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Twilight World Volume 5 Issue 2
= TWILIGHT WORLD - Volume 5 Issue 2 (August 29th 1997 - JUDGEMENT DAY) ======
ISSN 1387-229X
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. It is also
uncensored. Ban any sites/servers/people that hinder freedom of speech!
Please refer to the end of this file for further information.
This publication would not have been possible without the aid of Scriba.Org
(http://www.scriba.org). Hail!
= LIST OF CONTENTS ==========================================================
EDITORIAL
by Richard Karsmakers
A CONSPIRACY OF WAITRESSES
by David Peterson
DARK SIDE OF THE SPOON
by Richard Karsmakers
CHARADES
by Holly Day
WINGS OF DEATH II
by Richard Karsmakers
TODAY OR MAYBE TOMORROW
by Eloy Garza
JUDGEMENT DAY
by Richard Karsmakers
= EDITORIAL =================================================================
by Richard Karsmakers
Welcome, dear reader, to a special 'judgement day' issue of "Twilight
World", released on the date that, according to the smash hit film
"Terminator 2 - Judgement Day", would be judgement day. The theme is
recurrent in several stories included in this issue, albeit sometimes rather
loosely. Each of the authors have taken their own unique viewpoint of the
theme, which should hopefully make for an interesting and varying read.
What remains to be said here is that "Twilight World" will be taking things
a bit more seriously. For starters I have obtained an ISSN, whereas the
magazine will also, from now on, be sent out automatically again; through
the aid and sponsorship of my old good friend Gard Abrahamsen, a mailing list
has been set up on his scriba.org server. Hail! For further information on
subscribing and unsubscribing, please refer to the end of this file.
But now, without further ado, let's get down to business. I hope you have
the same fun reading as the authors had writing it. And remember to spread
the word...and the file!
Happy judging...
Richard Karsmakers
= A CONSPIRACY OF WAITRESSES ================================================
by David Peterson (deb.baker@worldnet.att.net)
"You want fries with that? It comes with fries you know."
"Did I ask for fries?"
"Uh, no. I'm just sayin' that if you order the pattymelt that it comes with
fries."
"I don't want fries."
"I still gotta charge ya for 'em."
"Fine."
With military precision my pattymelt arrived about ten minutes later and she
still brought the fries.
"I really don't want these." I said pointing to my plate.
"Well the thing is, I gotta charge you for 'em," gum snapping as she spoke,
"so I went ahead and put 'em on the plate..."
The waitress droned on, I wasn't surprised though. It had been like this
during the entire tour. The van, driven usually by me, would pull into some
podunk town, find the worst possible diner and then, zombie-like, we four
wannabe rockstars would pile out and slouch into the first available
naugahyde booth. We had been doing this same routine for about four weeks
when I first noticed the pattern. It got to the point where no matter what I
ordered, it tasted the same. Like donuts. Our frontman, Danny said that this
was the mark of a fine diner. Danny had a cast iron stomach and could talk
about the most disgusting things imaginable while eating. Once, in a diner in
Jersey I saw him kill a cockroach that was making a beeline for his omelet
without missing a bite. "Hey, I didn't order this," he said while scraping
the carcass from the formica table. Then, while still chewing his last bite,
he ordered, "hey sister, lemme have a hunk of that pie will ya?"
This was life for us at the time. We took ourselves very seriously and were
unified in the notion that at any moment a major label A&R guy would appear
at one of our ill-attended shows and make us the stars we thought we were
entitled to be. We were living in the crease of society and were able to make
enough dough to cover the essentials; beer, cigarettes and guitar strings.
The songs were good, or at least our girlfriends thought so, and we really
clicked on stage as long as nothing went wrong. Things usually went wrong.
There was a long list of things that could go wrong.
Anything that happened at night in a club, any problem that may have arisen
while we were on stage was always talked about while we were eating. Strange,
but I don't remember ever sleeping while we were on the road, though I'm sure
that I must have.
Once in a diner in El Paso, Texas I sat, staring, bleary-eyed and hungover
at two grease pools that were allegedly eggs. Though it was clearly a
breakfast choice the waitress had still uttered those magic words, much to my
chagrin. "Uh, honey, you want fries with that?" She was going too far.
I felt the tension mount as the band got ready for another long castigation
from me on the sins of french fries. I was too tired to let this one have it.
I meekly muttered, "No." This place was too much, even for Danny. We all sat
there unsure of what to do. I was sure of one thing, there was no way that I
was eating what was in front of me. We all just sat there not saying a word.
