Copy Link
Add to Bookmark
Report
Twilight Zone Volume 2 Issue 3
T W I L I G H T W O R L D
Volume 2 Issue 3
May 14th 1994
This magazine may be archived, reproduced and/or distributed provided that
no additions or changes are made to it. All stories in this magazine are
fiction. No actual persons are designated by name or character. Any
similarity is purely coincidental.
If you bought this magazine through an expensive PD library, get it cheaper
somewhere else next time because it's for free and not intended for someone
else to make money with.
Please refer to the end file for information regarding submissions,
subscriptions, donations, copyright, etc.
= LIST OF CONTENTS ==========================================================
EDITORIAL
THE SCHOOL OF LIFE!
by Kai Holst
A story of the two L's: Love and Life.
SAVAGE
by Richard Karsmakers
Where Cronos rescues his mother, foster mother and fiancee.
ALICE THROUGH THE FLAMES
by Roy Stead
An interesting story of Parallel Paradox (or something or other).
BLOOD MONEY
by Richard Karsmakers
Where a Compact Universal Nuclear Teleporter confuses someone mightily.
= EDITORIAL =================================================================
by Richard Karsmakers
I have a goal. That goal is to make "Twilight World" the biggest fiction
magazine on the net. I know it will be hard, because there's a lot of
competition that's older, more seasoned, more experienced and simply better.
Nonetheless I have this goal and I am confident it will be reached some day
in the not too distant future, if only you will help. Write for "Twilight
World" so it'll get better. Tell your friends about it so they'll subscribe.
Spread the word - *and* the magazine!
That's all I have to say this time, apart from the fact that I'd like to
thank the people at America OnLine who constitute almost a quarter of all
"Twilight World" subscriptions.
Anyway, plenty of fiction lined up so I'll leave you to it.
As usual, I hope you'll enjoy reading this issue.
Richard Karsmakers
(Editor)
P.S. If you no longer want to receive "Twilight World", *please* unsubscribe
and don't let me wait for the messages to bounce instead, totally
flooding my email box! This especially goes for America OnLine people.
= THE SCHOOL OF LIFE! =======================================================
by Kai Holst (with riddles by Scott Roach)
Neisha sighed. Already a minute after she entered the school bus life had
given its first sign of the day of being against her, as it always did. The
predictability of her life never failed.
The bus ride took only seven minutes, but the minutes felt like hours
because of Shannon, who was pestering her life by pinching her or calling her
names. She could not believe that she had once been in love with him. Maybe
she should have said yes when he had asked her for a date two months ago?
He'd been a pain ever since she had turned him down.
She sighed again, and almost choked as she felt the pain in the back of her
head as Shannon pulled her hair. A lonely tear rolled down her frail cheek.
"How childish," she thought while fighting her desire to hit him. One day he
would regret being so unkind to her. One day...
Her thoughts trailed to the letter she had spent all day writing yesterday.
Jeremy's letter. She kept it next to her heart, keeping it warm. She'd
written the address on the envelope gracefully and sealed it with a soft
kiss, and had selected beautiful stamps for it, with flowers and birds on
them. She knew he would write her a reply the day he got it, as he always
did. Dozens of letters, and even more brief phone calls had been exchanged
between them since Jeremy had moved to Europe three months earlier. They had
been going steady for almost a year, and both intended to make it much
longer. Neisha knew that Jeremy was her only friend.
All her life Neisha had been lonely. In her world, nobody but Jeremy had
ever cared about her, and that care was the key to her love.
Jeremy was special of himself. As long as Neisha could remember, the girls
of her class had been dreaming about him. But in spite of his merry
appearance, he had no friends before he got to know Neisha. He knew how to
hide his loneliness. But Neisha knew. She had found out the first time he had
asked her out. He told her it had taken him all summer to build up the
courage to do so.
He took her walking in the park on that beautiful August day. It was warm
and cloudless, and the frail ring he gave her carried the warmth of that day
in it. Neisha still wore it.
The daydream faded away as Janie, one of the girls of her class, shook her
shoulder. Her kind face looked down at Neisha. "Are you going to sit here all
day?" Ignoring the friendly sarcasm of the question, Neisha slowly grabbed
her bag and followed Janie out of the bus.
This was her greatest fear. She had a tendency to dump into some sort of
trouble every day. Some punks had a tendency to bully her whenever they met
her, but what she really hated was being asked questions in class. No matter
what happened, she managed to make a fool of herself one way or another, and
there was no-one to comfort her any longer.
The rain of the night had left the asphalt wet and slippery, and as Neisha
left the bus she slipped on the wet ground. Fighting to keep on her feet, she
felt Janie's firm hand on her arm. Her face almost cerise she uttered a quick
word of gratitude, and looked around to see if anybody else had seen her
slip. The school yard was void of people save themselves. A swift glance on
her watch confirmed her suspicion: They were late again.
The first period went unusually smooth. The subject was History, one of her
favourites. Ever since her early childhood it'd been her special interest,
and this came in very handy as the teacher bombarded her with tons of
questions. A sparkle of confidence was lit in her as she unerringly brought
forth reply after reply, and she felt great when the teacher moved on to
question Thomas.
Speaking out loud in class was usually an exercise in stuttering and
embarrassment to Neisha, but when she got something right, the triumph was so
much bigger. She smiled inward at herself as the story of religious trouble
and witches was cast upon the rest of the class. She dutifully made some
notes as the teacher spoke on at the blackboard, but the only legible thing
she produced was a single word, written at least a dozen times. Jeremy. The
letter was still next to her heart, providing warmth. The only warmth in her
entire existence.
The corridors of her High School were too long. Neisha never had enough time
to get from room to room during the five minute break between classes. She
had to run down the stairs to get to English class at a quarter to nine, and
already knew she was going to be late.
With a sizeable bunch of books in her left hand, she entered the last
corridor and collided with a medium-sized young boy wearing a leather jacket,
worn-out jeans and a pair of gloomy shades. She cursed her bad luck long
before their books hit the floor. Those shades were the trademark of one of
the hall gangs that haunted the corridors. She only caught one short glimpse
of his face before she bent down to pick up all her books, and cursed herself
for being in such a hurry.
She had collided with a boy she knew as Mark. He was of her age, and had
been in her parallel class for seven years, but she only knew him as the
leader of The Shades. He was alone.
"Well, what have we here?" The penetrating voice was colder than ice, and he
regarded her with an expressionless face from behind the shades. "A peach in
a hurry?" Neisha froze, her face turned away from him. Peach?
"Listen, I, I, I'm sorry I hit you like that." Her thoughts were as
scattered as her books as she desperately sought a way out of this delicate
situation.
"Now you listen!" As she heard his voice, Neisha turned towards him, felt
like she was facing her own doom. But she had not anticipated the reaction
she caused.
It was Mark's turn to freeze. He lowered the hand he had pointed accusingly
at her, and paled noticeably.
"Neish?" He gave her a hand and helped her up. This unexpected gesture
bewildered her. When he bent down and quickly picked up her books, the
confusion only grew.
"Tell me, how is Jeremy doing in his new home?" The tone of his voice had
changed, and was now silent and comfortable. He handed over her books, and
smiled apologetically at her.
Neisha couldn't see his eyes, and couldn't make up her mind on whether it
was a fake smile or not. She had never known that Mark and Jeremy had known
each other, and Jeremy had loathed all the problem youngsters who gathered
into gangs.
The school bell interrupted her train of thoughts as she was just about to
tell Mark that Jeremy was doing fine.
"You had better get to class in time," Mark said, and hesitated before he
continued. "Can we meet in the canteen at noon?" It was a proposal she would
usually have turned down.
"Huh? I mean, yes, why not?" She could see a poorly hidden grin on Mark's
face as he turned away with a quick nod and ran to get to his class.
Behind him, Neisha stood bewildered. She didn't know what is was that had
made her accept the unusual invitation. Noon. That would be during lunch
break. As she slowly walked the ten yards to her English class it struck her.
Mark had used her nickname. Only her father and Jeremy had ever called her
"Neish".
Neisha suffered herself through English class with Jeremy on her mind all
the time. There were no connections between him and Mark that she knew of,
and the mystery tormented her. She rejected the thought of adding a few lines
in her letter to Jeremy because she had already sealed it shut, and couldn't
do anything but wait. Her preoccupation irritated the teacher a bit, but not
as much as the feeling of not knowing that something irritated her. She
wanted to know what the connection was. And she would make Mark tell her!
Only four rooms away, Mark regretted the impetuous invitation he had offered
Neisha. It had been a brash thing to do, but he could not back out now. A
quick glance at some of his fellow members of The Shades revealed that they
knew about it. Mark already had too many problems, but this one felt like a
yoke around his neck.
Totally ignoring the Spanish teacher, he sat down with paper and a pen, and
started writing the words he had been thinking of for too long now. He had
always been in love with Neisha, and now was the time to show it. But how?
"Miss Morrison, will you please pay attention?"
The cutting voice of her teacher tore Neisha out of her thoughts in time to
see the other students leaving the room. Flushing, she picked up her things
and walked out of the room, embarrassed.
Neisha again found herself running through the corridors towards her locker.
This time, though, she was careful to avoid incidents like the one of the
previous recess. She needed to find out where she had to be the following
hour, and as she was searching for a schedule in the mess of her locker she
missed Jeremy more than ever. He always knew where she had to be, and
followed her there before he had to get to his own class. Would Mark do that?
