LANDS
by Richard Karsmakers
A MALIGNANTLY CLOSE ENCOUNTER WITH A GREEK GODDESS
by Stefan Posthuma and Richard Karsmakers
SIMULCRA
by Jurie Horneman
GHOST BATTLE
by Richard Karsmakers
THE KILLING GAME SHOW
by Richard Karsmakers
= EDITORIAL =================================================================
by Richard Karsmakers
Welcome to a new year, dear reader, and here's hoping that it will prove not
too dramatic a one. My education is wrapping itself up - not exactly neatly,
but it's getting there nonetheless - and will ask a lot of my time before
it's truly finished. Even though "Twilight World" is not the most intense of
the projects I have taken on through the years, it may well be that a few of
the future issues - like this one - will be overdue (slightly or otherwise).
I just ask for your patience, and I would also like to stress the point that
I won't have free email access anymore after the summer of 1996 so I would
either have to commercialise "Twilight World" to pay for Internet access or
cease publishing it. I certainly hope it won't come to the latter. Donations
would be a preferable alternative to commercialisation (yes, that *is* a
hint!).
This issue has a few recurring themes: Fights fought by means of manuals,
and Poetic Love. Hope you like the different angles. I should also like to
note that there are ever more stories that in some way refer back to older
stuff in "Twilight World". Please get your hands on whatever back issues you
still need.
As usual, it is my fond wish that you'll like reading this issue. Remember
that you're more than welcome to spread the word - and the file! And if you
have something written that you're proud of, you're more than welcome to
submit.
Richard Karsmakers
(Editor)
P.S. If you no longer want to receive "Twilight World", *please* unsubscribe;
don't let me wait for the messages to bounce instead, totally flooding
my email box! This especially goes for people on AOL, 1 out of every 5
direct subscribers.
= TORVAK THE WARRIOR ========================================================
by Stefan Posthuma
An elaborate description of different forms of alien excrement passed the
lips of the mercenary annex hired gun. Out of gas. Wonderful.
It had seemed like a nice trip to go to that new shop on the third planet in
the Tippecanoe system. It had just opened and advertised on the TriD with
large swords, axes and other barbaric weapons. Just the kinds Cronos liked to
play with on a lost afternoon. For the real stuff he had his gadgets, of
course, but slicing and chopping opponents for a change was a nice passtime.
So he hopped in his latest toy, his Corvette. Named after some famous
antique sports car, this was the latest in short-range space travel. Equipped
with all sorts of devices to make it go at insane speeds and more features in
its on-board computer than a military assault ship, it was the top thing. One
problem, though, was that it was more like an engine with a hull around it.
There wasn't much space for fuel and other things. In his enthusiasm, he flew
around the planet a couple of times before landing to buy the enormous sword
and the book. He hadn't brought his killer gadgets; they simply didn't fit in
the small cockpit.
After consulting his on-board computer, he sighed. The planet he landed on
after scrambling out of the warp was not yet civilised. There was one self-
service station some hundred miles from where he had landed. Great. He had to
travel a hundred miles on foot through unknown country. The computer stated
that there was life, but that most of it wasn't very nice. Several
expeditions had failed because too many of the colonists had gotten
themselves killed.
Something strange happened. Cronos actually thought. Several neurons in his
brain actually sent some coherent signals to each other, forming thoughts.
Not really knowing what happened, Cronos was a bit taken aback by this. His
first impulse was to eliminate the source of confusion, but he soon thought
better of it after he had almost beheaded himself with his infamous killer
fingernail.
Then he decided. He had to take the sword and defend himself with that. Only
one problem posed itself - Cronos' ability with swords and stuff wasn't
particularly great. He knew how to handle a Gargantuan Omni-Deth Meson
Blaster, he was skilled with the Giga-Kill Slaught Wrench and nobody mastered
the Krikkit Klepto-Krusher as well as he did. But a sword?
Fortunately, he had a book. A book with pictures telling him how to be a
fierce warrior. So he put on some nice music on the on-board sound system and
started reading.
A few hours later, he emerged from his Corvette. Sword in one hand, book in
the other, he started towards the forest beyond which the energy station was
supposed to be. The country was kinda nice. He climbed a soft hill, covered
in long grass and sweet smelling stuff all around him. Strange. Normally, he
didn't notice these things. Anyway, before he had time to dismiss these eerie
thoughts, his attention was drawn by a grunting sound. He stopped and
listened. A bush parted and a rather nasty-looking creature emerged. It was
short, ugly and probably smelly too. You know, the typical orc-like thing
that needs slaughtering bad.
Cronos lit up. Yeah, finally some fighting to do. OK, refer to that page
marked 'Assaulting an unarmed Victim'. Cronos memorised the instructions.
A) Heave the sword above your head.
B) Yell your favourite war cry.
C) Run toward the Victim with great speed.
C) Swing the sword in the direction of the Victim's neck, and hope for the
best.
D) If you can't stand blood, look away.
So Cronos swung the sword in the direction of the creatures neck, ran
towards it, yelled at it and heaved the sword.
This was not his lucky day.
The creature didn't die or anything. It wasn't afraid either, and started
pounding Cronos' left leg with its claws.
Damn.
Cronos looked at the book again in puzzlement. Shit. Did it the wrong way
around. And he had studied so hard. He also found out that reading books
while there is a nasty creature pounding your left leg doesn't work. He hit
the thing with the hand that was holding the book. It stopped pounding and
slumped onto the ground. Great, now he didn't get to hack at it either. He
sighed deeply and started off towards the forest again. He had a long day
ahead of him.
Written end summer or begin autumn 1990. Not rehashed too much, actually,
for fear of authorial revenge.
= CADAVER ===================================================================
by Richard Karsmakers
The fog was still thick around them, but the two figures at the oars of the
small rowing boat realised that they could already smell the dampness of the
castle they knew was ahead of them, somewhere ahead on an island hidden in
this damned fog.
"What to do once we're there?" one of them asked the other. The voice was
probably that of a middle-aged man, but was remarkably low in spite of high
pitched hints of fear hidden in its recesses. The other person seemed to
sense this.
"Just be quiet," a very low voice said, sounding as if its owner every
day smoked rather a few cigarettes too many, "we will see once we're there."
The first muttered a bit, but decided not to ask further. The sound of the
oars in the water sounded muffled. The fog was getting increasingly
impenetrable. Quite suddenly the boat grinded into something sandy. Land. The
island on which they knew the castle lay.
"Karadoc," the very low voice muttered, "get out."
The other obeyed, but his "yeah" betrayed more than a hint of trembling.
A huge shape left the boat last. Even through the fog, it could be seen that
this shape was disproportionately bigger than the other, broadly built and
even...even...well....quadrangular. Its deep, threatening voice spoke again.
"Come on."
It was now obvious that the leader was not only big, but his follower was
very small - a dwarf, actually, with a short and sturdy body as well as a
beard. He wore a shiny harness, though the gleam was dulled by the intensity
of the weather's conditions.
They stalked as they went ahead, when suddenly a vast silhouette loomed up
in front of them. The looming was quite literal; the castle of Dianon the
necromancer, evil reincarnated, might just as well have been a living monster
of immense size, ready to lazily drop across them, devour them whole.
The dwarf cringed as he saw the black outlines appear.
"Er...er...," he muttered, "I'd really prefer going back, if you don't
mind."
The leader turned around. His eyes seemed to flash temporarily.
"Like hell you won't," the low voice said resolutely, "I been paid to train
you and I want to get it over. Fast. I don' do this for fun. I do this for
dosh. Shut up. Follow."
As you, dear reader, probably already guessed, the leader of this two-man
party was none less than mercenary annex hired gun, Cronos J. Warchild,
known by various respectful and rather less respectful other names. It had
been only weeks ago that he had woken up after some kind of nightmare
involving a hole, lots of water and the utter lack of any scubagear.
He had looked around him, and had wondered why there had been three suns
shining above him; obviously, his previous adventures had caused him to get
stranded on yet another planet that he had never been to before.
Instinctively, he had searched his pockets. All his killer gadgets had
disappeared, and his money and American Express Traveller Cheques as well.
Somehow it didn't surprise him at all, but out of habit he had nonetheless
wondered what could have happened to them. But, as he was paid to fight and
not to think (nor wonder), he had decided to conclude that he had lost them
in the flood.
Why were those friendly people all running off suddenly, leaving a trail of
green pieces of paper and American Express Traveller Cheques behind?
He had stood up and felt his head. It had still been there, but it had
surely hurt like hell.
Karadoc stumbled after Cronos as they approached the castle. There was
something inexplicably ominous about it - even Warchild could sense it.
Was it the wall, that looked very solid and overgrown with moss?
No.
Was it the gate, that looked equally solid as the wall and slightly mossy,
too?
No.
Was it the caped silhouette of a creature with red eyes standing on top of
the battlements, laughing satanically?
That must have been it.
"Hey, dipshit," Warchild yelled up towards the creature, "open the gate!"
The laughter ceased instantly. From inside its cape, the creature retrieved
what looked like a crystal. It yelled a couple of obscure words in a dialect
Cronos nor Karadoc could pretend to understand.
Karadoc dashed for a rock behind which he wanted to hide, but Warchild
lifted him up by his harness.
"No. You're not," the mercenary annex hired gun said.
At that very instant, the rock turned into a frog. A large, green one, with
slime drooling from its jaws and many repulsive-looking warts on its back. It
used its long tongue to lick its teeth, which were blindingly white and
looked as sharp as needles.
"Holy potato!" Karadoc cried, "a Gorf!"
It had been nigh the evening as a village announcer had found his way onto
the market place of the town where Cronos had discovered himself to be. It
had been a town on a planet called Ostrich, and it had been like any
terrestrial town, with but one peculiarity: It had been distinctly mediaeval.
He had occasionally wondered about why the planet had been called Ostrich,
for he hadn't seen any ostriches around, nor any pictures of them. Indeed, he
had felt he had enough proof to state that the entire planet hadn't had *one*
ostrich living on it. Of course, the concept of "linguistical anomaly" had
never crossed his mind, especially because there wasn't one large enough to
cross.
The announcer had cleared his throat several times, and had started to read
what turned out to be some kind of mediaeval equivalent of "The Sun". The
first two pages had been very uninteresting, and had mainly been filled with
prophecies involving Holy Wars and Environmental Disasters. Page three had
had no words on it. Instead, the village announcer had turned the picture
that had been on it towards his audience, which had caused several women to
look at themselves rather embarrassed. Some men had seemed to readjust
something.
On page four, the small advertisements had started.
"Academy of Adventurers seeks Practical Tutor."
Cronos remembered it well, and only wished he had never applied for this
particular job. Not without any of his killer gadgets, that is.