The smell from these alleged food products was giving me a tremendous
headache when all of a sudden, John Locke, our drummer, blurted out "I AM NOT
EATING THIS!!" no one even looked up at the normally quiet John Locke. He
said this in every other stop that we made. Truth was he only ate about once
a week. I would not have believed this fact but I lived with this man in very
close quarters for an extended amount of time and I like to think I know what
his habits were. John Locke was a first class beer drunk. He would usually
start drinking as soon as we got to the club. Before that, if he was awake,
he would drink coffee and smoke cigarettes in the back of the van. He rarely
said more than three words at a time. The only response he got was from
Danny. "Good, can I have the rest of your...whatever that is?" Danny could
never admit that a place actually had inedible food. If the sign outside said
'restaurant' that meant that whatever they served you inside was fit to eat.
John Locke looked at Danny and then contradicted himself by saying "Nope, I
not quite done yet." He remembered that no matter who ate the food in front
of him that he would end up paying for it. Grimly he picked up a fork and
started in on his order.
There was actually a space of three full days on the tour where I managed to
trick the conspiracy of waitresses. I had taken to eating only pancakes.
Pancakes. I was amazed that it had taken so long for me to figure this out.
No one ever ate fries with pancakes. Then one day in Spearfish, South Dakota,
I met my match. We decided to eat before retiring for the night rather than
in the morning. I ordered pancakes and eggs as it was the special of the day.
The waitress was a chubby biker type. She was only thinly disguised by the
official polyester waitress uniform. I knew right away that my happiness
would be brief... She actually leered as she said it. It was as if she had
been waiting all night, I couldn't believe my bad luck. Lenny, our guitar
player, muttered "Shit, here we go again." I immediately started in on my
usual diatribe.
"Who the hell eats french fries with pancakes?" I complained.
"Listen, you little shit, I'm not gonna take in crap from you tonight you
understand."
I was slightly shocked but no less determined.
"Did I ask for fries?"
Danny and Lenny tried to get me to stop but it was too late, I was on a
roll.
"I don't give a damn what you asked for, you little punk." She was raising
her voice now.
I knew I had her even though I was scared.
"You gotta care, you're the waitress and if you didn't, you wouldn't have
asked."
She sighed. She was down but not out. I didn't figure on what she said next
though.
"If your're still in town when I get off I am gonna kick you skinny little
ass. Do you understand me?"
I sat there blinking, bare arms sticking to naugahyde. I had no response. My
mates had abandoned me in my struggle against french fries. They were all
doubled over laughing. I wasn't laughing. I knew she meant it. She had dealt
with those like me before. I was beaten and I knew it.
I sat there staring at the fries on my plate. It was a conspiracy. They were
all out to get me. The only recourse I still had was not to eat them.
Unfortunately that really wasn't the point though. The fact that they had to
be there at all really burned me. I was so dejected that I volunteered to
drive the van through the night rather than stay one unnecessary second in
this godforsaken hell-hole in the badlands of South Dakota. We were playing
Fargo the next night and by comparative standards the food would be fit for
Kings.
Danny walked along side me as we made our way through the expansive gravel
parking lot, the gravel crunched beneath our boots. "I knew she was trouble,"
he said. I was silent, he was right. "Cheer up man, the sun'll come up in
Fargo tomorrow and you'll be able to get even with all of 'em then. Might
want to think about ordering cereal though - just to be on the safe side."
All in all it was the food that I remember most. I have since moved from the
crease of society into the quick. I am older, I drive a station wagon and
have a respectable job. But every now and then during the heat of summer I
pick a direction at random and hit the highway. The feel of the wind in my
face, and the sound of radial tires whining on the asphalt is
exhilarating...and sometimes, if I try really hard, I can almost catch the
no-so-subtle scent of fried bacon and boiled coffee...and if I press the
illusion just a little bit farther, I can hear the rustle of a polyester
waitress uniform and am always startled when the amalgamation of all the
waitresses in all the dirty cafes utters that beautiful, succinct aside,
"honey, you want fries with that? ...comes with fries you know."
= DARK SIDE OF THE SPOON ====================================================
by Richard Karsmakers
Click.
A couple of nano-seconds later, the cathode ray tube emits light and gives
forth sound.
"La la la lala! Be a swell dude! Use drugs and be rude!"
The camera fades out from the face of a happy drug user, which generally
transforms to the intro of "Eye Witness News". Once this has finished, the
face of a news readers appears on the screen.