Neisha omitted the question as she found her schedule under a book.
The Literature classes were not too bad. Neisha was able to get her mind off
the appointment with Mark and concentrated on doing the assignments. What she
didn't was that Mark, sitting in the adjacent room, could not get his mind
off her. He was trying to write down his feelings, but the words did not come
out right. This whole deal was getting on his nerves as the idea hit him.
Things suddenly seemed to fit, and Mark quickly produced the keywords he
needed. Then the six lines were in his mind, and he smiled.
After what felt like days of torment to Neisha, the Literature class was
finally over at five to twelve, and the recess she had been waiting for was
there. Walking steadily down the now almost empty corridors towards the
canteen, Neisha saw that the "Corner of Shadows", as the students had
nicknamed the junction where The Shades were usually found, was void of
people. But the corridor between the junction and the canteen was not.
Shannon was in trouble. Three guys were standing around him in a semi-
circle. Neisha knew very well what that meant.
"Where's our five bucks?" The three guys standing around Shannon looked at
him with a threatening glare. Neisha walked past as if she saw nothing. She
heard Shannon swallow hard.
"Why should I give you five bucks?" For a moment, Neisha admired his
courage.
"Does survival ring a bell?" Shannon gave in to the brutality of the answer
and picked up a fiver from his pocket. His face looked weary, and Neisha
registered that he was very pale. Pity replaced her hate for him as she saw
his hooked back move away from her.
The set of stairs on the right side of the hall and the entrance area on the
left side gave the canteen a shape closely resembling the letter "H". Two
lines of supporting pillars ran down the mid-aisle of the room, and a large
number of tables were spread about on both sides, most of them occupied.
At their usual table near the stairs, Mark was trying to get rid of his
gang. Even in the darkness of the corner, all of them wore the characteristic
shades. For the first time, the guys refused to do what he told them to. He
gave it another shot.
"Guys, I don't care where you go or what you do, just get off my back!"
Nobody moved.
"The boss is having a date, and won't let us witness it." It was one of the
youngest kids who spoke.
"That's right," Mark replied smoothly. "Any of you want to argue with me
about it?" The calmness of his voice carried a threat in it. Thought he
couldn't see their eyes in the shadows, Mark knew that they would have
respect in them. Nobody replied.
"No?" Still nothing.
"Then get lost." With an inward sigh of relief Mark watched the gang
dissolve around him, and a minute later he was sitting alone at the table.
Surprised, he noticed that he was sweating.
In the corridor above the stairs Neisha was standing next to the mailbox
with Jeremy's letter in her hand. She hesitated a moment before she
decisively put the letter in the mailbox and strolled with self-confident
steps down the stairs.
Mark rose as he saw her coming near the table. With a slight bow and a warm
smile he invited her to sit down, and then removed his shades before she
accepted his invitation.
"And they said chivalry was dead?" Neisha deliberately chose the chair
facing Mark and sat down. She felt eyes staring at her, and ignored them. But
she could not ignore Mark's eyes.
They were a warm green, and shone at her like beautiful emeralds from
heaven. It was the first time she had ever seen Mark's eyes, and they made
him handsome!
"Glad you could make it," he said, still smiling friendly.
"I'm glad you asked me," Neisha replied truthfully. She had been spending
most lunch breaks alone since Jeremy had moved. Although she was often bored,
she got along. But this was exciting. And Mark's eyes were beyond belief.
"I like your new hairdo," he commented as he was regarding her carefully.
Was that an admiring look he had? Neisha cast a glance at his hair and
suppressed a smile. It was cut way too short and stood to all sides. She
offered a short and cold "thanks". Quite unaffected, Mark picked up a cup of
coffee Neisha had not noticed before and sipped at it.
"Tell me," he said after a short while, "How's Jeremy doing over there?"
Picking up a brown lunch-bag he added "Aren't you going to have lunch?" His
face spoke of honest interest and curiosity, and Neisha elaborately picked up
her own.
"Well," she said as she chewed lazily, "He is doing fine." That was what he
told her on the phone and in all the letters. His new school sucked, but he'd
made many friends already. "He hates the language they speak, though."
"That's understandable." Mark made a recognizing nod.
"Why did you ask?" Neisha decided to start asking questions. On the other
side of the table, Mark grimaced lightly.
"Jeremy and I go way back," he started. Neisha urged him to tell more, but
Mark shook his head. "It's a long time ago, and doesn't matter anymore." As
Neisha remained silent, Mark decided it was time to change subject.
"Are you good at solving riddles?" Neisha again found herself being torn out
of her daydreaming. Mark repeated the question.
"Not much." Neisha pondered on the question a while. She used to love all
sorts of riddles when she was a child. Years ago. There was one she
remembered at once. In the darkness of room it seemed appropriate, and she
wanted to test Mark.
In the window she sat weeping
and with each tear her life went seeping
Mark immediately knew the correct answer. "It's a burning candle on a sill.
It was a beautiful rhyme." Neisha felt a strange surge run through her as
their eyes met again. His stare was inviting and seductive. And challenging.
He came up with another riddle.
I'm often held, yet rarely touched
I'm always wet, yet never rust
I'm sometimes wagged and sometimes bit
To use me well, you must have wit
"What is this?" Neisha demanded, "Some sort of competition?" She felt silly
sitting there doing word-puzzles like that.
"You might say that," Mark replied, smiling. "Want to know what you might
win?" It wasn't meant to be insulting, but Mark almost bit his tongue off the
second he said it. Neisha ignored him.
"Tongue," she said sharply. "The answer is tongue. Now you think of this
one!" She began to remember the hard ones.
There's someone that I'm always near
Yet in the dark I disappear
To this one only am I loyal
Though in his wake I'm doomed to toil
He feels me not (we always touch)
If I were lost, he'd not lose much
And now I come to my surprise
For you are he - but who am I?
"Ouch, that one is tougher." The admission came easier than he'd thought it
would, in spite of a sting in his side from his pride.
"...he'd not lose much," he said thoughtfully and had some more coffee. Some
fascinating reflections in the dark fluid caught his eyes as he put the cup
down. He glimpsed up, and noticed the blue sky outside. The small windows
high up on the wall spread fragile beams of light throughout the room, but
still the corner in which they were sitting lay in darkness. The rain showers
had obviously ended while he hadn't been paying attention. Mark though that
the canteen looked much better in decent light. It was overcrowded by now,
but he barely noticed the people. They ignored him, and thus he ignored them.
A few seconds went by, and as he realized he was not getting any closer to
the solution of the riddle, quiet panic struck him.
The Freshmen at the neighboring table rose to leave, and some of the older
students standing impatiently at one pillar immediately moved to occupy it.
Their faces stood out from the shadows in the background, luminously flooded
in sunshine. The dancing movements their shadows made along the floor caught
Mark's attention.
"My shadow," he whispered thoughtfully. "That's the answer." The relief in
his voice was easy to hear and made Neisha smile. She'd been very close. The
uneasiness she had felt disappeared.
"I have only got one more," Mark said. "It is not a true riddle, though.
It's a confession." He tried to put forth a smile, but it ended up a
strangely distorted grin. Neisha narrowed her eyes and tilted her head a bit,
suspicion once again growing in her.
"Well then get on with it." A confession? She caught Mark's eyes for a
moment, and wished she hadn't. They were intense and poured impressions into
her own.
Mark took his eyes off her and inhaled deeply. As he closed his eyes he
pleaded himself not to lose courage. And begun.
Five words of passion, with honesty to blame
Directed by my valor I swallow all my shame
Determined to solemnity, a feeling very true
My words are also sober: I truly do love you
She sat mute for a long while with her mouth half open. Shocked, she stared
unbelievingly at him. Of all possible words he could have uttered, these were
the ones she had expected the least. The air suddenly seemed hard to breathe
for both of them. Mark focused on the table, and felt that he was blushing
with embarrassment.
To Neisha, the shock was complete. Words failed her as she tried to regain
self-control. She thought of the letter, and closed her eyes.
"I love Jeremy." The sentence hung in the air a while. On their left they
heard laughter in the distance.
"I am aware of that." Their eyes did not meet. The chance to end years of
unreciprocated feelings meant a lot to Mark, but now he regretted that he had
even invited her. He decided to give it his best shot.
"But he is far away." His sympathetic tone made Neisha look into his eyes
again. For a brief moment they just sat there, looking indecisively at each
other. Neisha studied him carefully, and was not surprised to find herself
attracted to him. Only Jeremy had ever appeared handsome to her, but Mark was
perhaps even more so when he wasn't hiding his eyes behind a pair of shades.
Their eyes met, and she felt his thoughts. An image of a spring picnic her
class had made a long time ago flashed in front of her as if they were inside
Mark's eyes, and she recalled him sitting close to her. Then the sixth grade
school ball was there, and she was dancing with a boy from seventh grade. And
Mark was standing at the entrance, looking at her shyly. The basketball game
she'd watched with her friends the same month back then, with Mark just a few
feet away. A series of image flashed by, and she recognized them all. They
were the only times she'd ever looked directly at Mark, and she saw them in
his eyes.
"That long?" she asked with sincere disbelief in her voice. "You have been
in love with me that long?" Mark nodded his head a bit, an almost bitter
expression on his face.