He found the feeling of a Gorf gnawing grittingly in a gross gamble at his
gonads not a very exciting nor a very pleasing one, no matter how many
alliterations the act had included. He just felt immensely lucky that his
Mega Absorb Groin Protector was switched on this time.
As the Gorf's gnawing went grudgingly closer to the on/off switch, Cronos
felt some kind of alarm and decided it was time for some interactive
intervention. He connected his fist to the back of the enormous head of the
monster.
For about one or two milliseconds, the Gorf didn't quite know what had
happened. Then it found it necessary to discover that its skull had been
split wide open and its miserable excuse for a brain was horribly exposed
to elements it was not designed to be exposed to.
It decided to die, which was probably a wise thing to do.
In a puff of smoke, it changed itself back into the rock it had been before.
Karadoc hadn't seen any of this, for he had dug his head in the ground,
assuming this would keep the monster from seeing him. It appeared to work,
for the monster had given only Warchild its undivided attention.
Warchild wondered about this, but not for long (you know why).
The creature on the battlements looked around.
"Where is the dwarf?!" its voice of doom bellowed.
Cronos wondered again. The dwarf was clearly at a very short distance from
him, his half-shiny harness plainly visible. The creature didn't seem to see
him.
Cronos would not have been Cronos if he wouldn't have been able to count one
and one together. The result was seven, and he therefore decided to head back
to the Academy to get his fee. The dwarf had arrived safely at the castle,
which was the extent of his job exactly. Furthermore, something seemed to
indicate that the dwarf was no longer in immediate danger.
As Warchild rowed off again, the creature disappeared off the battlements,
laughing in triumph.
As Cronos glanced at the island for a last time, he saw Karadoc's head
appearing again.
The nitwit dwarf would be OK, he knew.
Original written mid November 1990. Rehashed slightly January 1995.
= THE LADY WORE BLACK =======================================================
by Richard Karsmakers
A story - or, rather, an exercise in metaphore wielding - loosely based on a
song of the same name by Queensryche.
When he topped the hill something like awe struck the poet. It was as if he
suddenly heard the soft vibrations of an ode to beauty, a ballad to nature. A
cool wind touched his face, bringing with it the soft scent of spring, the
fragrance of budding trees and roses, drifting beyond his senses as the sun
spread its glorious rays across seemingly endless pastures and meadows. It
seemed to be playing tricks with shadows like dark flames probing at his
hair.
The poet sighed deeply. This was a sight for sore eyes, a view that could
lift the spirits of the dullest hearts. Tastefully positioned hills sloped as
far as the eye could reach as though a frozen green sea of land and grass; a
light mist hung in the air, as if delicately placed to mimic the dream
visions of a true Goddess. Voices seemed to whisper enchantingly amid the
trees, beautiful colours of green and gold reached the most inner part of the
poet's being. Shimmerings as pure as those of diamonds caught his eye as dew-
covered boughs heaved and bowed placidly in the gentle morning breeze.
He had never seen the world portrayed in all its grace and virtue like this.
Not before. It seemed like magic, the kind of magic that only a beautiful
spring morning with a soft breeze and a light mist can invoke.
When he listened more carefully he could hear a brook flowing, somewhere. He
descended from the hill top, almost being absorbed physically into this
palpable magnificence, the almost uncanny grandeur of everything around him.
He felt the force of life flowing into his lungs with every breath, he felt
his nostrils tickling in a teasing, almost exciting way. He stifled a leap of
sheer happiness.
There it was. Just behind a copse, a rivulet trailed off into the mist-
covered meadows. Its water was clean, inviting him to touch it, almost luring
him into drinking it. Fish swam and jumped energetically, the clearness of
the water reflecting off their silvery skins. The little river's bottom was
covered with rocks and the occasional water plant. It was as pure as liquid
diamond.
He knelt down, closing his eyes so he could absorb the sound of rushing
water better. If he would lie down he knew he could doze off in the early
morning warmth of the sun, listening to the water and the birds. Sleep for
hours in an almost majestic kind of peace and harmony.
He kneeled down to drink. The water was bright, catching the light from the
sun and casting it back in a thousand different directions. It played tricks
with those enchanted by its appearance of simple serenity.
The poet bent over to drink. The liquid tasted pure, cold as ice. He closed
his eyes, feeling the water going down every time he swallowed. He savoured
the sensation that sent shivers down his spine. He drank to his heart's
content. It seemed to refresh his body and spirits.
When he opened his eyes again he noticed the mists had somehow extended
themselves. They now floated gently at a short distance above the water as if
they were living entities, afraid of touching the water but instead probing,
progressing, moving as if by some preternatural force.
He suddenly saw a reflection, barely visible behind the pink and brown blur
of his own, in the constantly transforming surface of the water.
When he looked around, startled, he saw nothing but a piece of a black robe
vanishing in the mists that had gathered tremendously in the last few
seconds. He erected himself, seeing the mist move across his feet gently,
enfolding his legs. Probing. Sensing. Conquering. There were no flowers to be
seen here, but the air nonetheless smelled of roses even more than it had
before.
He looked up to the sky only to see great, threateningly black clouds march
across it as if gathering strength for some kind of momentous occasion. They
rumbled, turned, whipped, ocassionally formed shapes of huge bulging monsters
that dissolved moments later.
The sun had been covered completely by now; it seemed to hide itself
reluctantly. The mists intensified, moving quicker around the poet as the
breeze increased to a light wind, tugging somewhat at his clothes.
Who was that person, that mysterious reflection of which he had caught a
hazy, distorted glimpse in the water? Why did the air suddenly smell of roses
even though there were none?
Around him the silence grew. Even the sound of the rivulet seemed to be
dampened by the lingering fog, the birds suddenly no longer seemed to want to
perform their lovely serenades of spring. Perhaps they were afraid - or
perhaps they were merely respectfully silent, awed by something as yet
unknown.
A very soft sound could be heard now. It seemed to come towards him like the
waves of a sea, sometimes intense, something barely audible. It sounded like
music. Whistling, perhaps. It came from the direction where he had guessed
the mysterious person had disappeared to.
Careful so as not to walk into anything shrouded in the perpetual mists, the
poet started walking in the direction where he guessed the sound came had to
come from. He quickly relaised he was walking in the right direction, for the
sound became clearer, more beautiful, clearer. Like he had thought
previously, it was indeed the sound of someone whistling. The melody seemed,
if he had to put his finger on it, contain sadness as well as infinite grace.
The countryside had changed. Where he had earlier walked through seemingly
endless pastures and meadows with some occasional trees, there was now a
dense forest that was only interrupted by sharp pieces of rock protruding
from the torn earth towards the grey sky, reaching out like eager ligaments,
twice a man's height. The poet heard the whistled tune ever clearer now. It
seemed to be right ahead of him. An irresistable urge took control, an urge
to find out who the person was that whistled, what it was that caused this
sudden dream, this sudden change of landscape, this sudden wind, the dark
sky. The smell of roses.
Then he saw Her.
On a fallen tree not far away sat a Lady clad in black, with Her back turned
to him. She senses his presence and pulled back the hood of her robe,
revealing long dark hair that fell freely around Her proud shoulders. The
expression that radiated from Her body was very much like the tune that arose
from Her lips - infinite sadness and grace, as if she were lamenting a
tremendous loss greater than any mortal could ever have endured.
She did not see him yet, nor did he see anything but Her back. But Her
silhouette on the fallen tree made his breath stick in his chest. A great
sadness took hold of him, he knew not why.
He got closer, trying to make no sound that could startle the Lady. She
continued her sad tune, as though She was not aware of anyone being around.
There was no mist near Her, as if the thin film of clouds was alive and
hesitant to touch Her or even come close to Her. The trees loomed high above
Her shape; beyond their tips there was nothing but darkness. The whole world
seemed to be in darkness but for the bit around her. The gathering clouds in
the sky had made night of day, as if nature no longer mattered.
He noticed the smell of roses intensifying, his nostrils perceiving every
tiniest of scents as if in some higher state of awareness.
He came yet closer and found the mists parting at his feet, forming
something like a path before him - leading to the tree that the Lady sat on.
Entranced he walked his apparently designated path of life. Before he knew
it, he was in the same enclosure as the Lady and her tree. They were now
surrounded by a wall of forest on all sides. It had the appearance of a
prison - only this prison had been made to keep the world outside from
harming that which was inside.
He would have sworn there had not been a tree where he had come from, but
now there was. The forest seemed alive, throbbing with some ancient sense of
purpose. He looked around him, realising he should feel threatened but,
strangely enough, didn't. From somewhere deep inside, a feeling of inner
peace gently spread out to the most remote parts of his body like a powerful
and totally beautiful drug.
When he suddenly noticed the sound of leaves and branches brushing against
each other in the wind he suddenly realised he no longer heard Her whistling.
He looked at Her, to find Her looking at him.
Her face was as if carved by a Great Sculptor's hands, a modern- day
Michaelangelo. Her jugular bones protruding enough to be seen, Her eyes were
of deep soulful grey, like jewels amid her complexion that was silken and
white like purest velvet spun of milk. Around the stunning splendour of Her
face hung beautiful hair, curled, long and as raven and as pure as a the
blackest of starless nights. The kind of hair, loose like the wind, that make
you wish you were a brush. The kind of hair you would want to let flow
through your hands lovingly, hair you would want to brush from Her face,
clear away from Her eyes. Her mouth had delicately formed lips that glistened
in a light he could not discern the source of. He was so absorbed gazing at
Her face and incredibly black hair that he began to stutter an apology but
ended halfway, not being able to produce anything more but a sigh that sent
goosebumps across his back and arms.
He had written poems about beautiful women draped across priceless couches
in exquisite clothing. He had composed love songs to the most magnificent
Goddesses of the heavens above; he had described their silken skins, the
softness of their breasts, the deep serenity of their glorious eyes, the
intoxicating taste of their lips, the tantalizing smell of their breath. He
had conceived poems that brought colour to the cheeks of Queens Supreme and
had lamented woeful partings of loved ones. He thought he had seen everything
that was beautiful on the face of the earth.
But one glance at this Lady was more than all he had ever felt, more than he
had ever considered any mortal capable of feeling.
Emotions of death and birth, joy and sadness of a thousand lives surged
through his being, increasing with every beat of his heart. This was the kind
of Woman you'd like to learn French for, the kind of Woman that could have
made a peaceful philosopher of Atilla the Hun.
He staggered, not quite knowing how to cope with the overwhelming emotions
that took hold of his frail inner self.
Before him sat a Woman more beautiful than anything he had beheld before.
Here sat an ancient Acropolis, a magnificent Gothic Cathedral, the most
proverbially bewitching of Paradise Birds, the proudest of Lionesses, the
sweetest of French Wines, the most delicately tuned of Violins, a brightest
of Suns, a most impressive of She-Dragons, a High Queen of High Elves.