Narrator's voice: Here's John Scragg with the "Eye Witness News" headlines
of Blibicon 3rd 1991. This morning at about 7 AM C.E.T., the world of science
plunged into turmoil as archeologists stumbled upon the remains of what is
thought to be an information carrier of some kind. It is believed to be as
archaic in comparison with the current opto-floptical disc as the nuclear
bomb was in comparison with current conventional weaponry, yet its bigger
size leads to speculations about a possibly bigger storage capacity. Some
primary dating has been performed, and it is believed that this morning's
discovery is as important to our knowledge of an eventual prehistoric man as
the discovery of artificial meat was to vegetarians! But, now, let's get down
to our correspondent on the spot. Come in, Jack!
Film cuts to reporter, standing in a kind of quarry. Scientists are walking
around. Outside the quarry, behind a fence that is guarded by dogs and police
officers, there are a couple of dozen people headed by some that look like
spiritual leaders of some kind. The latter are dressed in snot-coloured
robes, wielding hankies. They are, quite obviously, demonstrating against
something - probably the excavation going on in the quarry.
Jack (on the spot): Yeah, sure, John. That's the general opinion amongst the
scientists here, too. All morning, they have been walking to and fro with
pieces of this newly discovered ancient thing that's believed to be an
advanced media carrier of some kind. They have also found pieces of decayed
paper which they believe can shed some light on the thing's origin and, even
more important, its age. The crowd is surely not agreeing with what is
happening. Spiritual leaders clad in snot-coloured robes are heating up more
and more people, and...
...Ah. One of the scientists is coming my way now.
Sir, may I be as bold as to ask you what you have found out already?
Scientist (looking uncomfortably towards the mob outside the fences, then
turning towards the camera while adjusting his tie): Well...erm...we're not
yet entirely sure. But it is my opinion that we have stumbled on something
that will shed new light on our knowledge on the subject of pre-historic man.
Jack: Pre-historic man? Isn't 'pre-historic man' a sensitively controversial
subject these days? As you know, the existence of these hypothetical
ancestors to our race is still fairly unconventional. As a matter of fact,
the church has tried to abolish the theory altogether, since...
Scientist (slightly agitated, in a way that shows that he has been it many
times before, and indeed that he has already said what he is going to say
equally many times): You can't keep on believing a book that says we've been
created from the remnants of some Huge Divine Prophet's nose excreta, now can
you? Believing is OK, but once scientific proof is collected that tends to
tell you otherwise, it's a bit stubborn - not to say *stupid* - to keep on
believing this nose excreta stuff. I guess our spiritual leaders are just
worried they'll be losing a lot of power - and money. Well. Duty calls me, as
you see, so I'd like to excuse myself. Thank you.
Jack: Thank *you*, sir.
The scientists scurries off to somewhere else in the quarry. The camera pans
out a bit, and once again shows the demonstrating mob outside the fences. We
see the reporter move towards the fence, in the direction of one of the more
prominently looking spiritual leaders.
Jack: And what do you, as a representative of the church, think of
everything that is happening here?
Spiritual leader (almost lethally agitated): It's bloody blasphemy it is!
Everybody knows that all this evolution crap is nonsense! "The Divine Prophet
sneezeth and thus we were created," thus the Ibleb sayeth. How can someone
believe something different? The possibility of our civilisation having
evolved from ape-like bipedal life forms is altogether ridiculous,
preposterous! The items these blasphemists are currently digging up have been
put there by the Agnostic Hanky Front!
Jack (on his face appears an expression that can be described as being
somewhere between 'surprised' and 'shocked'): The AHF? The left-wing
revolutionists sponsored by the Great White Handkerchief that is thought to
irradicate the entire Universe during the Apocalypse? So what you're trying
to tell here is that this excavation could be a con or something, or, worse,
an Agnotic omen?
Spiritual leader (nodding): Yeah. Sure thing.
As if signalled by the spiritual leader, the other snot-coloured-robe-
wearing people (probably disciples of some sort) start to chant, heating up
the crowd even more.
The crowd: Blasphemy! Blasphemy!
Crowd member #1: Hail the Divine Prophet!
Crowd member #2 (blowing his nose firmly): May the Green Force rule forever!
Crowd member #3: Down to all AHF Revolutionists!
Crowd member #4: Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!
The police officers start to bark, and the dogs have to go through heavy
physical excercise to restrain them.
Jack (retreating from the fence, that is budging a bit): Things are getting
a bit too hot here. So it's back to the studio.
The camera shudders as the fence budges a bit more. Screen remains black for
about 2 nanoseconds. Then, the face of John Scragg appears again.