"I don't want to rush you, though," he added quickly. "Your good
relationship to Jeremy is the last thing in the world I'd like to see
ruined." His upper lips trembled as he continued. "But please don't turn me
down until you have thought about it." Neisha could see that he was on the
verge of bursting into tears.
The angry noise of the school bell signalled that recess was already over.
Neisha glimpsed at her wrist watch and then put her hands into her lap.
"I need some time," she finally said, and Mark smiled.
"We should get going," he said, "this time without bursting into each
other." Under the table he took gently hold of her hands and held them in his
own. "Neisha," he began, but was interrupted.
"We have no time for this," Neisha said and pulled free from him with ease.
"At least I have to get to class." She moved her chair away from the table,
and began to rise in the same instant as her chair was being snatched away
from under her.
Only Mark's quick reactions kept her from falling as her balance disappeared
along with the chair. He thrust himself up and seized Neisha's arm as she
tumbled towards the table, and cast a vicious glance over her shoulder.
It was only by sheer coincidence that Shannon had seen Neisha at the corner
table as he was leaving for class. He'd not even cared to see who she was
sitting with before he had decided to pull her chair away. It was an
impulsive act, provoked by the feelings she had hurt when she turned him down
eight weeks earlier. She simply rejected him without even looking twice at
him, and that had made him feel lonely. He wanted revenge, and came just in
time to yank her chair away. He'd smiled then, as she struggled to stay on
her feet, but the moment of triumph ended as he saw Mark jump up to give
Neisha a hand. His smile vanished.
Neisha whirled around and faced him, only to be ignored. Shannon stared past
her shoulders as he slowly backed down the aisle with uneasy steps. Mark
beheld the despicable sight with a cold stare, and put on his shades as he
walked slowly around the table.
"Mark!" Neisha grabbed his right arm when he moved past her, and he turned
towards her, his eyes hid behind a pair of pitch black glasses.
"Leave Shannon alone," she commanded. "Our enmity has nothing to do with
you, and he doesn't deserve your rancour." She cast one last look at Shannon,
who was still backing away from her, turned around, and ran into the nearest
corridor.
Mark was detained by her words, as she knew he'd be. He looked in surprise
at her diminishing back in the corridor, and knew she meant what she had
said, but he had never heard the authority in her voice before. Grinning at
himself, he turned back towards the spot where Shannon had been standing and
faced a void area. With the sole exception of himself the canteen was empty.
With a thin shrug he left the canteen, still smiling at Neisha's outburst of
authority. Yes, they did have something in common.
To keep her mind off the upheaval of her emotions, Neisha spent the rest of
the day concentrating on her school work. Even though she hated Spanish and
Psychology, she couldn't care less. Riddles and poems urged through her mind,
but were kept at a distance by the uncanny preoccupation. Even Jeremy was not
on her mind.
This sudden interest she took of the subjects came as a positive surprise to
her teachers. After months of avoiding questions, she now volunteered to
answer anything, and never failed to concoct a correct answer. Because it
kept her mind off Mark she enjoyed it herself, too.
It was not until she was on the school bus heading for home that she thought
of Jeremy again. The yellow scrap-metal bus tried its very best to shake her
brains out of place, and failed.
Neisha felt she had learned a lot. Life educated her better that school ever
would, and the school of life had also given her some homework. She would
have to phone Jeremy when the time difference didn't matter, and was already
thinking of what to tell him.
These thoughts consumed her as the bus went turbulently down the uneven
roads of the suburban town, and when Shannon touched her shoulder softly she
jumped in her seat. He looked embarrassed at her from the seat behind her.
Every time she had to confront him in the bus she wished she'd had a car, but
she felt relaxed about him now.
"I...", he began, and stopped. She gave him a friendly smile and looked at
him.
"I just wanted to say that I am sorry about bugging you so much lately." He
looked down guiltily. "I thought I had a reason to do so, but I was wrong."
He still didn't want to face her stare, and his eyes fixed at the window.
They were almost alone.
"And I'd also like to thank you for stopping Mark from giving me a hard time
at school today." He could see her smile reflected at him in the window, and
turned towards her.
"That's the most adult thing I've ever heard you say," she said with a
radiant warmth in her voice. "Of course I forgive you."
With a relieved sigh he smiled back at her. Catching an impulse, she went
on.
"Would you like to come over to my place later on today and talk about it?"
The question caught him by surprise, but he cheered up and smiled ever wider.
"Of course I would." He glanced at his watch and though about it for a
second. "At five?" he asked.
"Five will be fine." They shared a smile before Shannon left the bus, and
only two minutes later, Neisha walked up the garden path from the road to her
mother's house with her heart in her throat and the thought of Jeremy racing
through her head. She lingered a second after she'd unlocked and opened the
door, and took a deep breath with her back towards the door, thinking things
over.
She walked into the kitchen to look up Mark's number. An instant later, her
fingers were already dialing the number while she was on her way to the
telephone. The hall mirror reflected her delicate face and thin body as she
passed it, and she beheld her own reflection with new eyes for a moment. She
had never been popular with the boys, and had used to believe that it was her
outlook they didn't like. Maybe it wasn't so, after all.
With renewed confidence she walked on towards the phone. She had two boys to
let down, and an unexpected date to prepare...
THE END
= SAVAGE ====================================================================
by Richard Karsmakers
Somewhere in the universe there's a planet. You probably won't find it even
on the best of galactic maps, but it suffices to know it exists. It is called
Sucatraps, located at approximately 92 million light years' distance from
what will probably be best known to you as the planet Earth. Like Earth, with
which it shares most of its types of vegetation, animal life and climate, it
is quite small. Its only large city and main capital is Eceerg.
Although Sucatraps might be unknown to the best galactic maps, its
reputation isn't. As a matter of fact it is a planet shrouded in legend and
myth, the rumoured location of the six known universes' best Assassins &
Terrorists Academy. Hidden Sucatrapsian vassals are thought to covertly seek
out and kidnap male babies they consider likely to succeed at the
academy. Mothers throughout the multiverse are known to hide from common view
young boys that are apt to violence or that have developed a rather good
physique.
Sucatraps used to be ruled by a king called Drahcir. When his wife gave
birth to a male triplet instead of the usual girls, he got the idea that his
offspring might eventually cast him off his Royal Throne. Like Cronus, the
Greek god of old, he killed and devoured them. His wife, Adnarim the
Beautiful - like Cronus' wife Rhea - managed to hide from him an unexpected
fourth child, a horribly frail and feeble baby, almost too small to remain
alive. This son and Royal Heir, Elmer, was raised on a farm just outside
Eceerg, receiving all the love a trustworthy peasant's widow had to bestow.
Drahcir never knew about Elmer, not even when he died without an heir,
leaving Sucratraps behind in the turmoil of succession.
Elmer, whom his foster mother called Cronos, based on that Greek god, never
quite became the trained killer that any other Sucatrapsian male would be
made into. She taught him to the best of her ability, and fed him a lot of
fresh food, vegetables, milk and Marmite. Despite his positively frail
babyhood, he soon grew to be a naturally strong and healthy youngster. He
even did his first killing at the age of fourteen, when he sat down on his
foster mum's cat.
When he had reached sixteen and his foster mother chastized him for coming
home after nine one evening, he decided he had to run away. Sucatraps was no
planet for him, anyway. There wasn't enough action. He hitched a ride on some
sort of interstellar craft and disappeared into the distant universe, looking
for work. If all else failed, he could always become a hired gun.
Through many jobs he eventually became an Airborne Ranger. It has been
tough, but not enough so to his liking. He resigned after helping to kill
that darned Ayatollah Mokheiny, and went back to what he rather
affectionately tended to refer to as 'home' - a cockroach-ridden room he
rented in a semi-dilapidated building.
There he just sat, sat and watched TV, watched TV and sat, and read the
occasional newspaper. Time passed at an agonizingly slow speed. At times he'd
go out and check for job vacancies. He usually came back depressed. There
weren't any ads in the papers either; nobody wanted any mercenaries and there
seemed little demand for lean mean fighting machines nowadays. The world was
just too goddamn peaceful.
Until, one day, he got a letter. It had a note attached, requesting him to
pay shortage mail costs plus a significant fine. Thirty dollars twentyfive.
For a letter? He examined the stamp, marked 'nonvalid' by a zealous mail man.
It was bescribbled with a writing only he understood. It was Sucatrapsian.
Heaven knew how it had got there. Cronos went a bit pale around the nose as
he hastily opened the envelope, tossing away the note.
He recognized his foster mother's handwriting. He had to swallow to keep
something down.
"My dear bunny," Cronos read aloud, "How are you? I am very well, thank you,
but at the moment in Eceerg Main Prison, too, and destined to be hung when
the moons are full if you don't do something soon. Your mother, Adnarim the
Beautiful, has also been captured, as has the girl you always professed to
love."
Loucynda. No. Not her. Not her of all people. Who did they think they were?
He continued reading.
"I am afraid Drahcir's replacement, Saurus, insists upon us being killed in
some slow and agonizing way unless you hand yourself over to him to be killed
in our stead. You know, dear, he seems to have found out about you and he's
rather reluctant to have to leave his throne and his power if one day you
might decide to come back and claim what's yours by birthright. Please come
and get yourself killed, sugarpie, or else we'll be history. This Saurus
character seems to enjoy all of this. I think he's serious."