She looked at him, smiling a lovely smile of purest sadness.
He sank to his knees, quite incapable of doing anything else. He gazed at
Her with an instant and deeply sincere feeling of adoration and devoted love.
There was no escape, which was good because he didn't want to. The earth
would crumble if he would ever have to tear his eyes away from Her, the
heavens would split and the universe would be reduced to an insignificant
piece of emptiness with no reason for any mortal to live. He would dwell in
darkness if She would turn him down. He felt with every fibre in his body
that if he was ever to part with this Lady again, life would be less than a
hollow shell of nothing. The singing of birds would hold no beauty. Mists
lingering across green meadows would cause instant depression. Odes to
Aphrodite would be meaningless. Music or art of any kind would never again
hold any value for him. The biggest mountain would not be high enough to
surpass his sorrow, the deepest sea not deep enough to drown his grief. He
was so full of love for Her that it made tears leap at his eyes.
She looked away from him, as if remembering something that tore open old
wounds that were revealed deep within the centre of Her soul.
His entire being cried out mutely to Her, body language and supernatural
signals being the languages of the universe that this Lady in Black
understood like no other.
He felt peace and rest flow through him when She looked at him again, quite
suddenly. It was immediately followed be a feeling as he was being quartered,
made love to, born and withering away - all sensations combined in but a
fragment of a second that he spent in intense agony and profound pleasure
that he could not help but sense in all aspects with every cell in his body.
He felt as if steel lances were driven through every muscle in his body, as
if he was being burned in the middle of a supernova, tortured horrendously by
Evil lords - but he also experienced the feeling of the accumulated love
given by mankind since Eden, the first step on another planet, a thousand
orgasms, the intricate scent of thousands of rare and intoxicating flowers.
She arose from her tree like like in a dream. The poet tried to reach out
but couldn't. He wanted to walk but found himself grappling for words. She
was warning him, something he felt very clearly. Being able to love Her would
have its price, the heaviest price for any mortal to pay.
She did not speak a word. The trees parted as She walked off.
The spell had vanished. He found himself capable of walking again. She had
set him free, free to chose for himself what to do. Go home and be without
this Lady for the rest of his life - or go with Her and pay the price.
His heart leapt, his soul cried out, his cells writhed in agony. Whatever
the price was, he was prepared to pay. All his life he had dreamed of this,
wished for this to happen. The price mattered not. She did.
He followed her to a small wooden cabin that lay partly hidden by dense
undergrowth. A slow drizzle had started falling but he felt none of it.
Drifting on clouds of overwhelming love he followed Her shape, spellbound
again. He adored Her footsteps, beheld with adoration the odd leaf that was
brushed aside by Her feet as She strode by. He worshipped the way in which
She moved as if motion itself was but a means designed for Her to be even
more inexplicably ravishing than She already was. Some way or another, he
felt as if the entire universe revolved around them, as if their movements
were swinging the earth and the planets in their perpetual orbits around the
sun.
Everything seemed utterly unimportant all at once. Everything, that is,
except for the two of them.
It seemed as if he heard bells tolling in the distance.
All his senses succumbed to the overwhelming sensation he felt throughout
his body, the feeling of deep desire, admiration, affection and lust. He
wanted to be one with this perfect creature mentally and physically, no
matter what the cost.
Forever.
Outside, the gathering power of the rain thundering on the roof of the small
wooden cabin remained unnoticed while they made passionate love, crying cries
softened by the mists, loving like mankind had never been able to love
before. They melted together, merging their minds and bodies together
indefinitely, losing themselves in the forever increasing whirlwinds of
passion, soaring along the edges of heaven, ornamenting the gold of their
love with gems superlative.
They became one with the trees, the forests, the lands, the world, the
seasons, night and day, deserts and polar caps, ice and steam, all Gods that
had ever arisen, all beauty that had ever existed in the greatest empires
past and future. When their tongues met they kissed the gates of heaven. When
they held each other they embraced immortality.
This was not something earthly, nor even something heavenly - it was
something that could only be of equal status with the stars, with the
galaxies. It was something that could not be surpassed until eternity, not
even until the very end of all, when time and space themselves would collide.
Their combined desire was as insurmountable as a mountain touching the sun,
as intense as the Krakatau making love to Venus, as hot as the centre of a
thousand galaxies' supernovas, as vast as all the earth's oceans combined.
Something that could make Death come alive, or die.
When the poet woke up, the first thing he smelled was the scent of roses
lingering through the small wooden hut. His entire body felt pleased like it
had never felt before. His head rested on the pillow like it had never rested
before. In a peculiar way he felt tired but wonderfully alive at the same
time.
The sun shone brilliantly, its rays almost touchable as they fell through
the floating dust above the bed on which it shone through a broken window.
Through the cracks came the warm smell of summer, carrying with it the
fragrance of thousands of other flowers.
She looked even more incredibly beautiful in the rays of the rising sun that
fell on the gentle curves of Her naked body. Her eyes were closed, Her
breathing soft and regular. He brushed aside a strand of her raven hair and
kissed Her cheek. His lips tingled with the sensation of that skin of purest
velvet. He had the feeling of death and birth again, the feeling of a planet
crashing down on him and a Woman giving him the kiss of life. Still.
He had to lie down.
They had spent several months together. His first sunset with Her had been
the dawn of a new life altogether different from the pale death he had
hitherto had the audacity of calling 'his life'. She had never spoken a word,
but Her eyes had spoken of worlds unknown, experiences unsurpassable by
dreams or reality, love unattainable by mere mortals.
They had seen the sun rise and set many times, they had seen rain fall and
dry. They had heard the trees grow buds, the grass become long, the forest
animals raise their offspring. They had felt each other's touch, each time
celebrating it by harvesting each other's love to its fullest. He realised he
had hitherto been as unacquainted with true love as a man born blind would be
with colour, a man born deaf would be with midsummer serenades. The sun rose
in Her eyes, Her loins sang songs of love mixed with absolute sadness. She
was a Lady he would need death for to forget, more beautiful than love
itself.
He wanted to know what lay behind Her. Who She was, what the reason was
behind the infinite sadness that seemed to have a firm hold on Her. Was She a
Goddess? A Fairy Queen? The embodiment of Beauty?
He would try to read the story of Her life from the soulful grey of Her
eyes, seeing only tales a mortal would never be able to understand. Every day
he would try to find words pertaining beauty and love that were suitable
enough to describe Her and what they felt for each other. Every day he would
wonder at Her sadness more. He would plea Her to talk, beg on his knees for
Her to divulge her secrets, regardless the cost. Each time he would bring it
up She would cry. Each time he saw the tears in Her eyes it had felt as if
Her love was flowing away, unsalvageably seeping into the cabin's wooden
floor.
In the end She couldn't keep it from him any longer. And at that Moment of
Moments, they both paid their price.
Original started spring 1992, put on ice for a while, and finished in
October 1992. Rehashed June 1994.
= THE PROMISED LANDS ========================================================
by Richard Karsmakers
Once upon a time there was a world. A world where everybody lived happily
and where there was no war; indeed, a world where people just lived, hunted,
harvested, ate, slept, and multiplied.
In this world it was that a man called Zantar lived. He was ruler of a tribe
several dozen people in size, and a very thriving tribe it was indeed, in
spite of its rather small size. Among them were some excellent huntsmen, and
they even had some primitive means of using the power of running water to
help them with various tasks they would otherwise have to perform solely with
their own physical power.
Years ago, the peace and fortitude of the tribe had been confronted once
with war: When the Noruasians had conquered the land, only to be beaten and
wiped away by intervention of some kind of utterly divine being.
Ever since that day, weird things had happened to the village.
But that morning...
Zantar woke up to sounds he had never heard before. A feeling of dread
manifested itself in his stomach and right in the marrow of his old rheumatic
bones, and it was as though he *knew* something was wrong outside when he
stepped out of his bed.
The voice of a girl in her late teens could be heard, muffled to such an
extend that it barely succeeded in coming out from between the chaos of
pillows and blankets.
"Come back to bed, Zantar, honey..."
"Not now, Neja, babe," Zantar said.
Zantar walked to the window and pulled the curtains aside. He beheld what he
saw with astounded astonishment in his eyes.
Right before his window, something that looked a bit like a big green
rectangle with regularly shaped silver paths on it stretched itself onto the
very horizons, ornamented with dark grey shapes with many little shiny feet,
ropes with coloured parts and big blue shapes standing on what seemed to be
two relatively thin columns.
Zantar noticed that it radiated with malice - and even more particularly, a
heat that seemed to arise from one of those grey dark shapes on many feet on
which the text 'MOTOROLA' could be read in large, white characters.
"Oh Ynnor the Divine One," he sighed, "not again..."
It was not the first time something this weird has happened to Zantar's
tribe; ever since the Noruasian attack, the entire village had been
mysteriously though regularly transported to polar regions, hot deserts, and
even more strange places. Sometimes to all those places within a matter of
days.
Zantar decided to call together the Council of Elders.
Only half an hour later, the entire Council was gathered in Zantar's hut:
Sendatsuh the Scientific One, Nafets the Earnest One, Sacul the Extensive
One, Seec the Fortuitous One, and Drag the Tiny One. Drag had been a member
of the Council ever since the death of Nroejbrot, who was killed by the
Noruasians. He was selected because he looked so insanely witty, and usually
didn't contribute much to the meeting except by improving its atmosphere.
"Blackened is the End", Nafets proclaimed, "thus soundeth the Prophecy."
"Winter it will send," Zantar added, "yes, Earnest One, hard times are bound
to be nigh."
"Throwing all you see," said Sacul, his words added to this apparently
arcane brew of words beknown only to the Elders, "into Obscurity!" With the
last words, he heaved his hands to the sky.
"Woe! Woe!" Sendatsuh chanted, "the end is nigh!"
Drag just looked insanely witty.
"Quiet, fools!" Zantar cried, "as of yet, Ynnor the Divine One has shown us
nothing that would point to such a predicament, and this strange happening
will most likely be another one of those weird things that have happened more
in recent years..."
"Aye," Sacul agreed.
"Quite rightly so," Seec added.
"Could very well be," Sendatsuh muttered, "but I am not sure if it agrees
with my Sublimal Relativity Theory..."
"Ah, keep thy oral cavity shut, Scientific One!" Nafets said.
Drag just his usual - albeit insanely - witty self.
They sat silently for several seconds, each apparently in such deep thought
that all their entire speech apparatuses failed to work at all. Suddenly
Zantar moved. He shook his head and closed his eyes, pressing his index
fingers at either side of his skull.