Narrator: Well, well. Aren't we hot on the news there. In the studio I have
with me Professor Leo Uther Natic, PhD. Professor, what is your opinion about
the 'prehistoric man' topic?
Professor (after blowing his nose and examining his hanky's contents for the
possible presence of gems or, indeed, entire new galaxies with new
civilisations): Well...erm...erm, what can I say? This subject is rather
difficult to relate to your viewers, as they have pressed upon them the
stigma of conventional religion which is generally thought to be the sole
thing responsible for eventual scientific...er...fuck-ups as we tend call
them. But I can have a go at it, I think. It is a common belief nowadays, in
scientific circles that is, that we have not been created through any nasal
excreta - and this theory is highly disliked by church leaders. Recent
discoveries of skeletons much like ours, but dated over 5000 years old, have
fueled our thoughts. There may indeed have been civilised life before the
beginning of our history, now 1991 years ago. Especially the things found in
the quarry this morning lead us to believe that this 'missing link' between
the apes and us had the ability to build primitive tools and weapons. It is
rather ironic that this 'missing link' had its own year reckoning, and that
the deposits found in this excavation seem to have been formed in their year
1991. '1991 B.C.', as they call it. But...
Narrator: Sorry for interrupting you, but did these people also have a
religion? I bet everyone's dying to know this.
Professor: Yes. They had. It was ridiculous, of course. They believed in
some kind of entity they had never seen. This entity floated somewhere they
referred to as 'heaven' - this is well before the ozone shield, you see - and
this particular entity also had a son that died by being nailed to a tree or
something. Well, that's all we've been able to find out so far. They may have
had other religions as well, but our excavations are in far too early a stage
for any speculations on that. We also know something about their means of
multiplication. As far as we've been able to find out, the males repetitively
sent angels to females which then got pregnant.
Narrator: Quite a crude way of fucking, don't you agree? But can you tell
the viewers anything about *what* has actually been found this morning?
Professor: Well, a lot actually. Apart from various pieces of cutlery and
pots that seem to indicate that they still ate manually and cooked on heat
sources, we found lots of media carriers. In the time when these excavations
were formed, they seem to have been present in two rather popular forms. One
is about 10 centimetres in diameter and silver in colour. It seems to contain
a great many tiny impressions, which we believe is a rather primitive way of
storing digital information. For all we know, there could be sound on them,
or text, or images. We don't know, quite frankly, as we have yet to find a
device in which we can decode the information contained on them. The second
medium is clearly magnetic and about 7.5 centimetres in diameter. We have
found devices with which to use these, but these resulted in "Disk may be
damaged" error messages which lead us to think that the magnetic information
has been lost due to the 5,000 year timespan that has passed between its
creations and its discovery. Also, the thick layer of carbonated dust and oil
residue that covered up everything may have some kind of negative effect.
Narrator: Carbonated dust and oil residue? Is it possible that this
indicates some kind of catastrophe due to which this pre-historic man
virtually died out?
Professor: We don't know for sure. It seems that some kind of large fire - a
kind of *global* fire, possibly caused by a war - did it.
Narrator: A war?
Professor: Indeed, Mr. Scragg. A war. This prehistoric man seemed still to
resort to war now and again, which seems to indicate that their intelligence
levels were infinitely lower than ours. It's amazing that *we* should have
evolved from such creatures that were quite clever on one side yet incredible
dumb on the other. I find no scientific proof for this Nose Excreta business,
but I am beginning to think perhaps it would be a theory to be preferred - if
only on aesthetic grounds - when compared to what we are finding out on pre-
historic man.
Narrator: That surely sounds very interesting, Mr. Unatic.
Professor: It surely does, Mr. Scragg. But let me tell you something else.
Ever heard of Pink Floyd?
Narrator: You mean this strange bunch of guys creating a somewhat
unconventional kind of music, stating that they're the reincarnation of a
5000-year old pop group that used to consist of pre-historic men? I seem to
recall them having an album out at the moment. Isn't it called "Dark Side of
the Moon" or something?
Professor: Well, that is the crude interpretation of a someone who is
obviously not much in touch with current-day geriatric culture but, yes, they
are and their current product is indeed called that way. A brill album by all
means if you ask me, but please don't quote me on that or my children will
divorce my wife and I will have to disown her. There is now reason to believe
that our current-day Pink Floyd are a bunch of hoodwinkers as we have now
reason to believe that they are in fact but the reincarnation of a pre-
historic computer demo program coding group.
Narrator: Er?