Cronos stared at the ceiling for a couple of minutes, and on it he imagined
the faces of those he loved, now rotting away in some Sucatrapsian dungeon,
92 million light years away. His foster mother had raised him for over
fifteen years, had cared for him and loved him like...well...like her cat.
His mother was certainly one of the most beautiful woman unknown to mankind,
and his heart missed a beat at the sheer though of Loucynda being in jail as
well. She was far too refined - and her nails far too meticulously manicured
- to be submitted to the rigours of prison. He ground his teeth and smashed
his fist on a small chair, which disintegrated.
It would last a bit more than four days before all the moons would be full
again, he reckoned. He phoned the A-Team, had them build a Subuniversal
Wooferflooper (with built-in antenna and CD player), and took for the stars
that same night. Ninetysix hours left. Travelling much faster than the speed
of light (the A-Team has several patents on post-lightspeed travelling),
Cronos was scheduled to arrive at Sucatraps early next morning.
He decreased velocity when orbiting the small planet. Again, he had to
swallow something as he saw the globe he had not seen for such a long time.
Memories of sunsets with Loucynda came back to him quite vividly, as did
memories of his dear mother, heavenly orgies, and a dead cat.
What was that thing in the sky? At first, he mistook it for a Golden Eagle,
but on second sight it seemed more like another spaceship. After a couple of
seconds it had disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared.
He put his Subuniversal Wooferflooper (including the built-in antenna and CD
player) down behind a couple of bushes and disembarked. He was going to show
king Saurus hell!
But first he had to get into the castle.
He remembered him and his friends (girls, mostly) playing in the passages
under the castle in his childhood days. Back then, these passages and tunnels
were a secret known only by a few explorative children. He wondered if king
Saurus had in the mean time gained knowledge of them. If he didn't, then this
would probably be the best way to enter the castle. If he did...well...time
would tell.
He came to the castle unscathed, and indeed found the lower passages and
tunnels with ease. He removed some bushes that blocked one of the entrances
he knew of old, and was glad to find it only partly collapsed. He took for
granted the dozens of spider webs and the many plants now firmly settled in
the entrance and entered.
Like he could have foretold, it was pitch dark. He used to know the way
blindfolded but wasn't too sure now. When he came to a stairway after having
walked into a few walls too many, his nose was bleeding and his hands ached.
He cursed below his breath and fumbled his way up the stairs. He froze for a
moment. Did he hear footsteps following him? When he stopped to listen more
intently there was only silence, but when he moved again the sounds appeared
like forgotten echoes in lost sand.
He came into a room that, judging by even more cobwebs everywhere and some
objects lying around covered by a layer of dust that would drive any half-
decent mother crazy, was obviously just as forgotten as the staircase. There
were some old wooden chairs, the skeleton of an old warrior and some broken
toys. Cronos wondered how the warrior had died and, indeed, if he had died in
this room. He moved closer and saw an enormous battle axe partly hidden
behind the corpse. He bent over to take the axe when, suddenly, about twenty
darts crashed over his head and into the opposite wall. With his hearing aid
forgotten he didn't even hear them. He felt quite safe.
He stood erect again after taking the weapon from the dead warrior's grasp
and looked around. He wondered where all those small darts in the wall had
suddenly come from. His wonder lasted only a moment, for he was trained to
fight, not to think.
He opened the door. It made a hell of a noise that was quite deafening even
to those wearing hearing aids forgotten somewhere on another planet. He
looked at the door threateningly. It wisely decided to refrain from making
any more sound as it was pushed open further.
Cronos spied into an empty hallway. Nothing moved. There were some pretty
scary drawings hanging on the walls. Warchild crept out of the forgotten room
slowly. When he closed it behind him, suddenly realising he might have put to
good use the wariors' helmet, he found the door having mysteriously (and
meticulously) locked itself.
Maybe the forgotten room wasn't half as forgotten as he considered it to be
- nor were the tunnels, probably. For a moment, it occurred to him he was
trapped. His fighting instincts quickly suppressed this mental action,
however, all according to his training.
He carefully proceeded into the depths of the castle when suddenly he came
across a sign that read "DUNGEONS; *NOT* THAT WAY". The arrow pointed right
into a door that was hospitably ajar.
"Aaah!" Cronos cried, loud and triumphant, "they must think me a fool!"
With this exclamation he dashed through the door opening into what he
reckoned to be a dungeon, menacingly swaying the heavy duty battle axe above
his head. If his loved ones were here, they'd be safe before they could blink
their eyes and say "Please Cronos, get yourself off my feet".
"Click," said a latch. The door that had been ajar in such a hospitable way
had quite suddenly closed and locked itself mysteriously (and, indeed,
meticulously).
A mental process took over. He was trapped. He looked around him. There were
no exits, which he was quite able not to see in the dim light that was cast
into the room through a small window meticulously (though not at all
mysteriously) barred by some pretty thick steel grating.
"Great," he thought, but not for long.
Warchild had been in the damp prison cell - for indeed it was one, including
a few rats thrown in for good measure - a couple of hours when he heard soft
steps outside. They stopped for a moment right in front of his cell door, and
that moment it seemed as though hands were touching the solid wooden door.
One more moment and the steps continued, fading. Some more moments later he
heard steps again, as well as the sound of suits of armour, this time of many
men. Someone stopped in front of the dungeon door and turned a key in its
lock. Cronos hid the battle axe in his pants, as good a place as any.
The door opened and in stepped someone who Cronos reckoned to be king
Saurus. He had never laid eyes on the man before, but what with him having a
tail and a T-shirt with "REX" written on it, even Cronos couldn't be all too
far off.
The king looked disgusted when he inquired, "Are you glad to see me or is
that a battle-axe in your pants?"
Cronos didn't heed the question and instead insisted upon knowing what would
happen to him now he was taken prisoner.
"Of course, you will be killed," the king replied, rolling his eyes, "after
which you will be hung by the neck until you're tender enough to be eaten."
Cronos felt a lump in his throat. This didn't seem right. The good guys were
supposed to win, and he was pretty sure he wasn't the bad guy.
The king continued, "We have transported the ones you've come to rescue to a
place to the south of my castle - beyond the Valley of the Dead."
The last words were pronounced as if by a madman who knows he's won. Cronos
didn't like it.
"Over my dead body!" Cronos cried as he uncovered the enormous battle axe,
finding no time to further contemplate the stupidity of the phrase, and
started to hack and slash around him. King Saurus ended up with a torn "REX"
T-Shirt and five decapitated guards before Cronos succeeded in barging
through the door and dashing off into the hallway.
Why the heck had he left all his killer gadgets at home?
He had hardly been free for half a minute when, from all corners so it
seemed, strange beings cast themselves upon him. They varied from small bats
to vaguely familiar and very smelly little flying animals. They seemed intent
on ejaculating the wastes of their metabolic systems on the mercenary annex
gun.
In the way movie stars often produce rather handy but hitherto useless
things from their pockets, Warchild took from a peg from one, put it securely
on his nose, breathed as little as possible and dashed further. All the time
he still wielded the mighty battle axe. Many a beast dropped dead around him,
forming pools of blood through which he waded. They seemed not to relent,
each corner he took releasing upon him new hordes. Just when he was about to
give up - an option he had never found necessary to contemplate so far - he
saw light at the far end of a corridor.
Light! Light meant freedom or, at least, a place where these nasty monsters
would perhaps no longer be around. The stench was doing good attempts at
entering his pegged nostrils, a fact that irritated him and clouded his
judgment.
He came closer and closer to the light, which indeed was a door standing
wide open and leading into the open air. This was almost too good.
He looked back into the seemingly bottomless darkness of the tunnel. Was it
his imagination or did he hear someone else in there, someone else who was
also fighting the hordes? Whatever might be, it wasn't important, as opposed
to his life and that of the women he loved.
When he came outside he wanted to embrace the light. The creatures shunned
it, seeming mortally afraid of it. They licked their fangs as if they had
just lost a month's worth of food, which they probably had.
Once his eyes grew used to the sun, its light revealed the Valley of the
Dead of which King Saurus had spoken. Stretching far beyond the limits of
sight there was only the southern desert of Sucatraps; a vast area that was
only covered with dry sand and solitary monoliths.
According to legend, this was where the young Sucatrapsian boys became men.
They simply got dumped in the middle of the Valley and basically had to get
out all on their own. Most didn't make it, but those who did had passed their
final exam. Cronos thought about the possibility of accidentally encountering
one. They were highly trained assassins that would probably see in him a
welcome change to their regular diet of raw desert rat and even more
unspeakable things. He basically had to take care to eat instead of being
eaten. Shouldn't be altogether that much of a big deal, now he came to think
of it.
He looked at the nearest monolith with a certain amount of awe. They made
him think of totempoles that Indians on earth used to worship. Its face
looked fearsome and a large red tongue hung from its mouth. He knew some of
them were boodytraps. Not too friendly a place having to cross in such a
short time.
Short time? Holy cow! He would never have enough time to cross the Valley of
the Dead within the day or two that were still left before the moons were
full!
The sound of a vehicle behind him made the thought of a faster way to get to
the other side dawn upon him. He hid behind the ghastly monolith and saw a
sandswooper closing in at quite a dazzling speed. When it was about twenty
feet from him, he jumped from behind the monolith and was totally run over by
the thing. It bumped wildly in the air, throwing its two occupants off and
leaving Cronos lying on the ground for a couple of moments, dazzled. The two
occupants of the sandswooper were struck unconscious by the crash, but Cronos
seemed only to have hurt his shin bone (the same one around which a large
black American car had folded itself some time earlier). He looked at it
painfully. He cursed, as usual.