"What..." Sendatsuh inquired.
"Zantar! My Lord!" Sacul exclaimed.
Seec and Nafets didn't say anything. Drag looked around him in a rather
insanely witty fashion.
"Silent," Zantar whispered hoarsely, pressing his eyelids even more tightly
shut, as if something important was about to happen within the small universe
he called I.
He saw visions of a Great War, but he saw that it was no war of their time.
Millions died, but when peace ruled again, a Great Wall was built to keep
people apart although they actually were at peace with each other. Only after
about forty years, the people found out that the wall was a rather daft thing
and broke it down again, selling the little pieces of concrete and stone at
ridiculous prices to souvenir seekers.
When Zantar opened his eyes, he was even more confused than he had been
before. Surely it had to be impossible that so many people would die in any
war? He had had side visions as well but he could not put a finger on their
meaning. There were showers...fire...a railway in the jungle...and a gas
bill. But the thing with the wall was really mindstaggeringly absurd. He
could do nothing but discard his vision as irrelevant.
"We must start a quest," Zantar said after another couple of moments, back
to the time and things currently at hand, "and find out where our village has
been moved to now. So be it."
"Aye," Sacul agreed.
"Quite rightly so," Seec added.
"Could very well be," Sendatsuh muttered, "but I am not sure if..."
Nafets cast a killing glance at the Scientific One, shutting him up deftly.
Drag, on the other hand, just looked insanely witty.
At that moment, a knock could be heard on the door of Zantar's abode.
"Yes?" the Eldest of the Elders inquired.
A click could be heard, and from behind the thick wooden door came some
heavy music that a post 19th-century inhabitant of earth could no doubt have
recognised as the fanfare opening bit of Strauss' "Also Sprach Zarathustra".
It made Zantar think of a science fiction vision he had once had. It had
involved apes and artificial sentience and, like this morning's vision, it
had seemed to him too absurd to seriously contemplate the portent of.
The door was thrown open, hinges protesting mutely, to reveal a truly
gigantic figure. It was a man on all accounts, but rather squarely built and
with a strange device hanging in a leather kind of holster on his right hip.
He had long sideburns and his fists looked massive, not the kind you'd like
to meet!
On one of his legs, a battered and dusty woman clung as if her entire life
depended on her hold on the squarely built man's extrement. Dried blood lined
her face, and her legs and arms were bruised and coloured with brown and
purple spots. She was scarcely dressed, and it was clear for everybody to see
that she had a large belt of leather and metal strapped around her waist.
There was a sturdy, rusty lock hanging between her legs, and two others (also
quite sturdy and quite rusty) on each side on her hips. The remains of what
had probably once been a perfectly functioning hairpin protruded from the
keyhole of one of the locks. A wailing sound came from her dried out, burst
lips. It disappeared into the stunned silence of the Council, unheeded. It
was a wail indicating similarly unheeded sounds had often been uttered
earlier.
One of the hands of the large man disappeared in his tunic. Another metallic
click could be heard, at which instant the music ceased.
"Woe..." Sacul silently muttered, shaking visibly.
"Good morning," Seec added, equally softly.
"Well I'll be..." Sendatsuh muttered, "I simply *have* to postulate that
all of this is impossible according to my -"
"Hack off, wouldst thou?" Nafets said, more than 'some' irritation obvious
in his voice.
"You took the words *right* out of my mouth, Nafets," the Eldest of the
Elders said solemnly.
Drag seemed to feel uncomfortable for a second or so upon seeing the woman.
His kind was not too often favoured by all these enticing square inches of
female skin. Blood-clotted and dirty or not, it *was* female skin. His face
seemed for a moment to transform to an expression not at all witty, but after
a very brief struggle the insanely witty looks settled once more upon his
countenance.
The Elders looked at him. They strove hard not to be afraid of this man, nor
to wonder too much which magic had been responsible for the music that seemed
to have come *right from within his jacket*. And then, of course, there was
the woman. Apart from the fact that she looked dishevelled and threadbare, it
was highly unusual for women to be admitted within the Elder's Council Room.
"What are you looking at?" the rather squarely built man said when he
noticed all Elders except one staring flummoxedly at the female clutching his
leg, evidently beyond desperation.
The Elders started to study the ceiling and the furniture quite zealously,
as if they has just discovered some kind of rare shiny metal in them, or
unexpected design beauty that had hitherto miraculously slipped their
attention.
Drag just kept looking around him in an insanely witty way, unperturbed.
The enormous figure looked down at the shape of what had once probably
been not too bad-looking a female.
"Loucynda," he said reprovingly, waggling his finger, "I told you to let go,
didn't I, before leaving Sucatraps?"
The female called Loucynda muttered something that could have meant anything
between (and including) 'yes' and 'no'. Zantar coughed, regaining the
squarely built man's attention.
"Why, hum, do you honour us with this visit?" Zantar asked.
The man looked back at Zantar with a mild expression of obvious stupidity.
He spread his legs a bit, as if that might make his purpose evident all at
once. Just when Zantar again opened his mouth to speak, the big man did.
"I am told that you are in need of a leader," the gaint man spoke, "a leader
for a quest. Isn't that so?"
"Aye," Sacul replied.
"Quite rightly so," Seec added.
"Indeed we are," Sendatsuh muttered and, to Nafets, whispered, "though I am
not sure if my theory allows for any outside parameters and -"
"Hack off, Scientific One!" Nafets bellowed in a whisper.
For a moment, it looked as if Drag was about not to look insanely witty.
Noone was really surprised when he did so anyway.
Zantar proceeded: "Indeed, we are, noble sir. And, with respect, you indeed
look like you're the man to do it."
The man muttered in himself, as if he was calculating or contemplating
something. The silence that was the result of this was only broken when he
looked up and said: "What's the pay?"
"Pay?" Sacul wondered.
"Pay?" Seec added.
"I hadn't though of a 'payment' parameter..." Sendatsuh muttered below his
breath. Nobody reacted.
"P...p..." Zantar stammered.
"Pay?" Nafets asked.
"Pay?!" Drag uttered. He noticed everybody looking at him rather startledly,
so he quickly shut up and continued looking insanely witty. His mother would
have seen there were vast current aworking under his skin, that it cost the
Tiny One more than the usual energy to remain his usual self.
The bedraggled female looked up as if she recognised something; a voice,
maybe, or a face. A few seconds later she sagged again, went limp.
"Yeah, sure," the man continued some moments later, "the pay."
"Ah, yes, I see, the pay," Zantar said, "of course! How could we not have
brought this up ourselves?"
He grinned nervously, an expression the other Elders were totally unfamiliar
with, at least when worn by him.
"We have no practical use for the thing you call 'gold'," Zantar continued
eventually, "so you can take whatever we have of that. But for that you will
have to get us back in our normal environment again; out of this insane world
we have ended up in."
The man thought it over for a while, then said, "Hmm..."
"So it's a deal, then?" Zantar said, hopefully, trying hard to keep
desperation from tainting his voice.
"No," the giant man replied, "I want more. I want you to open the locks on
my bride-to-be's chastity belt."
Zantar glanced at the remains of the female again, then averted his eyes so
as not to insult the warrior.
"That's a deal then," he said.
The man took Zantar's hand and shook it perhaps a bit too enthusiastically.
A tape recorder dropped to the floor.
"Erm...Warchild," the warrior said, "Cronos Warchild's the name. The payer's
wish is my game. I will not let you down."
He picked up the tape recorder with a vaguely embarrassed look.
The next morning, everybody would loved to have seen the sun rising above
the weird land that the quest was about to travel through. Unfortunately
there was no sun to be seen anywhere. Instead, the sky was a kind of light
grey through which some rays of light protruded half-heartedly where frills
in the sky allowed this.
Cronos - now without Loucynda, who was dropped at the blacksmith's, clogging
his leg - towered high above the other questers. These were Enur, Oblib and
the latter's cousin Odorf. The only Elder that could be omitted from the
actual Council of Elders, Drag, was also balancing with some gear stacked
high on his back. Even during that, he persistedly looked insanely witty.
When the party left the village and set foot on the preternaturally green
ground, shivers ran down their spines. Even Cronos had to suppress a small
shiver. The soil didn't feel like soil at all. It felt like a kind of plastic
coating; cold and uninviting. When they looked behind them they saw their
loved ones standing, crying softly and waving handkerchiefs.
"We will not forget you!" they could hear Zantar crying in the ever
increasing distance before the Eldest of Elders was pulled back in his hut by
a girl in her late teens, the curtains of the hut hastily drawn shut.
Drag looked even more insanely witty than usual.
They lost sight of the village when they changed direction and disappeared
behind a large dark grey object on which INTEL was written in large, white
characters.
Who was that old woman, crying zealously while looking at a small painted
picture on which someone looking insanely witty was portrayed, who left the
parting scene long after the others had?
At the evening of that day - approximately when the questers would have
liked to see a sun setting and when they noticed they once again had to be
content with the meagre light rays coming from shapes like frills that were
mysteriously located in the light grey sky, only partly penetrating the half
darkness - a deafening cry could be heard echoing through these Bit Plains.
All the questers looked in turn at each other and then at Warchild.
Warchild, however, appeared not to have heard anything. He was fumbling with
a hearing aid.
"Reficul the Evil One is upon us!" Enur cried, sinking to the floor.
"May Ynnor the Divine One aid us!" Oblib yelled, folding his hands together
in prayer, starting to mumble.
"May the Powers of Light be merciful on us!" Odorf screamed, prepared to
turn around and hurl his poor self back at the village whence they had come.
"Oh shit," Cronos muttered matter-of-factly.
Drag just looked insanely witty.
The deafening cries were upon them once more, these atrocious cries that
seemed to want to tear down the heavens.
"It works!" they could hear, roaring, "finally!"
Even Cronos knew these cries could only have been made by a being much
larger even than himself. The thought of a race of such beings made him
cringe inside, though he kept his composure to the outside world. It would
have been a bad move to show outward fright to the other questers. Without
his courage - bluntly stupid though it was at times - this whole thing had no
change of ever succeeding.
Next, the earth - or whatever they were in or on - started to shake. An
enormous shudder drove them all toppling to the ground, mysteriously causing
them all to fall on top of Drag, who found it difficult to maintain his usual
expression under the gathered weight of his fellow questers *and* Warchild.
The quake ended as soon as it had started, but before they had a chance to
get up again it suddenly started to rain through those mysterious frills in
the light grey sky.
It felt sticky and somehow warm. Soothing, perhaps? It was brownish and
scented particularly. The only thing it actually had in common with rain was
the fact that it came from what, for lack of a better word, had to be the
sky.
"Reficul's Power Potion!" Enur cried suddenly.
"Evil Rain!" Oblib yelled, Enur's fear catching on.