Professor: Indeed. We have found one of those strange magnetic media
carriers which had a kind of adhesive label attached to it. This label read
"Dark Side of the Spoon demo". Of course we couldn't verify its contents due
to the aforementioned wear and tear inflicted by time. This does, however,
shed new light upon the supposed connections between computer program code
and longitudinal vibes.
Narrator: I see.
Professor: The album is quite brill, though. But don't quote me on that.
Original written February 1991. Rehashed slightly on August 22nd 1997.
= CHARADES ==================================================================
by Holly Day (yves@orbiter.com)
The thin layer of ice covering the snow cracks beneath my heavy boots like
eggshells, the only sound left in the empty black night. I pull my cloak more
tightly around myself, more to hide the fresh bloodstains than from actual
cold. My eternal shadow, nocturnal buzzards, circle overhead, their appetites
barely sated by the thin child I led into the field to play, she of hollow
bones and little flesh.
I was pretty disappointed with her, too.
I'm glad I let her die.
City lights blink in and out of the trees. A lone automobile roars up behind
me, then passes, wheels spraying up slush from the uneven potholes in the
road. A little bit of slush lands on my flesh, and I watch it, fascinated, as
it seethes and disappears from the heat of my body.
Small packs of domestic dogs stage mock wars in the fields. My fingers curl
into claws automatically, unconsciously, but I hold my peace and pass them by
without so much as an audible whimper of lust. One dog might not be missed,
two dogs might not be missed, but a whole pack of dogs and a missing child
would not go unnoticed.
I reach my driveway just as the sky turns from black to a fluorescent
twilight blue. "I'm not going to be good for anything tomorrow," I say aloud,
more to practice the colloquialism than to actually express a sentiment. The
door of the garage yawns open as I approach, and I enter its musty confines
gratefully, allowing myself to sink down to the oil-splattered pavement and
stretch out on the cool concrete, just for an instant, just enough to let my
mind go blank.
An alarm clock goes off from somewhere inside the house. I sigh and climb to
my feet, pulling my cloak off and hanging it up on the hook by the door. I
stumble into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face without turning on
the light. I pull my blood-soaked shirt and jeans off and step into the
shower with them, the water from the tap loosening the dried blood, making it
wet again, splashing red all over my chest and face, just like last night. I
feel myself getting erect at the mere memory of the pale wraith, and I force
myself to think about something else.
The sun has almost completely risen when I walk back into the living room,
my bare feet leaving wet prints in the worn carpet. I pull on my work clothes
- white dress shirt, gray slacks, patent leather shoes - and brush my hair
into a straight black slick. Bloodshot eyes stare back at me from the hallway
mirror, but otherwise, I look. Perfectly. Normal. I am, as usual, the first
person in the office. I start up the coffee machine and wander through the
building, letting myself fade into the automaton the company wants to see. My
boss breezes in a couple of minutes later, greeting me with a cheerful "Good
morning!" before disappearing into his own office. I smile back an instant
too late, then hurry to my desk and try to look busy.
The day passes uneventfully, like always, a million routine details, a
million little lies and vicious gossip and stupid jokes floating through the
office. I am too haggard to really pay attention, and spend the day shuffling
papers and drinking coffee. I have to stay awake one more day, one more
night, and then I can sleep for two whole days.
I am out the door before the clock actually releases me. I have to be back
in the field by midnight, and I have to have my prey with me.
The coffeeshops are no longer an option. I met my last two victims there,
and I doubt if any other patrons would be stupid enough to leave with me. I
hit the coin laundromat instead, bringing my pile of mangled clothing with
me.
The only other people in the laundromat are two ancient fat women - the
thought of stripping them naked and mutilating them makes me limp. I buy a
newspaper and pretend to read, convinced that this is the place, that supper
or love or both will meet me here tonight.
And then she walks in. Thin, not too thin, a pillar of marble and bone and
flesh. Her thick blue veins pulse flirtatiously along her white neck, beneath
her mane of black hair. She sets her basket of dirty clothes down on the
counter and begins filling up two of the washing machines, brushing her long
hair out of her face with one hand as she separates colors from whites. I
catch her eye from over the newspaper and smile - the pleasant smile I've
been practicing at work - and she, amazingly, smiles back. I go back to
pretending to read the paper, determined not to rush this one.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" She stands before me, empty basket held in one
hand, her purse slung over her arm. I grin, somewhat maniacally, and scoot
over the slightest bit, making more room for her. "Thanks," she says, sitting
down, her leg almost touching mine. "You don't know how many weirdoes try to
come on to single women in laundromats."
I nod, trying to think of something to say. I end up clearing my throat and
folding up my newspaper.