When his shinbone seemed to have recovered sufficiently from the pain
throbbing through it, Cronos got up and boarded the dented vehicle. Its
controls were still intact and looked rather much like those of the average
low budget British Leyland car. He wondered who had been so insane as to
mimic the other. He headed south.
He didn't heed the reflection in his rear view mirror of someone clad
entirely in white who stumbled out of the castle. His life and those of the
women he loved were still more important. He had no time to rescue others -
as if he ever did!
He had driven for about two hours through the Valley of the Dead, carefully
evading all those monoliths and shooting frightful creatures of the night,
when he opened the glove compartment. Apart from the usual stuff that one
tends to find in glove compartments - sunglasses, detailed maps and strike
schedules of the London underground and suppositories - he found a sealed
letter of which the seal was broken.
"CONFIDENTIAL" was written on it in large Nairobi-beige capitals.
An inquisitive kind of person, Warchild opened the envelope to read the
letter contained in it.
"Distract Elmer son of Drahcir son of Naj son of Tsirhc son of Sutrebuh son
of wotsisname - stop -," Cronos read aloud to himself, "make sure he doesn't
go back to castle - stop - hostages still held there - stop - annihilate
subject when moons are full."
It took about a minute for the meaning to penetrate his mind. A record-
breaking speed.
"The bastards!" he cried, turning the sandswooper around with a handbrake
turn. They still held his loved-ones in bondage and, what was worse, they had
lured him into going the wrong way! One of these days they'd push him too
far. Even so, he'd fallen for it. Maybe, had he used his mind (which he
hadn't and wasn't supposed to), he wouldn't have taken the bait. Now he came
to think of it, his escape from the castle had been too easy.
On his way back to the castle, a break-neck velocity venture, he could
barely avoid crashing into another sandswooper carrying someone who, at least
so it seemed in the haze of highest humanly possible sandswooper speed, wore
white clothes.
In reasonably less than two hours (which is quite breathtakingly remarkable
what with him running out of gas half-way) he arrived back outside the
castle. Nobody expected him, the bridge over the moat was closed. He had the
element of surprise, but be that as it may he would first have to get in.
He cursed once more, not exactly below his breath now. He could drive a
sandswooper and fly a subuniversal wooferflooper. He could squeeze himself
into an East-German car and ride any mother-in-law. But swimming, *that* he
couldn't.
Lucky for him, a gigantic Golden Eagle at that instant found it opportune to
land almost next to him. The bird eyed him with suspicion. Cronos eyed it
with suspicion, too. If Golden Eagles had the ability to turn red of
embarrassment, this one would have. It had peculiar marks on its wings.
Cronos carefully moved closer to the Eagle, that shook its feathers as
though it couldn't care less - but still keeping an eye on the mercenary
annex hired gun. When Cronos came a too close, however, the Eagle leapt into
the sky and beat its wings in the hot desert wind. Cronos was still fast
enough and thought he grabbed the enormous bird by its paws just before it
lifted off. Actually, however, the bird had grabbed *him* and it now carried
Warchild to its offspring, on a nest deep in the innards of the castle.
Although it got him across the moat, what to do once he was dumped on an
enormous Eagle's Nest, about to be preyed upon by some eager and very hungry
young but no doubt dangerous Golden Eagles?
It made him think of a Richard Burton WW II movie he once saw.
After a short and quite hazardous flight, Cronos was rather unceremonially
dumped on a nest that was constructed of wood, bits of iron and fragments of
human bones. His nose was penetrated by the pong of Eagle dung. He shook his
head. He had no time to get agitated about the offensive stench, for he saw
three ugly and rather big young birds coming towards him with their beaks
opened wide so that he could see tonsils, uvula, and the frightening red
colour of their throats.
"Time for some defensive transactions," he murmured, and did his best to act
like he was the Golden Eagle that had just flown off again in search for more
food.
The small creatures, stupid though they may have seemed even to someone of
Warchild's intelligence, didn't buy it. Instead, they started gnawing on a
leg and seemed to find a certain pleasure in pulling out small strands of
hair from there.
"OK. In that case, it's time for some offensive actions," Cronos murmured,
now visibly agitated. There was only one thing left for him to do. He
released upon them his Ronald Reagan impression.
"You ain't seen nothin' yet!" he said, with as much fake feeling as he
could put in it. The birds stopped gnawing and eyed him suspiciously.
"Well...shred the proof!" Cronos continued. They stepped back uncertainly.
"I have never seen Ollie before in my life!" he now intoned as convincingly
as possible. The birds retreated for now. They were hungry, but they weren't
suicidal. Cronos had bought valuable seconds.
"Help me! Help me!" he heard a familiar young woman's voice yell.
"Oh, sugarpie! Bunny dear!" he heard another voice, croaking with age, mere
seconds later.
"Elmer!" he heard a third voice cry.
He looked around frantically, trying to determine where the voices were
coming. He then realized they came from below. The Golden Eagle had sought to
build its nest on top of a dungeon where his loved ones appeared to be kept
prisoner. An excellent guard.
He looked above him and became concerned. Above the nest - and the dungeon -
an enormous boulder hung on a rope. Should it break, even Cronos saw it would
shatter both utterly. Through a small barred window in the damp and dark hall
he could see the young moons of Sucatraps. Both of them were almost full.
He leapt off the nest athletically and started examining the door. It was a
very solid one, the same kind that had kept him locked some hours earlier. No
chance of getting through that one, unless...
He could hear the women crying inside - they were very eager to be rescued,
and thought they already were.
"Loucynda," Cronos whispered excitedly, "give me one of your hair pins!"
"But that will ruin my coup, darling," he heard her inside, after some
thought, hesitant.
"Damn it, Loucynda! DO IT!" Warchild said with more force.
After some seconds, a hair pin was pushed under the door. Cronos grabbed it,
folded it in some arcane way and started to attempt to pick the lock. Sweat
was becoming visible on his forehead.
There was a "click".
Bestial laughter suddenly filled the hall. Cronos looked up and saw the
silhouette of someone standing on a stone balcony, about thirty feet above
him. The figure standing there had a tail.
As it stepped forward, Cronos saw the "REX" logo on a torn T-shirt. There
was no mistaking who that was. He was too pre-occupied being aghast that his
lower jaw hung foolishly.
"YES!" he heard the king cry out triumphantly, the voice echoeing, "YES!! My
time has come! Here and now I will establish my power once and for all!"
More bestial laughter echoed through the hall as king Saurus unsheathed his
sword. There was a rope. The sword moved to it as if in slow-motion. Cronos'
eyes followed the rope. The enormous boulder was attached to it.
Four archers had their arrows pointed at Cronos' heart. There wasn't a thing
he could do. He was going to die and the only comfort would be that he would
arrive in the world of the Dead with the three women he loved most. He faced
death with pride in his eyes. He unbuttoned his shirt, displaying his chest.
He wasn't afraid to die. His time was bound to come one day anyway, and this
wasn't even the worst of deaths now he came to think of it.
The women in the cell started to cry hysterically. They seemed to think of
death in quite a different way.
"Har! Har! Haha!" laughed king Saurus. The sword touched the rope. It began
eating through it, which went rather easier than Cronos had expected. That
surely was one very sharp sword.
He climbed back onto the Eagle's Nest. This way at least he'd go first.
The two moons were full now. Their powerless light shone on the defeated
figure of the battered mercenary annex hired gun. The young Eagles seemed the
only ones still afraid of this strange man that used to talk about paper
shredders.
Below them, the women still cried hysterically, frantically, desperately...
"I will keep on loving you, Cronos!" he heard Loucynda cry.
"Farewell, honeypie..." he thought he heard his foster mother croak.
"See you beyond, Elmer..." his real mother sighed.
At that precise moment a syringe flew through the air and, with almost
surgical precision, hit king Saurus right in the posterior. He faltered. The
razor-sharp blade dropped from his grasp. For a moment he looked around in
disbelief, then keeled over and fell down on the harsh stone floor, thirty
feet below.
"Thud," it went. Deader than a Dodo.
The archers looked at each other and decided to leg it. This was surely no
place to hang around for peace-loving dudes like them.
Cronos, quite oblivious of what had happened, still stood on (and in) the
Eagle's Nest, eyes closed. His chest was thrust forward proudly, his hands
keeping his shirt aside so it wouldn't be stained by the blood gushing from
his torso should the arrows pierce him.
The women now found out that Cronos had already succeeded in opening the
lock (the "click", remember?) and ran out into the hall. Their cries of
hysteria were replaced by cries of happiness. There barely was a difference.
Cronos opened his eyes to see the body on the ground, a syringe labelled
"Cyanide" dangling in one of the king's buttocks. He saw the women crying
happy hysterical cries and he also saw someone else, dressed in white.
It was another woman, a nurse, and she looked like an identical twin of
Gloria Estefan. For a moment, he looked her right in the eyes. That sure was
one hell of a lady. He muttered something in gratitude, after which she left
promptly. "Ambulor Eight Hospital of the Very Very Splattered" was written on
the back of her white uniform, in blood-red writing like that is generally
used in cheap horror film logos.