"The Powers of Darkness are upon us!" Odorf screamed.
"Hmm...sniff...sniff...alcohol?" Cronos wondered.
Drag displayed distinctly uncanny behaviour. After sniffing once or twice,
he turned his face towards the heavens and simply opened his mouth. Some
people seem to have a particular moment in life for which they have been
preparing themselves without knowing. If there was such a moment for Drag,
the Tiny One, this was definitely it.
"Well...well I'll be *damned*!" Cronos cried enthusiastically, starting to
grin like he hadn't done for quite a while, "it's *Plantiac*!"
His eyes quickly scanned the floor for pools and then uncermoniously and
rather uncivilisedly dashed down into one and started to drink.
"No!" Enur cried, "Fool! You'll be doomed for eternity!"
"The Evil Rain has taken its toll!" Oblib yelled, "Eternal Damnation will be
his price to pay!"
"Woe! Woe!" Odorf woe-ed, "Reficul, damn thee! Why hast thou lead this bunch
into tempation!?"
Cronos burped in response.
Drag was lying on the ground, emblissed into unconsciousness, an insanely
witty look that would have needed a chisel to get rid of plastered on his
face.
Meanwhile...in the village...
Though the deafening 'Reficul' cries had also been heard in the village, a
high and frantic screaming coming from the blacksmith's place, virtually
tearing the night in two, caused much more of a stir.
A nude woman came running from the blacksmith's. There was a tan line that
indicated large part of her had been exposed to the sun over the last couple
of months. There was a shape around her loins and hips that seemed to have
remained almost unnaturally white, as if not exposed to the light of the sun
for anything up to years. On each hip there was the white shape of, damn it,
yes, of a large padlock. Tan, lack of tan, tan line, all of it hid itself
behind some bushes.
Zantar came out of his hut, looking weary, wondering what was going on. His
beard looked ruffled and he was wearing some female underwear (to which,
strangely enough, a bit of blue fur was stuck).
"Have you succeeded in removing that belt?" he asked the blacksmith when he
noticed this man also having appeared on the street, covering up his genitals
with a callused hand, obviously looking for something.
The blacksmith didn't actually reply, but instead blinked a black eye and
just looked unfocused at the Eldest of Elders, looking insanely witty.
And in the wide vastness of the Bit Plains...
Cronos stopped relishing the taste of what his fellow questers called
"Reficul's Acid" when he felt something. He didn't know what it was, or for
what purpose he felt it, nor even *where* he felt it exactly. All he knew was
that he did.
As if struck by lightning, a thought suddenly entered his mind. His beloved
Loucynda was in danger. However, he also knew he had wanted to get rid of her
for a long time, anyway. She must have betrayed him. The blacksmith seemed to
understand his craft and must have...
As if reading Cronos' thoughts, Drag looked at him in a way Warchild would
have loved to slap clean off the Tiny One's face.
Drag pointed at a large, dark grey, flat shape that was located behind
Cronos. It stood on silver-coloured pillars, or pins. There was relief on the
Tiny One's face, as if that large object explained everything in one go.
"Bug inside," he yelled happily, "bug inside! Bug inside!"
Warchild had always hated insects. Bugs, beetles, cockroaches, catarpillars,
even ladybirds. And ants, of course, ants most of all. He had once seen one
crawl out of someone's ear. He hadn't liked the sight. He wasn't afraid of
them, no, not that. He just hated them fervently and preferred to squash them
under his booted heel whenever an opportune moment availed itself.
"Bug inside!" Drag yelled again, pointing fervently to whatever was behind
Cronos.
Warchild turned around slowly and suddenly understood. He knew why things
had been so strange for Zantar and his country, why Loucynda had turned
against him, why he had been feeling so strange inside. His entire personal
universe, so far a muddled-up jigsaw puzzle, fell meticulously and
autonomously in place.
"Bug inside," Drag said, "yes?"
Standing in front of a huge black thing with "PENTIUM" written on it in
large white capitals, Cronos nodded.
Original written September 1989. Rehashed January 1995.
= A MALIGNANTLY CLOSE ENCOUNTER WITH A GREEK GODDESS ========================
by Stefan Posthuma and Richard Karsmakers
This is a story that needs some small introduction. Back in 1988, both
authors visited a local computer show after which they decided to get some
Greek Food at a restaurant recommended by a friend. Or, as the original
introduction would have it, "A tale about two innocent (?) computerfreaks on
their quest for some Great Food after the Hobby Computer Club days 1988, on
the evening of Saturday, November 26th, 1988. And the story of what they
found together with that Food."
Think of it as a self-indulgent exercise in poetic language, for that is
what it turned out to be, making that the second story of the kind in this
issue of "Twilight World".
The HCC days 1988 were quite interesting but not interesting enough not to
be dull. Although they made an attempt to find it interesting quite
seriously, they could not succeed in finding it anything else rather than
dull. So all they could do was concentrate their attention (and plenty of it)
on a certain waitress in a certain Restaurant in the adjacent town centre.
This was in fact pretty simple: As fate would have it, She turned out to be
quite brainnumbingly brilliant.
For some hours now, but one name lingered simultaneously through their
minds; a name that sounded like air brushing through the leaves of silent
trees on an autumn afternoon, a name that embodied everything Love stands
for, a name that in fact turned out to be based upon an ancient language's
translation for "I love you".
This is Her story. A story of Love, Food, Sweaty Hands, Deafening Cries,
Very Red Faces, Pounding Hearts and a Red Rose.
It starts here.
After the HCC days, they decided they had to visit a Greek restaurant by the
name of "Zorba the Greek". As they entered the restaurant and their
thunderstruck eyes fell on the girl that was waiting to lead them to
their table, it suddenly happened...
Small droplets of salty water started extracting themselves from the palms
of their trembling hands and the muscles of their eyes underwent exercises
never before experienced in a desperate attempt to follow each and every
movement of each and every particle of Her body and the lucky air atoms
encircling it whilst not daring to move their heads in Her direction.
It was as if Venus Herself had chosen to return to this Earth. They froze
and Her smile rendered them totally helpless. Slightly drooling from
miscellaneous parts of their oral cavities, they followed Her to the table
she had assigned to them, after which She disappeared in a cloud of
loveliness.
They looked at each other and noticed eyes that gazed blankly ahead, that
could no longer accomodate themselves to proper distances and that were
altogether quite dumbfounded with the purest astounding amazement imaginable.
Moments later She returned holding two little glasses. As they looked into
Her eyes as She put the glasses on the table, it was if they witnessed the
Answer to Everything. As She again left, they spent minutes staring at the
fingerprints She left behind on the glasses. Slowly, with trembling hands,
they took their first careful sips. It was like the first gasp of oxygen a
baby takes after having been gently removed from its mothers' womb and put on
the mysterious green-and-blue planet we call Earth.
"Gosh...." was all Stefan could utter at the moment.
Richard acted as if stricken by lightning and did not even attempt to move
his lips to say anything.
Whenever She would pass by, or even become partly visible for a segment of
a second, conversation would stop abruptly and words would hang feebly in the
air before they would fall helplessly to the ground. Silence would strike
the table, their minds deafened by thoughts of utmost delight and pleasure.
When taking their orders some minutes later, Her eyes once more met theirs.
The only thing to strike them was the imperceptible similitude between these
deep wells of serenity and a Total Perspective Vortex the likes of which had
never earlier been seen ever by them or by anyone in or beyond the infinite
reaches of the Multiverse.
"If there's a God, this must be the most perfect specimen of His creation
obtainable," they both thought as it struck them that She talked friendly,
with no sign of contempt or conceit whatsoever, despite the fact that She was
addressing mere mortals like them. Her voice sounded like bells of golden,
tingling through the humid meadows of some far and distant country captured
in some old and nigh-forgotten dream.
Their heads were so busy processing all their sense's impressions that they
forgot to keep their mouths closed, sensed their knees weakening and felt
altogether much like a jar of honey with no jar.
Richard had never known he had that many ribs until he felt his heart
pounding against each one of them.
Watching Her walk away from their table to fetch the ordered food, they
witnessed the Perfect Movement. Her Body moved to and fro as would a tender
butterfly in an April morning breeze, parading Her physique as the topotype
example of harmony in its utmost perfection. It was as if a sudden void was
drawn behind Her; a vacuum in which everything and everybody seemed to fade
away into mere oblivion, where nothing would be able to survive next to Her
beauty as She melted away in her own pink mists of sensuality that seemed to
seep out of reality around her.
It was as though the whole principle of locomotion was just invented for Her
to be able to walk like She did. She made every other movement, even the slow
unfolding of a daf
fodil in the fresh morning sun, seem utterly and
grotesquely rude and turgid.
All Stefan could do was sigh a profound wish which had something to do with
reincarnating as a pair of nylons.
Again, Richard acted as if stricken by lightning, not able to say anything,
hear anything, or see anything other than Her, Her, this Girl of Girls.
Both guys' minds were taken up by the thought of the beautiful country of
Greece. Was is perhaps worth migrating to that sunny Mediterranean country if
that be the Place where girls of such prodigious beauty dwell? Wouldn't it be
beyond perfection to walk together with one like Her - or, indeed, Her
herself - along a beach, a hot sun sinking in the sea at a distant horizon?
Her Body had a shape as though formed by sculptors of old in their most
supremely unsurpassed trial to reproduce whatever they conceived to be
Lovely, Lackadaisical, Luscious and Lecherous, the likes of which would even
cast a dark and dismal shadow upon Aphrodite, Goddess of Love Herself. Her
long fair hair fell around Her shoulders and back as though it was a Golden
ornament to emphasise her beauty; Her legs were simply gorgeous and really
far too delicately and exquisitely shaped just to function as mere locomotory
devices.
The food was eaten with taste, but their thoughts were with this beautiful
female specimen of mankind rather than the deliciously prepared meats and
sauces the Greek table offered with modest pride. When they finally sat back
after a while and started to relax a bit, the wonderfully superb meal just
having been devoured, the girl came back.
She once again put to a grinding halt whatever conversation was taking place
and filled both their minds with thoughts of utmost delight and pleasure
hinted at earlier already.
They felt they had deserved some French Brandy now, which would also help
them to ponder over the next step: What would be Her name? They just *had* to
find out! Life without that simple knowledge would not be worth living. They
therefore ordered some of the alcoholic fluid, carefully contemplating on
strategies as to how to ask Her.
Just when they were about to leave, saddened immeasurably because someone
else had brought the drinks and She had remained out of sight, She came into
their lines of vision again, pulling them in unwittingly.
She was cleaning a table behind them as She touched Stefan by accident; a
tremble sped down his spinal chord and sent him shivering with romance. His
eyes crossed and a sigh escaped from his lips that only yearned to speak
those four words he wanted to utter. In an outburst of feelings, he managed
to talk. It seemed a totally novel experience to him, somehow different and,
well, magic.