"You alone on a Friday night as well?" she asks, sympathetically. "I don't
know anyone with a real life who does laundry on Fridays." She stares off at
the far wall and sighs meaningfully.
"No sense in us both being alone," I venture, hoping it doesn't sound as
corny to her as it does me. A little smile plays at the corner of her mouth,
as though she's trying not to laugh. I try again, floundering, "I mean, we
don't *have* to spend our whole night washing and folding and ironing
clothes. We could step out for fifteen, twenty minutes for a beer or a cup of
coffee, possibly. The laundry won't get done any faster with us watching it."
"Are you a weirdo?" she asks, point blank.
"Uh, no," I answer, wondering if I've gone too far.
"Okay." She stands up and stretches, her long black hair almost touching my
face. "A beer sounds lovely."
We go out to my car and I hold the door open for her, the quintessential
gentleman. I pull out onto the main road and watch the sky grow darker, the
stars just beginning to peek out from behind the clouds. "Did you have any
place in particular in mind?" I ask her, just to appear interested.
"Ah, not really." She seems somewhat preoccupied, staring out the car window
at the streetlights and evening crowds.
"Are you all right?" Part of me is genuinely concerned, and the concern
feels like a cold knot in my stomach.
"Yeah, I guess." She tosses her hair and looks at me, somewhat sadly,
resigned. "I hope you don't think I'm too forward, just taking off with you
like this, but I just got out of a really serious relationship, and I don't
know what single people do together, how they're supposed to act, all that
stuff. This is a really weird time for me right now."
"For me, too," I say, and leave it at that.
The sky grows black quickly, just as we reach the edge of town. She looks at
me nervously, out of the corners of her eyes. "Don't worry," I say quickly,
"I just want to show you something. It'll only take a second." I smile the
friendly smile again, and slow to a stop underneath the trees. I get out of
the car and walk over to her side of the car and open the door for her. She
gets out slowly, nervously. "Relax," I say, and begin walking toward the
field. After a few seconds I hear her footsteps crunching trough the snow
after me.
I turn on her just as we're out of sight of the road. She fights back, much
stronger than the pale secretaries and art students I've had here before, but
I have the advantage of surprise. My sharp teeth rip through her flesh, first
tearing into her left breast, then finding a home in her alabaster neck. The
veins spit blood sluggishly into my mouth, down my throat, and I take just
enough to make her mine. I drop her onto the snow and lean down to whisper
into her ear. "You will not die," I say. "I have given you immortality, and I
will be back to claim you tomorrow night. Do not be afraid, my angel." She
stares back at me through eyes that see nothing, filming over like ice on a
frozen pond. I kiss her lips gently, and arrange her still-twitching limbs in
a way that looks somewhat comfortable. Reluctantly, I go back to my car,
impatient for the next evening.
And the next evening, I find I have taken too much of her blood, or done
something wrong, for she is gone. Dogs have ripped her body to pieces,
leaving chunks of her out in the open for the birds of the night to carry
back to their young. A ripped shred of scalp beckons to me from a tree limb
at the end of the field, the wind having turned the strip of long black hair
into a macabre streamer. From the right angle, it almost looks like she is
there, still alive, hiding behind the line of trees, her long, soft hair
giving away her hiding place - but only for an instant.
= WINGS OF DEATH II =========================================================
by Richard Karsmakers
Life had been terrific. After Sagyr had finally succeeded in defeating the
wicked witch Xandrilia and found the potion that enabled him to regain the
shape of his former self, people from all over the world had visited him. For
them he was the greatest magician alive, which he had no reason to dislike.
For many years, people would come to him whenever they needed minor bits of
magic to be done. Some time ago an apprentice by the name of Kurgan had even
requested his aid concerning the release of an entire enchanted land!
Sagyr had it made. He was invited to royal parties and trivia quiz panels;
he was asked to cut the ceremonial ribbon at official openings. If he would
have lived in our days, in our plane of reality, he would have been
contracted for washing powder commercials.
He had nothing whatsoever to complain about. Life was terrific, and it
looked set to remain that way, smiling broadly at him.
Until one day a soft, wet knock could be heard on the wooden door of his
humble abode. It was already getting late - the moon was full and the sound
of wolves' howling would have made chills rush up and down his spine if he
wouldn't have been Sagyr, the famous, powerful sorcerer.
He was in the middle of mixing ingredients, trying to make a potion that
could change gold into the lead he needed because his washbasin was
leaking. He muttered a soft curse when he heard the knock.
It was repeated. It sounded as if a small lump of meat was being pounced
into the door.
"Yes, yes," Sagyr muttered. He staggered to the door.