"Hey!" he cried into the darkness of the hallway in which she had gone. His
voice lacked strength. She had vanished, anyway. He climbed down, immediately
to be assailed by women.
"Oh...Cronos!" Loucynda sighed, kissing her hero firmly on the cheek.
"Swell job, bunny dear," his foster mum croaked, patting him on the back.
His mother just hugged him tight and said nothing. They held each other for
seconds. Warmth flowed from her body to his.
"Mother, there is so much I have longed to say for all this time," he wanted
to say, but his voice seemed to cling to his throat and instead he said,
"Okay". He patted her back as gently as he could. She suppressed a cringe.
Loucynda waited until this emotional gathering had passed its climax, or at
least what *she* considered its climax, after which she interrupted.
"Did you bring the keys?" she inquired.
"The keys?" Cronos replied.
"The keys," she acknowledged. She pulled down her skirt with a look in her
eyes as though it would surely explain everything. He beheld a large belt of
leather and metal strapped around her waist. There was a sturdy, rusty lock
located hanging between her legs, and two others - equally sturdy and quite
rusty - on each side on her hips.
Her chastity belt. He remembered having put it on her when he left
Sucatraps, now almost six years ago. He also remembered having lost the key
somewhere on a vague planet somewhere in a vague milkyway on a vague edge of
the galaxy.
"Ooops." Cronos sighed.
Original written September 1989. Rehashed March and May 1994.
= ALICE THROUGH THE FLAMES ==================================================
by Roy Stead
Another day at the office over with, Colin had decided to settle down with a
good book. The year before, he had had installed a 'real fire.' As he had
said at the time, "It gives the place a homely look - with a log fire blazing
merrily away in the living room, you can really believe that your home is an
impregnable fortress, gallantly keeping the elements at bay whether you be
sleeping or awake." Colin smiled to himself, as he often did at these
moments, and gave thanks that his wife had taken Jason, the two year-old, to
her parents for the weekend. A long, pleasant and - above all - *quiet*
weekend stretched out before him as he lowered his body into the comfy
armchair by the fire. Colin shifted slightly, to get as comfortable as
possible, then adjusted the table lamp to *just* the right angle before
picking up the book and beginning to read...
Just as the hero was about to decapitate the gargantuan nine-headed beast,
Colin's attention was diverted by the sound of someone moving around in the
next room. "Strange, there's nobody home. Maybe Karen had to come back
early," Colin said to himself. "God, I hope not - I think I'd prefer
burglars!" The middle-aged civil servant hoisted his bulk from the chair and
wandered into the other room to investigate, pausing only to procure a poker
from beside the fire. "Just in case..."
"Odd," thought Colin as he approached the door. the sounds from within had
started to collect into words. Speech. In a very strange accent, but -
nonetheless - English. He slowly opened the door and, poker brandished at the
ready, strode into the room. "Who are you, and what are you doing in my
home?" Hardly an original line, but then nobody awards points for creativity
at these moments.
Colin stopped. There were four people in the kitchen. Three of them were
arguing over the toaster, while the fourth - a tall, and rather attractive,
blonde woman - looked on. Deliberately and carefully, the blonde turned to
face Colin.
"We come in peace." she stated, simply. It looked like cliches were to be
the order of the day. Was this some kind of joke? She didn't look to Colin
like she was joking but, nonetheless, her words - and that weird accent!
Colin hesitated a moment, then: "Do you, now? Do you usually 'come in peace'
by breaking into someone's house, and ransacking their possessions?"
"I must apologise for my friends. They are being, perhaps, a little...over
zealous..." The three, dressed - as was the blonde woman - in brown,
discoloured rags and bereft of shoes, now seemed to be in the throes of a
disagreement over whose turn it was to drink from the cold water tap. The
blonde followed Colin's gaze, looked at her friends then returned her stare
to the house's owner. She shrugged.
"Perhaps I should explain myself," she continued.
"Yes, I think maybe you ought to!" snapped Colin, who now looked on, bemused
as the strange blonde's three companions had a fight over the contents of the
icebox.
Unperturbed, the blonde introduced herself as, "Just call me 'Alice.'" and
went on to describe how she and her three companions were refugees from
Colin's own future.
"Oh. Of course," burst in Colin,"I had somebody from the twenty-fifth
century for tea last week. Why didn't you say so? Perhaps you would like a
quick cup of coffee, before going back to battle daleks or take a spin around
Saturn's moons?" His voice cracked, as he shrieked, "Do you think I was born
yesterday? You come in here, argue about who gets what in my home then expect
me to believe any cock and bull story you care to spin about being time
travellers? Well, you're not time travellers!"
"How can you be so sure?" broke in the blonde, Alice, smoothly.
Surprised by the simple audacity of the question, Colin was momentarily
nonplussed, before spluttering: "Well, for one thing, time travellers would
be better dressed!"
"Look, just hear me out, then - if you still don't believe me - we'll leave
you. Okay?"
No, it's *not* bloody okay! Get out now, or I'll call the police!"
"We're not going. I am not going. Not until you've at least heard us out."
Colin sighed. He'd had a wonderfully peaceful weekend planned, and it seemed
to be falling apart about his ears. But he resigned himself to hearing
Alice's story, and led her - followed by her retinue - into the living room,
where he settled down
in his comfy chair and awaited the tale. At least there
would be some entertainment - if only he could find the popcorn...
"Picture it: North America, ravaged by war and plagued - yes, *literally*
plagued - by disease. The Statue of Liberty toppled like a house of cards,
the remains used by destitutes as stepping stones across the Hudson. The
Capitol's roof destroyed, caved in by the backwash from an atomic blast. The
Golden Gate Bridge no longer capable of supporting the weight even of an
anorexic ant. The United States now disunited, and battling amongst
themselves for what remains of the spoils of war, while Mexico and Canada,
themselves war-torn lands, sit on the sidelines, occassionally swooping,
vulture-like, on the carcasses of shattered principalities. Picture it, if
you can. That is the world I - *we* - left behind. And, unless we can do
something - unless we can convince *you* to help us - then the war which
began the nightmare will come to pass. And The United States will be
destroyed, along with the rest of the world."
Colin, mouth gaping, stared a moment at Alice. Then, taking ahold of
himself, shook his head as if to clear Alice's description from his mind.
"You're serious." It was a statement, not a question, but Alice nodded
nonetheless. Colin picked up the 'phone and dialled, carefully: 9...1...1.
"Hello, emergency services? I'd like a - what the Hell..? What? Oh, never
mind..." He put the 'phone down, replacing the receiver in its cradle with
all the care of a raw-egg juggler. Emulating the studied patience and
concentration of a Zen master, Colin watched the receiver settle in its bed
before looking up to check what had so startled him a moment before. It was
still there. Or, rather, *they* were still there. The original group of four
had multiplied to eight *while Colin was watching*. Nobody had entered the
room - not by conventional means, anyway. Yet four people had...appeared.
Colin was, to say the least, mildly surprised.
The four newcomers were dressed far more smartly than the first arrivals.
Perhaps they came from a different time period. Colin caught the thought.
Time travellers? Well, let's face it - either the second group teleported in,
which is impossible, or they arrived via a time machine, which is impossible.
The difference lay in the fact that they *claimed* the latter. And so the
pendulum of decision hung in that direction, for the moment.
Colin looked the latest group over. The clothes were definately plusher than
Alice's band - they wore loose-fitting robes, after the fashion of Ancient
Roman togas - each robe being a single solid block of a bright colour: red,
blue, green and...a tall, statuesque brunette wore a white 'toga.'
That brunette turned to look at Colin, as he gasped in astonishment. Alice!
The two Alices noticed each other then - and paused to look one another over.
Ragged Alice was the first to speak: "You dyed your hair. It doesn't suit
you."
"Who *are* you? No - don't answer that," began the be-toga'ed Alice, "I know
who you are - you're me. But how? And why do you have such goddawful
clothing? Are you *Me*, from my future? If so, why are you here?"
"I was about to ask you the same things. Since I have no memory of having
been you - and you seem to have none of having been me - perhaps you would
be kind enough to tell me why you are here?"
"You know as well as I why I'm here - your presence indicates that your
research has led you to the same conclusion to which mine led me. This is a
junction point. To be more precise, this *man* is a junction point. His
actions can start, or prevent, a world war."
Colin burst in, "What are you two talking about? I'm no world leader - how
can I start off Armageddon? I'm just a government clerk. I'm good at my job,
sure. But that's as far as it goes."
The trampesque Alice broke into Colin's monotribe: "Tomorrow, a memo will
cross your desk marked 'SFF-524G/Q.' If you fail to pass it on, the Pentagon
will be unaware of a small, but significant, item of information. This
ignorance will lead to a breakdown in communications and then, gradually, to
a small conflict between states within what you know as the United States of
America. As further states join the dispute, so the conflict will escalate
until those states which currently maintain a nuclear arsenal - in the name
of the National Defence - use them on those regions which they view as
enemies. The automated defence computers will register a first strike on US
soil, and launch a counter-attack - against the Eastern Bloc. The resulting
conflict destroys most Life on Earth."
"My God," Colin breathed, "For want of a nail, the kingdom was lost...Well,
I must ensure that I don't lose that memo! Will that make things alright?
Will that stop the war?"
"We think so," began The war-torn Alice, "But, just to be sure..."