"What is your name?" he asked with an unstable voice.
"Agapi" She replied, speaking these mere words with almost divine resonance.
It was as though words took fantastic shapes when She spoke them; one could
almost smell them, scenting like roses and ripening heather, and feel them
like a gentle caress or a lovingly kneading hand on a tensed shoulder. The
whole concept of speech was taken to unsuspected heights as this girl added
wholly new dimensions to everything connected with this simple means of
communication. She could make Her words drip like nectar, spreading a
fragrance of the very essential nature of all that is Beauty.
"Er...you know, we make a magazine...", Richard interrupted, hesitant.
And thus it came to pass that they told Her everything She needed to know
about their magazine, "ST News", and the fact that they were impressed to
such an extend by the food, but more particularly Her service, that they felt
obliged to dedicate their magazine to Her. They both blushed heavily, and
each word they spoke was struggling to come out.
She seemed enormously flattered by their kind gesture, and a smile of smiles
was seen by the two mere mortals that nearly fainted at the sight of it.
Some moments before, when Agapi had merely made herself noted by that
prolonged and terrible absence, a local salesman had walked into the
Restaurant carrying Red Roses. For a moment, the friends' eyes met, both of
them knowing what the other thought. Now, finally, they subjugated all their
power of will and courage to offer Her the Red Rose procured at that
instance, the Red Rose that was to them the most divinely wrought likeness of
Her beauty, Her adorable fragility and Her epic vivacity possibly
conceivable. A God's flower in honour of a Goddess' singular beauty - how
appropriate. An even more lovely smile, now also laced with modest shy
embarrassment, dawned slowly upon Her slightly moist lips. Tiny diamonds
could be seen glittering brazenly in Her eyes before She cast them down,
blushing, too.
When they left the restaurant, all they could manage to do was simply being
overwhelmed by joy, spontaneously crying deafening cries of emotion, jumping
in the air with incredible vigour, and generally being highly in love: Love
that had suddenly divulged itself from the very depths of their inner selves
much in the way like volcanic magma divulged from the Krakatau over a century
back.
Nineteen-ninety-five epilogue:
We indeed dedicated that issue of "ST News" (the "Twilight World" 'mother
magazine') to Agapi and even gave her a copy of this rather unusual Ode. We
had already returned to Earth by the next day after our pubescent infatuation
had worn off, but we decided to go ahead with the dedication anyway. Why not?
Agapi was indeed, as I remember her now, a girl of quite exemplary beauty.
Still, I look back at the story of that evening with the slight embarrassment
of one who has now *really* found True Love.
Original written on the night of November 26th/27th 1988. Rehashed
somewhat January 1995.
= SIMULCRA ==================================================================
by Jurie Horneman
Lord Jason felt vaguely uncomfortable. Everything seemed completely normal
in the quiet inn on the waterfront: Some sailors who had returned to shore
after months on sea were celebrating their return and the usual drunks were
hanging on the bar, trying to forget. He was lurking in a dark corner,
drinking some wine, as was his habit. The fact that all was as it should be
made the sense of impending danger even more unnerving. Just as he was about
to take another sip from his wine, the door opened and a group of soldiers
entered. Lord Jason felt the hairs in his neck rise. The leader of the
soldiers, a tall, lumbering sergeant with a red moustache, asked some
questions of the landlord, who reluctantly answered and pointed in the
direction of Lord Jason. As the men made their way across the room, Lord
Jason tensed and prepared for violence. The sergeant stopped at his table,
coughed, and asked,
"My humble apologies, my Lord, but would you happen to be Lord Jason
Souleater?"
"So I am," replied Lord Jason in a sardonic tone.
"Ah. Well," said the sergeant, "I'm afraid I must ask you to accompany us to
our superiors. It has to do with a certain document."
"Do as you please," said Lord Jason, and thrust the table forward with all
his might, thereby causing a great deal of chaos and incapacitating the
sergeant and his men. Quickly, Lord Jason jumped over the crawling soldiers
and rushed out the door.
Outside, he mounted his steed, Azatoth, and rode off in the direction of the
city gates. Behind him he could hear the loud curses of the sergeant, and
soon after that the sound of pursuing horses. As he neared the gates, he
looked back. Twelve riders. That wasn't good. He whispered a word in
Azatoth's ear and felt the dark grey stallion increase its speed. Now those
fools would see why the horses of his homeland, the hills of Morelay, were
called demon steeds. Lord Jason smiled grimly. Behind him, the city became
ever smaller.
After an hour of frantic riding, Lord Jason had lost the soldiers. He slowed
down to a canter on a dark forest road and contemplated on why they had tried
to capture him. He had hoped the incident with the document had been
forgotten, but obviously this was not the case. Lord Jason gnashed his teeth.
They would never get it, as long as he lived. Suddenly he heard riders,
approaching fast. They were coming towards him. Friend or foe? He decided not
to risk it, and turned around. There had been a crossroads not too far back.
He increased his speed and took the left road, which was no more than a
narrow path. Recklessly, he gave Azatoth free rein and thundered down the
trail, branches lashing his face and snapping off. He heard the riders behind
him. They were after him! Azatoth was too tired to run at top speed. He would
have to hope they would get lost in the forest.
They didn't. Lord Jason had left the woods behind him a long time ago, but
the riders were still after him. Azatoth was getting exhausted, flecks of
foam covered his body. When Lord Jason took a quick look over his shoulder,
he could make out the blue uniforms of the riders in the pale moonlight. This
spelled trouble. He was riding over a long, flowing plain now, covered with
rough grass and patches of heather. Only as he saw the yawning chasm coming
up and heard the surf far below did he realise he had been heading towards
a cliff. There was a canyon stretching out before and *far* below him. He
pulled on the reins, trying to turn and get away in another direction, but it
was too late. The riders had caught up with him. He was surrounded.
One rider moved his horse forward. It was a young captain, who was still
breathing heavily from the long ride. He managed to catch his breath and
began to speak.
"So, Lord Souleater," he said triumphantly, grinning, "will you give us the
manuscript? Or will we have to take it by force?"
Lord Jason didn't move. He considered the alternatives, examined his
situation. His lightning mind saw the only possible way out.
"Never! You will never get the 'Simulcra' story I promised!" he cried, and
steered Azatoth over the edge of the cliff.
Original written January 1992. Not rehashed much at all, actually.
= GHOST BATTLE ==============================================================
by Richard Karsmakers
Two eyes peered at the mercenary annex hired barbarian. They were red in a
frightening kind of way, and he had no reason whatsoever to like that. Nor,
as a matter of fact, did he have any reason at all to like the entire setting
he was in.
It was depressingly dark and he was in the middle of an enormous kind of
wood. Eerie sounds found ways of echoeing through this wood, and now and
again red or green or purple eyes would stare at him conspiciously as if
waiting for an opportunity to strike.
The worst thing of all was that he had left all his killer gadgets at home.
So he didn't have his trustworthy longsword with him, nor his double bladed
battle axe. Hell, he didn't even have a common knife of some sort on him.
All he had was a book. It was called "Novice Sorcery" by Egidius Leonardo
Vira, and on its cover it had a picture of a scarsely dressed female that
somehow looked disproportionate to him.
"This book", so its previous owner had confided in him before he had shelled
out a large amount of gold, "is all one needs to get through any precarious
situation relatively unscathed".
He had been totally thrilled. He had been extremely excited. He had also
wondered what 'sorcery' actually meant.
While walking through this wood, he had deemed the time fit to leaf through
this miraculous new acquisition of his. In the end, he reckoned this might
leave him with something to defend himself should any of the ominous owners
of those conspiciously staring red or green or purple eyes should decide to
strike.
He quickly leafed through to a chapter that sounded interesting to him.
"CHAPTER XVIII," he read aloud to himself, "Enchantment of Forest Beings."
This was the part where, should this have been in a movie, the soundtrack
suddenly starts to go weird, trying to indicate the beholder that something
is about to happen that may succeed in getting his pants wet.
As the mercenary annex hired barbarian walked on while laboriously studying
the book, one of the many pairs of red eyes that had in the mean time
appeared got quite awfully much closer, looming up as it were behind him in a
positively menacing fashion.
It was not before a deep and meaningful growl was uttered by the owner of
this particular pair of conspiciously staring eyes that our hero noticed
anything.
"GROWL."
He looked around and stood face to face with what can not be described to be
anything else rather than a particularly nasty kind of monster, that had
probably also been the ugly duck of its family.
A very big duck, that is, for it towered above him to at least twice his
height.
"Hmm, interesting," was the first thing to enter the mind of the mercenary
annex hired barbarian, thereby taking up all place for itself. It was quickly
fighting for cranial dominance, however, with thoughts along the lines of
"Oh", "Oh dear", "Ooh crikey" and "Is that my mother calling?"
Eventually, one thought managed to remain locked in the barbarian's
miserable excuse for brain cells: "Hmmm. Maybe the book explains how to deal
with 'Big, Strikingly Ugly Ducks That Unexpectedly Loom Up Behind You'."
He quickly turned to the next page. He was significantly relieved to notice
that it beamed towards him with 'Dealing with Big, Strikingly Ugly Ducks That
Unexpectedly Loom Up Behind You' written at its top in big, bold, capital,
underlined letters.
This discovery cheered him up for a short while - in fact it cheered him up
until the precise instant on which the monstrous duck started to breathe
directly in his face, instantly drawing his attention back to the severity of
the situation at hand.
A satisfied grin formed itself around the bill of the big duck.
Finally.
It feels nice to be appreciated, even when you're fourteen foot tall and
very, very ugly.
It growled again, just to make its point.
"GROWL."
The barbarian quickly scanned through the page. It was conveniently divided
in paragraphs, each written with another specific kind of weapon in thought.
He skipped the ones headed 'Longsword', 'Double bladed axe', '"Lord of the
Rings" Single-Volume Edition' and some others, quickly reading the one headed
'None of any kind whatsoever'.
"In case thou dost not haveth any weapon at thy disposal," that particular
paragraph considered proper to mention, "resorteth to Magic."
Swell. That was just great. Just great.
And the monster was getting impatient, too.
It growled again, somewhat louder this time.
"GROWL!"
Resort to magic? That would pose a serious lack of ability to get out of
this situation relatively unscathed, for he had utterly and totally flunked
all subjects in school that had the tendency of even being distantly related
to magic.
The monster licked its huge, frightfully yellow bill in quite a revolting
way. It was going to end the life of this pitiable human. Even according to
the Monster & Violence Convention, it had given its victim more than the
lawfully required time that was considered to be sufficient for the victim to
employ some serious reaction - be it aggressive or defensive.