The awkwardness of his movements made him think back of when Xandrilia had
changed him into an animal. He hadn't liked it, but at least he had been able
to fly like an eagle, hear like a bat, buzz like a dragonfly. Being enchanted
had had its good sides - one of them being the lack of his arthritic
symptoms.
He muttered another curse when he opened the door and saw nothing but the
endless black void of midnight out of which only arose the howling of wolves
and the odd sound of owls. The curse was followed by some words that would
have made Eddie Murphy blush if only he had lived in the same time and,
indeed, in the same plane of reality, which of course he didn't.
Sagyr returned to his cauldron, intending to continue mixing ingredients.
Maybe some eye of newt? Some tongue of frog? Wings of bat? Some Plantiac?
When he was about to take a swig of the latter, he suddenly noticed
something green on the ground that mysterously made the name "Kermit" appear
in his mind.
He discarded the thought and instead bent over to look at it more intently.
It was a frog and, although it was a strange thing for a frog to do, it held
a little scroll between its front paws.
Sagyr took the little scroll and unrolled it. On it was a totally ridiculous
text.
"EVEN THOUGH IT MIGHT SEEM ODD TO YOU RIGHT NOW, I AM ACTUALLY A BEAUTIFUL
PRINCESS. ALL YOU NEED TO DO IS KISS ME."
Sagyr thought long and, it can be supposed, hard. He knew this was
ridiculous but the only thing he had always longed for was a female companion
- just about the only thing with which his fame had not awarded him.
He took the frog in his hand. It felt like wet clay, and looked revolting.
All he had to do was kiss it and he would have the companion he had wanted so
long. Finally he would no longer be alone when mixing potions - and he would
no longer need to do all the paperwork involved with his sorcery practice.
Wow. And a princess at that! That was even better than, let's say, the
ordinary everyday girl.
He closed his eyes and thought fervently about the first girl he had ever
cuddled on junior apprentice school - who had, accidentally, also been the
last one.
He kissed the frog.
A flash of bright lightning split the blackened night sky in two,
immediately followed by a crack of thunder sufficient to scare off Death.
Sagyr opened his eyes. Princesses surely weren't as beautiful any more - not
like he recalled them from the good ol' days. The one standing in his
laboratory right now had long, grey, ragged hair that clung to her body as if
she had just emerged from a pool of mud - which was a fitting description for
the rest of the state she was in.
The note must have been mistaken. She didn't look like a princess at all.
She looked more like an evil witch of some sort, like...
"Xandrilia!" he exclaimed in a voice tinged with fright, stepping back in
awe.
The witch didn't say anything but her eyes mutely spoke of death and
revenge. Quite forgetting all about the fact that she was standing in front
of her arch adversary in a rather nude, befuddled and altogether silly way,
she spread her arms and cast an evil glance skyward.
Sagyr took another step back. He felt his throat tighten, as if powers
beyond his own were at work. Sweat appeared on his brow.
What could he do? His potions were out of reach. He had given his magic wand
to a chap called Geraden two days earlier. There was no way out. His powers
were of no avail here. He could beg for mercy, but something told him
Xandrilia was not in the mood.
Another flash of lightning seemed to yank the heavens asunder. The crack of
thunder that followed would have been enough to cause mayhem in hell.
No...not again!
He felt a strange sensation in his stomach that quickly went to his head. He
felt fur on his arms. Or were it feathers?
Xandrilia laughed like only triumphant evil witches can laugh which is in an
altogether very evil way.
No. Not again. Not now. He could learn to hate fate.
Originally written September 20th 1991, rehashed a bit - and with a
different ending - March 16th 1997.
= TODAY OR MAYBE TOMORROW ===================================================
by Eloy Garza (lunapark2@msn.com)
Mrs. Smith awoke at six a.m. sharp. She had been doing so for the past
sixteen years. She always followed the same pattern. She did it so well.
First she would stand and stretch, then she would take a half empty glass of
vodka, that she would place earlier that evening near her bed, and drink it
down without a breath. She would then head to her bathroom. There she would
brush her teeth; up and down first and then from side to side. She would then
proceed to brush her tongue because she knew how important that was and how
little attention people paid to the matter. After all the brushing Mrs. Smith
would head to the bedroom and put on her clothes.
Mrs. Smith would first take a small vodka break because she always had a
hard time deciding what to wear and today would be no different. After
selecting her attire for the day she would head for her breakfast nook. She
didn't feel like eggs today , so instead she had a small glass of vodka.
Keeping track of time with the clock on the wall made her sips from the glass
frequent and lasting.