"Wait," blurted the more refined Alice, "Think this through. Sure, there
will be no war. But - well, perhaps I'd better tell you why *I* am here...
"In *my* history, which seems to be different from yours," she gestured in
the other Alice's direction, "the memo got through. There was no war, and
consequently no massive investment in research - How long from now is your
war due to begin, if the memo fails to get through?" The question was
directed at the other Alice.
"Twenty-four years before the opening of hostilities, One hundred and
sixteen years before the first atomic weapon is used. Why?"
"Just a thought. Don't you realise that mankind *needs* this war? If there
is no war, then there is no impetous to survive - to *live*. War means money
poured into research - defence systems, weapons systems, computers, space. No
war, no research. No research, no advancement. In short, stagnation. The
human race will reach its demise gradually, through apathy. Nobody caring
enough to *do* anything anymore. The world ending, to borrow one of your
phrases," she nods at Colin, "Not with a bang, but a whimper."
Colin, half out of his chair, sank slowly back until he felt the cushions
enveloping his body, moulding to his shape. "So," he said, eventually, "If I
send this memo through, then - according to you," he pointed at the second
Alice, "there will be no war, and the human race will bore itself to death.
If, on the other hand, I withhold this memo, then *you* say," He pointed at
the ragged, and now rather pensive, first Alice, "that there will come a
world war which will destroy the human race. Whichever I choose, the human
race doesn't seem to stand a chance."
Alice one's brow furrowed, as she thought furiously. Turning to the rather
flashily dressed Alice two, she said, "I've been thinking. Maybe a war would
be a good idea, after all - at least then we go out with a bang - a light
show which aliens might point to in their skies. A kind of last funeral pyre
for mankind."
The second Alice considered this a moment, before saying, "No, I think no
war would be better - after all, humans *might* recover from this period of
apathy, you know..."
"No - war would be a good idea, we can re-build the world..."
"Uh uh. No war is better: that way, there's no *need* to rebuild!"
Colin broke in, laughing, "Ladies! Ladies!" he shouted, "You've both done a
rapid volte-face, have you not? Why is this?" He silenced their explanations
with a wave of his hand, "No, don't bother to lie - I can see it in your
faces. You've both realised what has just become clear to me. If you had
succeeded in your original mission, then my future would be altered. Your
future would cease to exist: *you* would no longer be 'real'. Instead, your
counterpart - the woman you are arguing with at the moment - would be in the
'true' future. However, now your pleas are not so much for the human race -
that seems doomed either way - but for your own existence."
The women looked sheepish. Colin was correct, and all of them knew it.
Walking across the room, Colin replaced the poker - which he found he was
still gripping in his right hand - in the stand beside the fire. He turned
from the flames and, with a wry smile, stated,
"Well, I will toss a coin to decide which future shall come about. Does that
seem reasonable to each of you?" The women nodded. Reluctantly, they nodded.
Colin took a quarter from his trouser pocket, then flipped it: "Heads, war;
tails, peace." Even raggedy Alice's companions stopped bickering over a toga,
previously belonging to a now-unconscious cohort of the other Alice, long
enough to watch the coin come down. It span in the air, glinting brightly in
the flames of Colin's real fire like a single phoenix feather before hurtling
toward the carpet, and - as it landed - nobody in that room dared draw
breath.
The coin landed on its edge.
"Well," came a familiar voice from the corner of the room, "It seems the
human race has a chance after all."
Written April 1990.
= BLOOD MONEY ===============================================================
by Richard Karsmakers
Cronos Warchild, mercenary annex hired gun, sat in his chair holding the
evening paper. A dim light shrouded his being into what seemed to be ominous
mystery. Everything seemed to be quite normal.
The fact that Cronos held the newspaper upside down, however, suggested that
at least *something* was not entirely normal. Some careful observation would
reveal that his eyes were not, as may have been expected, aimed at the
newspaper. Not even at the cartoons.
Yet more detailed observation would reveal that his eyes weren't aimed at
anything, unfocused at something that seemed to be beyond the paper, perhaps
even beyond his vision.
Sounds were coming from the kitchen. The sounds were anything but unusual -
the sound of cutlery and the metal of pans and the burning of gas on which
someone was apparently preparing a meal. The only other sound was that of the
clock that slowly ticked its way in another corner of the room. Since the dim
light near the chair didn't suffice to shed light upon that corner, it is
beyond any means to specify what kind of clock it was, but the sounds
indicated that it was one of the standing type. A big one with slow, heavy
beats. The kind that you would expect to stop working when its owner dies.
It tolled eight.
The sounds of cutlery in the kitchen ceased and there seemed to be what
could not be mistaken for anything but a "thud" followed by a muffled cry.
Another very careful observation would reveal that there was nobody sitting
in the chair near the dim light any more. A paper lay there as if it had been
abandoned in haste. Which, to tell the truth, was exactly the case.
A sound, loud and penetrating, could be heard. And then a second.
Two large holes seemed to have appeared in the chair quite spontaneously.
"Shit!" a silhouette spat. It held a smoking .45 in its hand and could be
seen standing in the kitchen door. Its eyes gleamed eeriely and glanced
around, frightened.
Another sound broke the silence - this time a soft one, the kind usually
caused by something very small flying through the air at great velocity. At
the end there was a "plop", the kind that tends to be caused by an object
hitting flesh - and penetrating it.
The eyes rolled, went dull, filled with something red, and the silhouette
sighed to the floor. Light from the kitchen falling on the face revealed a
small black hole in the forehead from which poured a dark fluid. In it sat a
tiny dagger.
Cronos came from his hiding place to pull his dagger from the lifeless body
of the assassin. He cleaned the blade on the man's shirt, after which he
inserted it in a sheath that was hidden within one of his trousers legs.
In the kitchen an old woman, probably in her late eighties, regained
consciousness, caressing carefully a bump on the back of her head.
"What happened?" she asked no one in particular. Cronos was about to concoct
a story that would explain all this when more questions assailed him.
"Who am I? Who are you? Who is he? Why am I? What's the time?"
"It's time to get ill," Cronos grunted and knocked the old woman out cold
with a massive pound of his rather square and equally massive fist. He
believed a well-aimed knock on someone's head was always better than having
to come up with a most elaborate explanation.
Cronos Warchild, let's face it, is a primitive being, primarily trained to
fight and not to think. Predictably, he was never taught how to treat amnesia
in the case of female housemaids roaming in their late eighties. He assumed
hitting her hard would have the same effect it had on his enemies, i.e. put
her out of her misery.
He does not, I repeat NOT, hate female housemaids in their late eighties who
suffer amnesia - nor ANY females, ANY housemaids, ANY people in their late
eighties, or ANY people suffering amnesia (should any of these read this).
Let the story continue!
He directed his attention back to the unfortunately deceased person that was
soiling the kitchen floor tiles with his blood. The colour didn't quite match
the orange of these tiles, Warchild was shocked to establish. He searched the
assassin's pockets and found a piece of paper. Apart from the fact that it
was wrinkled, its primary feature was some writing on it. Although Cronos was
as much a reader as he was a physician, he was still able to decypher some of
what was scribbled on it. Enough to know what was happening, anyway, or at
least to *think* he knew what was happening.
"20:00 h. Kill Cronos Warchild," he read aloud. He lifted his eyebrows.
"21:00 h. Report at ASP." He lifted his eyebrows even more, on the verge of
them popping off. It didn't make a lot of sense to him.
He searched another of the body's pockets and found some ID that revealed to
him that he was called Spondulix, from a planet of which the name was beyond
interpretation. Further pocket examination revealed an Alien Safari
Promotions Inc. brochure, a draft ticket for an examination on Venusian
Accountancy and 200 Thanatopian credits as well as a brief user manual for a
device called a 'Compact Universal Nuclear Teleporter'.
"Hmmm..." he said.
"Hmmmm..." he said, with some more feeling.
The female housemaid in her late eighties regained consciousness again - or
at least her moaning and moving seemed to indicate her joining waking
sentiency. This drew Cronos' attention off the dead man and the puzzling
pocket contents.
"Winston? Where are you?" the woman asked with a powerless voice that seemed
to utter each word more like a sigh, "Winston? Winston?! Are you sure you
will go on 'till the end? Are you sure you'll never surrender? And can't you
ever stop smoking those blimmin' smelly cigars?"
As Warchild was not aware of the fact that the old woman had been Mrs.
Winston Churchill in an earlier life (nor was he aware of the distant
possibility of reincarnation or, for that matter, of anything pertaining
Winston Churchill, the Battle of Britain or even the entire happening of
any World Wars), he once more had his rather squarely built, massive fist
connect to the woman's head. Before she passed out again she muttered
something about the invasion of Sicily and something called Mussolini,
something Cronos reckoned has something to do with noodles.
Cronos read most of the ASP brochure, which presented not a little
difficulty to him. When he finished he suddenly noticed something gleaming on
the dead man's hand.
A ring.
At first sight, it was a very cheap brass ring. At second sight, it still
was. On the inside was a small button, as if designed for a thumb to press.
He took it off the deceased's hands and tried it on himself. In spite of the
fact that his hands were much bigger and his finger much thicker than the
corpse's, the ring seemed to fit like it was forged especially for him.
Really weird.
He pressed the little button on it.
He found himself laying on a bed. The bed was tidily made, and the distinct
odour was that of ether. He immediately recognized this place. It was the
only place he feared, the place he loathed even more than dog's excrements
stuck under his shoe or hair on a bar of soap.