The barbarian thought hard. Something of all those lessons in magic must
still be present somewhere. Scattered bits of memories flung themselves at
him, until finally he had been able to retrieve a long forgotten spell from a
dusty drawer somewhere in his brain.
"En nu ben je dood!" he yelled with all the power he could manage, nearly
finishing off his vocal chords.
A strange kind of light was emitted from the barbarian's being. This gently
transformed itself into something like fireworks, but bigger and more
powerful, of which the flames mercilessly sped towards the vile creature.
Before it had time to protest against the fact that magic was not allowed in
a fair fight according to the Monsters & Violence Convention, it was totally
incinerated.
"It's a kind of magic," the barbarian whispered softly in a way that
betrayed his Scottish ancestry.
Having completely regained his self-confidence now he had remembered this
powerful spell, he briskly walked on through the forest, merrily singing a
tune about a poor lonesome barbarian far away from home.
Original written February 13th 1991. Originally a background story for a
platform game called "Ghost Battle", but probably never used.
= THE KILLING GAME SHOW =====================================================
by Richard Karsmakers
The dullest planet of the universe, any galactic traveller will gladly and
unreservedly be happy to tell you, is Klaxos 9. It is a plain round planet
filled with dreary people doing their little boring things in a particularly
tedious way, every irksome hour of every bothersome day of every...
You get the message.
Nothing ever changes its old, slow, monotonous routine. The people
inhabiting it had forgotten to speak with each other as it wasn't worth the
trouble. They didn't bother getting into contact with the blessings of music
or literature, nor abstract art and other forms of waste disposal, either.
For the sake of visitors from other planets they had gone through the
considerable trouble of giving a name to their uneventful little planet, some
of the uninspired towns on its plain surface, and even some of the long,
exceedingly annoying streets that happened to harbour certain places these
aliens at times tended to visit.
The people of Klaxos 9 would probably not even be bothered to breathe, or
even eat, had they not been violently opposed against having to go to one of
their excessively burdensome hospitals. Not breathing or eating was also know
to lead to something even extremely boring by Klaxos 9 standards: A funeral -
to be avoided at all cost.
Rumours have it that they don't even take care of their own multiplication.
As their scientists don't bother to do something artificial about it either,
the fact that the people from Klaxos 9 have still not become extinct is one
of the biggest mysteries in the documented universe.
"Hey, Jake."
"Huh?"
The words whispered through the darkness like autumn leaves unexpectedly
being brushed away by a silent breeze through a silent street.
Two dark silhouettes stood crouched in the darkness of an alley in Flodhul,
one of the cities the people of Klaxos 9 had bothered to name and that had,
coincidentally, also been appointed to be the capital.
"What do you think of that?"
A long object, probably an arm, extended itself from the biggest of the two
silhouettes, pointing at a dark figure that was busy entering an inn just
down the road.
"Looks impressive, boss," the other silhouette said, "broad and strong as is
required."
"For a moment I even thought I recognised it," the largest silhouette said,
"but I suppose that can't be."
"What? Who?" the other said.
"Forget it," the leader said, "it's not important. Besides, even *he*
wouldn't be so stupid to get his ass over here on this Godforsaken planet."
"*We* have," the other retorted.
"Um, yes, we seem to, haven't we?" the leader answered after some thought,
"But now be a good boy and shut your face."
"Sure thing boss."
The alien had caused quite a stir when it had entered.
The inn had been completely silent, and everybody had sat around not doing
much or nothing at all, or simply staring at a rather plain drink with a look
of ultimate boredom in their eyes.
A terrestrial soap opera was on TV, which many of the people in the inn
watched with some hint of interest.
Some of them visibly wondered why they sat in this particular inn, as there
wasn't much use for them to be here. But, then again, it wasn't much use to
be at home with their wives, either.
Life was boring no matter where you were, and at least here you could drink
something without the wife starting to complain.
At least in the inn things tended to happen. Once in a while, a little
bubble would drift to the surface in someone's drink, accompanied by its
owner's silent gasp of suspense.
As the alien walked into the inn towards the bar, all heads turned slowly.
It found many eyes gazing at it.
Each and every of those eyes, including the ones on stalks and the odd one
hovering over the bar, did not seem to be a device of sight. Instead, they
merely seemed devices of expression, radiating what seemed like infinite
boredom.
"Beer," the alien said.
Some of the oldest of elders sitting at the bar startled, slowly blinking
their eyes in horror. They were amazed to see someone who seemed so young yet
was able to actually *speak* - something that was since long considered a
useless nuisance and thus forgotten on Klaxos 9.
Lucky for the alien, the bartender also had some basic knowledge of Ye Olde
Tongues, who therefore principally knew what the alien wanted. After some
thinking, scratching one of his heads with a furry hand, he slowly drew
something that looked vaguely like beer from his rusty old tap, placing the
filled mug in front of the alien.
"Thanks," the alien said with a look in its eyes as if it was looking at a
pool of horse piss after a three month stroll through the dryer parts of the
Mongolian Gobi desert.
However, it drained the entire mug in one go.
This was more than enough for all the people in the bar. They considered
action getting too intense here, and unanimously decided to go home to walk
their snails.
They slowly rose from their chairs and stools which they slowly shoved
aside, then dragged themselves towards the door in a very tiresome way, so
that they could slowly spread through the streets of Flodhul.
The alien looked around itself, not quite knowing why everybody left all of
a sudden. Its eyes fell on the TV set, and didn't leave it until the soap
opera ended.
Signalling the end of this night's broadcast, the Klaxos 9 national hymn was
played.
The alien decided it had seen enough of this joint. It tossed a couple of
coins on the counter - all the money it had, except for a load of Monopoly
money it had accepted after having finished an assignment some weeks ago.
It left.
The bartender gasped for breath upon having witnessed so much terrifying
events this evening. He was going to take up real-time grass growth
photography. He made a mental note to try not to forget to communicate this
decision to his wife some day.
"Hey, Jake," a harsh voice spoke, irritated.
"Huh?"
"Wake up," the voice of the larger of the two silhouettes we met earlier
spoke, "our MUG is leaving that wretched inn."
"'Twas about time."
"Yeah. Close your face. Follow."
The beer had gone down smoothly, but in his innards it had turned out to
make quite a nuisance of itself.
Cronos Warchild, mercenary annex hired gun, felt as if something was turning
his stomach around, as if someone was trying to make spaghetti of his guts.
Curiously, he thought of what they would look like when splattered all over
the floor after a gut-cut.
He was just about to vomit when a net was dropped over him, catching him
totally off-guard. Before he had time to use one of his killer gadgets he
noticed that something heavy had collided with the back of his head.
Instinctively, he knew he had to lose consciousness now.
He did.
This was, of course, a pity. It had been the first time in months that he
hadn't accidentally left any of his killer gadgets at home.
He had even had his hearing aid insertedm, though the "battery low"
indicator had been lit for a while now.
*****
The lights were blinding him, his head felt like a pierced orange and he
wondered why a basketball found it necessary to continually bounce itself up
and down and left and right in the painful void of his brain. His joints felt
like rusty iron hinges.
Why was he wearing metal gloves?
"...and, indeed, it seems our new contestant is awake now!"
The words echoed through Cronos' skull mercilessly, making him cringe with
pain he couldn't do anything about. Although he had been exquisitely trained
to block out any physical pain, he had never been taught how to block out the
basketball feeling in his head.
It must have been that damn stuff he drank a couple of hours ago. Or was it
weeks? He couldn't tell.
Why was he carrying a metal harness?
"...we are proud to be able to offer you, dear zillions of our viewing
audience, what looks like one of the fittest MUG contenders since aeons..."
The presenter smiled at his viewers. Golden teeth glittered in the
spotlights.
Warchild tried to shake the throbbing ache out of his head, only effectively
increasing it.
He snarled a curse to himself.
As he looked down at the rest of his body, he was startled to see that his
entire body was covered by some kind of metal armour. It made him think of a
film about some kind of cop that got shot to pieces and had been partly
turned into a robot.
He had liked the movie, but he didn't like this. Not even a bit.
Warchild looked around him to take up his surroundings.
He was in a disproportionately large hall, in which was built an intricate
and huge complex of platforms on which he stood. A kind of huge elevator was
located at the nearest wall, in which a game show host sat together with some
camera men.
"...so all left for us to do is wish our contender a nice day!"
The presenter smiled again (or still).
Warchild didn't like the man's face and was about to think about having a go
at the man's throat when he saw that the entire elevator, though close enough
to cover the distance by a huge leap, was surrounded by a wall of thick
glass.
Looking down through the metal raster of the platform on which he stood, he
also saw a bubbling liquid under him - slowly rising towards him.
"...and it looks like he's going to meet the Death to Organic Life Liquid
soon!"
The smile on the presenter's face almost seemed to change into a look of
sadness.
"...looks like our latest MUG doesn't know what DOLL can do to Organic
Life...worra pity..."
Just in time, Warchild leapt up to a platform above him. Not a second too
soon. The platform on which he had stood was now reached by the liquid that
turned out to be an extremely powerful acid. Its metal seemed to deform and
bubble, then melted away until nothing of it remained visible.
The acrid smell of corroding metal pierced his nose.
Cronos noticed that the elevator had moved up with him, allowing the game
show host - and the cameras - to continue to have a clear view of him.
Fragments of his memory came back. He remembered the beer - or whatever it
had been. He remembered leaving the inn. He remembered the net. And the
sudden pain when he had been clubbed on the head.
Angry fires flared wildly in his eyes.
His muggers were now probably getting pissed on the money they got when
delivering him. He fervently hoped they would get mugged and robbed
themselves, the bastards!
But for now all thoughts of his muggers and a possible revenge had to be put
on hold. First, he had to conceive a way to get out of this rather precarious
situation - and, of course, he had to keep avoiding this liquid, this *DOLL*.
He ventured a wry smile of self-confidence at the people in the elevator.
As if by means of reply, one of them pressed a button on a panel, returning
an even broader variety of Cronos' smile. Warchild reckoned there'd be enough
gold in that mouth to plate your average Buddhist temple.
Unfortunately, there was scant time for Cronos to contemplate about Buddhism
and precious metals, for a hatch opened at the far side of the hall.
Out of it came a creature.
The bastard!
The creature looked fairly harmless except for the malice in its eyes and
the laser it casually toted in a way one handles a harmless pocket knife.
It didn't waste time. It started firing rapidly at Cronos.
"It looks like our MUG is going to meet the first of the Game Show Hosts,
har har!"
Instinctively, Warchild ducked. He felt the heat of the shots tear through
the air, too close to him. He grabbed for his hip, realising an instant later
that his gun couldn't possibly be there any more.
His surprise at discovering a powerful blaster there was quite tremendous.
Craftfully evading the creature's fire, Cronos drew the blaster and fired
once.
The creature's head was completely knocked off its shoulders, sending the
body reeling off the platform into the *DOLL* below. The liquid seemed to
come alive as the creature hit the surface, instantly filling the air with
acrid clouds filled with the stench of melting metal and burning flesh.
"1-0 for the MUG!"
Warchild looked at the game show host threateningly, yet the man only
smiled, unperturbed. One of his fingers pressed another button on the panel.
The bastard!
His warrior's senses made him turn around to the sound of a hatch opening
behind him, just in time for him to see more creatures being released onto
the platform complex.
They were all toting lasers in that typical, absent-mindedly casual way.
None of them wasted any time. Warchild was like a sitting duck.
A searing pain crashed into his shoulder as a shot hit him that should have
completely severed his arm from his torso. It flung his temporarily helpless
body against the platform's metal grating. It felt as if a train had hit him
against an indestructible concrete wall, with all the pain concentrated on
his shoulder. Yet, miraculously, the arm was still there. The armour he was
wearing surely worked, but it was heavily damaged now and surely wouldn't
survive another direct hit there.
"1-1!"
Warchild was slowly getting angry. He bit his teeth and concentrated himself
on not feeling the pain. He was trained to block out every physical pain. He
could do it.
He concentrated and got up.
The monsters seemed abashed, surprised at the fact that their victim was
still quite alive - even quite intact.
Warchild was getting *very* angry. His eyes lashed insults at the creatures,
radiating a hate he had only felt before when having been shit upon by a
Mutant Maxi Mega Monster of Multifizzic Omega. That monster, needless to say,
hadn't lived to tell.
Quickly, Cronos tried to think. Of course, this was very hard to do as he
had been trained to fight rather than to think. Besides, a large part of his
active brain was already occupied by the sheer effort of severe concentration
on not feeling the tremendous pain that tore through every synapse that had
the misfortune to be located in his shoulder.
He glanced at the glass elevator. He considered the sturdiness of the glass
as opposed to that of his armour. If he were to jump at the elevator, all the
creatures would start shooting at him - partly hitting the elevator glass.
Maybe it would budge. Maybe it wouldn't. But Cronos reckoned it would be
worth the gamble. With the *DOLL* rising steadily and the nasty creatures'
lasers getting aimed at him again, it seemed all other bets were off.
Flexing every muscle in his body, he crouched like a cat and then leapt
towards the elevator structure. Like he had anticipated, the creatures
started shooting at him like a bunch of rabid lunatics.
Of course, as he had never ever heard of differential calculus, Cronos
completely failed in aiming his body correctly at the elevator. The liquid
loomed up below him, threatening and smelly.
"Oh shit," he muttered as Newton started to work its ways.
Then, everything happened very quickly.
The creatures' shots started hitting him. Several of them were direct hits
on his chest, hurling him mercilessly through the air like a lifeless lump of
meat, metal and bones. Because of the terrific impact of the shots, however,
his momentum both increased and changed direction - towards the thick glass
wall of the elevator.
"Whattaf..."
With a mindevaporating noise of glass breaking, curses being spat and laser
shots being fired, Warchild crashed through the elevator wall. The pain was
excruciating, but he succeeded in effectively blocking it out by sheer
willpower.
The creatures were still shooting at him, but as he was lying numbly on the
ground they shot others instead. The game show host only had half a second to
cry out in terror before he was reduced to a pile of ashes and molten gold.
Camera equipment burned.
Aiming his laser, Warchild erected himself and started to shoot. Only he
didn't get much time. Somewhere along the line of the things that had
happened in the last couple of seconds, someone had pressed a *lot* of
buttons on that panel.
Before him he saw about four dozen monsters. Big ones. Small ones. Ugly
ones. Even uglier ones. Flying ones. Apart from the fact that they smelled
horribly, they were all armed with lasers that they held rather absent-
mindedly aimed at his head - the only part of his anatomy that wasn't
armoured.
Within the instant that separated him from his execution, he realised no
laser would be of help here. Not even his artificial tungsten-carbide
killer fingernail would be of avail here. Nothing. He was a dead man.
He decided it might be just as well to faint, and did so.
A black shape with a scythe beckoned.
An endless void loomed threateningly below him. He could not keep from
spinning around as he disappeared in it. Deeper and deeper. Faster and
faster.
He saw ants and blue furry creatures and honey jars. Vague memories of
recollection troubled his mind, but he decided not to heed them.
"COME...COME..."
A dark voice echoed below, deep in the vortex in which he seemed to fall
forever. Forever...
It was completely dark around him. His head felt like a pierced orange and
he wondered why a basketball found it necessary to continually bounce itself
up and down and left and right in the painful void others call a brain.
Who was that, looming above him?
"Watch it Jake, he's coming by. Let's split!"
The words echoed through Cronos' skull mercilessly, making him cringe with
pain he couldn't do anything about. Although he had been exquisitely trained
to block out any physical pain, he had never been taught how to block out the
basketball feeling in his head.
It must have been that damn stuff he drank a couple of hours ago. Or was it
weeks? He couldn't tell.
He shook his head as he heard faint footsteps die away in the distance. As
he instinctively searched his own pockets, finding them empty, a synonym of
animal excrement passed his dried-out lips.
His only - and, he had to agree, poor - consolidation was that someone would
soon be finding out how difficult it is to pay with Monopoly money.
Original written April and June 1991.
= SOON COMING ===============================================================
The next issue of "Twilight World", Volume 3 Issue 2, is to be released mid
March 1995. Please refer to the 'subscription' section, below, for details on
getting it automatically, in case you're interested.
Please refer to the section on 'submissions', below, for more details on
submitting your own material.
The next issue will probably contain the following items...
THE JAWMAN
by Bryan H. Joyce
POWERMONGER
by Alex Crouzen
MAGIC POCKETS
by Richard Karsmakers
AND MORE
= SOME GENERAL REMARKS ======================================================
DESCRIPTION
"Twilight World" is an on-line magazine aimed at everybody who is interested
in any sort of fiction - although it usually tends to concentrate on fantasy-
and science-fiction, often with a bit of humour thrown in.
Its main source is an Atari ST/TT/Falcon disk magazine by the name of "ST
NEWS" which publishes computer-related articles as well as fiction. "Twilight
World" mostly consists of fiction featured in "ST NEWS" so far, with added
stories submitted by "Twilight World" readers.
SUBMISSIONS
If you've written some good fiction and you wouldn't mind it being published
world-wide, you can mail it to me either electronically or by standard mail.
At all times do I reserve the right not to publish submissions. Do note that
submissions on disk will have to use the MS-DOS or Atari ST/TT/Falcon disk
format on 3.5" Double-or High-Density floppy disk. Provided sufficient IRCs
are supplied (see below), you will get your disk back with the issue of
"Twilight World" on it that features your fiction. Electronic submittees will
get an electronic subscription if so requested.
At all times, please submit straight ASCII texts without any special control
codes whatsoever, nor right justify or ASCII characters above 128. Please use
*asterisks* to emphasise text if needed, start each paragraph with one space,
don't include empty lines between each paragraph and use "-" instead of "--".
Also remember the difference between possessives and contractions, only use
multiple question marks when absolutely necessary (!!) and never use other
than one (.) or three (...) periods in sequence.
COPYRIGHT
Unless specified along with the individual stories, all "Twilight World"
stories are copyrighted by the individual authors but may be spread wholly or
separately to any place - and indeed into any other magazine - provided
credit is given both to the original author and "Twilight World".
CORRESPONDENCE ADDRESS
I prefer electronic correspondence, but regular stuff (such as postcards!)
can be sent to my regular address. If you expect a reply please supply one
International Reply Coupon (available at your post office), *two* if you live
outside Europe. If you want your disk(s) returned, add 2 International Reply
Coupons per disk (and one extra if you live outside Europe). Correspondence
failing these guidelines will be read (and perused) but not replied to.
The address:
Richard Karsmakers
P.O. Box 67
NL-3500 AB Utrecht
The Netherlands
Email r.c.karsmakers@stud.let.ruu.nl
(This should be valid up to the summer of 1996)
SUBSCRIPTIONS
Subscriptions (electronic ones only!) can be requested by sending email to
the address mentioned above. "Twilight World" is only available as ASCII.
Subscription terminations should be directed to the same address.
About one week prior to each current issue being sent out you will get a
message to check if your email address is still valid. If a message bounces,
your subscription terminates.
Back issues of "Twilight World" may be FTP'd from atari.archive.umich.edu
and etext.archive.umich.edu. It is also posted to rec.arts.prose, alt.zines
and alt.prose and is on Gopher somewhere as well. Thanks to Gard for all
this!
PHILANTROPY
If you like "Twilight World", a spontaneous burst of philantropy aimed at
the postal address mentioned above would be very much appreciated! Please
send cash only; any regular currency will do. Apart from keeping "Twilight
World" happily afloat, it will also help me to keep my head above water as a
student of English at Utrecht University. If donations reach sufficient
height they will secure the existence of "Twilight World" after my studies
have been concluded. If not...then all I can do is hope for the best.
Thanks!
DISCLAIMER
All authors are responsible for the views they express. Also, The individual
authors are the ones you should sue in case of copyright infringements!
OTHER ON-LINE MAGAZINES
INTERTEXT is an electronically-distributed fiction magazine which reaches
over a thousand readers on five continents. It publishes fiction from all
genres, from "mainstream" to Science Fiction, and everywhere in between.
It is published in both ASCII and PostScript (laser printer) formats. To
subscribe, send mail to jsnell@ocf.berkeley.edu. Back issues are available
via anonymous FTP at network.ucsd.edu.
CYBERSPACE VANGUARD: News and Views of the SciFi and Fantasy Universe is an
approximately bimonthly magazine of news, articles and interviews from
science fiction, fantasy, comics and animation (you get the idea).
Subscriptions are available from cn577@cleveland.freenet.edu.
Writers contact xx133@cleveland.freenet.edu. Back issues are availabe by FTP
from etext.archive.umich.edu.
THE UNIT CIRCLE is an original on-line and paper magazine of new art, music,
literature and alternative commentary. On-line issues are available via the
Unit Circle WWW home page: ftp://ftp.netcom.com/pub/unitcirc/unit_circle.html
You can also contact the Unit Circle via e-mail at zine@unitcircle.org.
YOU WANT YOUR MAGAZINE BLURB HERE? Mail me a short description, no longer
than 6 lines with a length of 77 characters maximum. No logos please. In
exchange, please contain in your mag a "Twilight World" blurb (like the first
paragraph of "DESCRIPTION", above). Hail!