The Ambulor Eight Hospital of the Very Very Splattered.
He now also recognized a nurse sitting in the far corner of the room,
reading a cheap James Hamilton doctor novel. She didn't seem to notice him
and instead seemed to be absorbed truly by whichever female kissing whichever
doctor at whichever hospital.
A graphic Warchild's state of health was located above his bed. It was
shaped like a mountain range ending in a negative peak stretching beyond the
lower limits of the paper. The line was continued on the wall, but it seemed
the doctor responsible for the graph had given up the attempt when eventually
the floor was reached. A wreath of lilies was nonchalantly draped on the
chair to the right side of the bed, to which a thin banner stating "Bye,
Honeypie" was attached.
He was dressed in white pyjamas but was glad to discover that he was still
wearing the ring. It seemed some kind of Teleportation device, and a very
compact one at that!
He pressed the little button once more.
He was knee-deep in what he thought was mud.
Of course he was wrong. He was trained to fight and not to think. It was
quicksand.
He discovered his error quickly, when the depth started to tug at his legs
slowly but certainly, sucking them into the dark abyss that could only mean
death. He already saw his entire life flashing by him in the moments that
passed before he was entirely submerged in the murderous trap. Most of it
was bloody, or gory, or both. He closed his eyes and held his breath. Then,
suddenly, he opened his eyes and saw a man clad in a black robe, wielding an
enormous scythe. He made beckoning gestures at Warchild, crying, "COME. COME.
LET GO. COME."
Cronos shook his head, filling eyes and ears with mud. He was dying.
Suffocating. There was no doubt about it.
He tried to locate his right hand and felt something like panic surge up
inside of him when he couldn't find it. He regained his senses when he found
it was quite impossible to grasp a right hand with one's right hand. He tried
with his left one and succeeded. There was a cheap brass ring on one of the
digits.
He pressed its little button.
He stood upright, shaking his head in wonder at what once again seemed to
have happened. He was afraid to open his eyes, fearing what he might have
teleported himself to this time. He gathered a tremendous amount of courage,
opening them nonetheless. Fear could be suppressed. He did.
There was nothing around him but a restaurant and some people eating in it.
First thing he could actually distinguish *in focus* was a sign hanging
above a stage, on which was a name reminding him of a chocolate bar.
Next, he saw an excited couple of beings talking about time, past, present
and perfect with a waiter. There was a man dressed in pyjamas, another man
dressed in what appeared to be normal clothes, a woman, and a man that had
something distinctly odd about him. No mistaking it. Two heads. Weird.
Apart from the aforementioned gathering of humans that continued talking
quite agitatedly to the aforementioned waiter, Warchild saw some people clad
in white robes chanting about a Great White Handkerchief, and a big fat man
dressed in black leather sitting at a table. The latter didn't look at all
happy and didn't utter as much as a sigh.
Cronos was startled to hear someone speaking close to him.
"Good evening, sir," something that had been a green blur (but that now was
a waiter) asked him while trying to suppress a cough and looking rather
disapprovingly, "do you have a reservation?"
"Reservation?" Warchild said weakly, and decided to give a go at pressing
the little button once more.
Just before he left the time and space of Milliways, he thought he heard the
waiter ask: "Can't I at least get you interested in ordering one of our quite
excellent Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters?"
He thought he sensed nothing but the distinct smell of a forest.
And, for once, Warchild indeed appeared to be right. He seemed to have
forgotten all about sensing the sweating horse right in front of him, though.
It was black like the night, black to such extent that it seemed even to be
an obscure, very dark schade of the utterly blackest black.
Cronos stood aghast, gazing at the horse. Not only was it black, it was also
very big. On top of that, its eyes radiated with what seemed hot, red malice.
He had never felt any fear for animals as long as they didn't happen to be
mice. He was stunned by the fear this animal seemed capable of arousing.
"Grrmmppffff..."
He looked up and saw a shape sitting on top of the black horse, dressed in
an equally black robe. From the hollowness of its cape, only two red eyes
seemed to glow with what seemed uncannily like hot, red malice.
The shape on the horse did not seem te be interested in him, didn't even
notice him. Instead it watched intently a group of beings that Cronos now
also saw: Four rather tiny creatures with hair on their feet, a large man
that was constantly fussing around with what seemed to be a hearing aid, a
dwarf with a long beard, another dwarf, and an elf. The latter two seemed to
be constantly arguing about something, and one of the creatures with the
hairy feet was wearing something very similar to his own ring. The only
difference, Cronos noticed aghast, was that it seemed golden instead of cheap
brass. To Warchild's satisfaction, however, he also noticed that the other
ring didn't have any buttons on it.
The creature atop the horse seemed very intent on getting that gold ring.
When the black rider turned his steed to attack the harmless group of
beings, Cronos lost interest and pressed the little button on his Compact
Universal Nuclear Teleporter.
When he opened his eyes again, he thought he wouldn't mind a single bit of
dog's faeces whether or not he was going to like what he would see. If he
wouldn't, he would simply press his ring again to vanish to another time,
another location. But after he opened his eyes he was quite shocked, to say
the least, at the fact that the digit of his finger that had formerly worn a
cheap brass ring was now almost offensively nude. He had, in some way or
another, succeeded in dislocating the ring.
Anyway, now he thought of it, the brief manual he had found in one of
what's-his-name's pockets *had* mentioned something like, "Mini-reactor power
lasts for a maximum of five to six nuclear teleportations only. Replacement
reactors only for sale on Thanatopia. Please dispose of old reactors
properly, and preferably do not litter locations where future cities might be
built. Do not dispose of improperly when environmentalists are watching,
either."
An often-used synonym for an animal's excrements passed his lips.
He looked up from his naked finger and found he was standing in front of
what seemed to be a traveller's agency. In large coruscating letters he read
"Alien Safari Promotions" above the shop-window. This couldn't be
coincidence. The small print of the "Alien Safari Promotions" brochure sprang
back to his mind vividly.
"Alien Safari Promotions Inc. can accept no responsibility whatsoever for
any accidents that may occur on our holidays, nor for any loss of limbs,
eyes, internal organs or any other parts of the body. Travel is entirely at
the customer's own enormous risk. It is not possible to arrange insurance for
any of these holidays."
A smile wrought itself upon his lips. There were few things that could seem
more appealing to a mercenary annex hired gun who wanted to keep up his
skills and achieve some decent training. He remembered more from the
brochure. If he'd fail on one of those space safaris, he'd die. It would
become a holiday his loved ones wouldn't forget. And nobody had yet returned.
He realised he didn't actually have any loved ones apart from some people
far away whom he hadn't seen in quite a while and probably wouldn't ever.
He stepped into the shop.
Original written September/October 1989. Rehashed March and May 1994.
= SOON COMING ===============================================================
The next issue of "Twilight World", Volume 2 Issue 4, is to be released mid
July this year. Please refer to the 'subscription' section, below, for
details about automatically getting it in case you're interested. If your
email account is disabled during that time, please send me a message.
Please refer to the section on 'submitting', below, for more details on
submitting your own material.
The next issue will probably contain the following items.
THE BUS
by Mark Oliver
A disconcerting story about The Safest Place.
THE LEGACY OF THE HOWLING
by M.J. Aylor
PRINCE OF DREAMS
by Jo Ellen Stein
GODS
by Richard Karsmakers
The True Story of Creation. Perhaps.
AND MORE
= SOME GENERAL REMARKS ======================================================
DESCRIPTION
"Twilight World" is an all-format 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.
One of its sources 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" principally consists of the best fiction featured in "ST NEWS" so far,
with added stories submitted by dedicated "Twilight World" readers.
AIM
"Twilight World" has no particular aim, but it would like to be a fresh
breath to all you people out there that don't mind a magazine that tries not
to conform to too many preset rules.
SUBMITTING ARTICLES
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/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 automatically.
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.
COPYRIGHT
Unless specified along with the individual stories, all bits in "Twilight
World" 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" and/or "ST
NEWS".
CORRESPONDENCE ADDRESS
All correspondence and submissions should be sent to the address below. If
you need a reply, supply one International Reply Coupon (available at your
post office), or 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 (valid at least up to summer 1995):
Richard Karsmakers
Looplantsoen 50
NL-3523 GV Utrecht
The Netherlands
Email R.C.Karsmakers@stud.let.ruu.nl
SUBSCRIPTIONS
Subscriptions (electronic ones only!) can be requested by sending some 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. Thanks to Gard for 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!
ST NEWS
If you have an Atari ST/TT/Falcon you may check out "ST NEWS", the "Twilight
World" mother magazine. The most recent issue can be obtained by sending one
disk plus two International Reply Coupons (three if you live outside Europe)
to the snailmail correspondence address mentioned above. If you want to
automatically receive the NEXT issue of "ST NEWS" via email as soon as it's
finished, just ask me to put you on the "ST NEWS" mailing list. You will get
approx. 12-14 100 Kb UUencoded text files which, when merged, will allow for
the creation of a ZIP archive.
"ST NEWS" should run on any TOS version, needs a double-sided disk drive and
prefers 1 Mb of memory or more.
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.
YOU WANT YOUR MAGAZINE MENTIONED HERE? Mail me a short description, no
longer than 6 lines with a length of 77 characters maximum. No logos please.