At 7:45, Mrs. Smith would get in her car for the long journey ahead. Mrs.
Smith was an excellent driver . She always remembered to stay two car spaces
behind the car ahead of her. While driving down the busy street, Mrs. Smith
noticed Steven standing in front of a coffee shop. Steven was an old friend
of Mrs. Smith. She had met him about fourteen years ago . He had helped her
through many difficult times and she felt as if they were the closest of
friends. Steven was a wonderful person with so much to say. Everyone loved
Steven because he was a great conversationalist and incredibly charming. He
always had the greatest anecdotes and stories. Mrs. Smith pulled up next to
the curb and waved Steven over. Steven leaned into the car and in the most
insensitive voice asked "How much?" Mrs. Smith replied with "Twenty, please."
After the transaction, Mrs. Smith continued down the street.
Mrs. Smith wasn't a junky or anything of the like, she was merely buying for
the weekend. Her friends and she had been talking about going to this up-town
club and she knew it would be great to take a little that night. Her friends
always entertained the idea of going to the club and this week-end they were
sure to go. As Mrs. Smith turned at the corner she saw her favorite Deli and
decided to stop in for a second. Once secured in the bathroom she cut a few
lines on her license and rolled up a one dollar bill. She laughed to herself
as she thought of a couple of her friends having to snort two lines at a
time. She knew there was no need for that, and quite frankly it yelled out
"Junky."
After about the third line there came a loud pounding from the door. Mrs.
Smith thought, "What the hell?" for she would never say such a thing. She
decided to finish her lines when a second set of poundings startled her and
sent all the ______ on to the floor. The pounding grew louder and louder
until Mrs. Smith couldn't take it anymore. She then reacted in a way very
unlike herself. She opened the door at a fast speed and without hesitation
grabbed the young woman by the hair and slammed her into one of the bathroom
walls. She then proceeded to slam the young woman's head onto the white
porcelain toilet. Mrs. Smith was using every bit of strength and hate she
had. She began to yell at the top of her lungs, "This is for losing my job
three weeks ago, and this is for losing my husband two weeks and six days
ago, and this is for losing my children two weeks and five days ago, and this
is for yesterday's eviction notice and this is for making me blow twenty
dollars worth of fame and fortune on to this disgusting floor!" Mrs. Smith,
along with the cold thumping sound made by the young woman's lifeless head
slamming into the now red porcelain toilet seat, could be heard for blocks.
Mrs. Smith was found guilty of capital murder and sentenced to death by
lethal injection. Mrs. Smith discovered at the trial that the young woman she
so violently attacked and killed was a police officer. Police officers, as we
all know, are quite familiar with the sound one makes when snorting an
illegal substance. Mrs. Smith was having an unusually bad day. The bailiff
showed Mrs. Smith to the holding room and explained to her that she would be
transferred later that evening.
The rusty lock opened a dark and damp corridor that led Mrs. Smith to her
private quarters. As she walked, with the help of a guard, she could smell
the green her beloved child used to use to give life to his trees. She could
also see the shades of pink that once filled the smile on her husband's face.
Mrs. Smith was beginning to understand how her mind would sort and organize
her daily events. The bars now devoured her as she sat in the corner of her
cell . Her bound wrists were wrapped around her knees keeping her legs from
sliding out symmetrically to the floor. She could hear every horrible whisper
for miles. She rocked herself back and forth while her mind entertained the
idea that God would call and she would go home soon.
The priest that visited Mrs. Smith later that day left with no confessions
and a rumor that God and Mrs. Smith had discussed and finalized the whole
dead women in the bathroom incident. Mrs. Smith had explained kindly to the
priest that she hadn't any need for a middle man and that his services
weren't worth her time. Mrs. Smith's final visitor came to show Mrs. Smith to
her end. At first, Mrs. Smith was barely able to sustain herself on her feet,
but as soon as she grabbed hold of a single train of thought she began to
fight and yell. "God is going to call, I know she will, she said she would
call later today or maybe tomorrow," screamed Mrs. Smith with a fantastic
mixture of rage, fear, and conviction over and over. Mrs. Smith had never
fought like this on her way to a fix before , but this was going to be the
first time she main lined and she wanted to consider her options a bit
longer.
The guard forced Mrs. Smith into restraints and aided the Doctor until he
was no longer needed. Mrs. Smith continued to ramble about the ringing, God,
and sterilized needles. Mrs. Smith's thoughts began to transform as she laid
strapped to the bed with a sterilized needle piercing her flesh and vein with
an alien substance. Mrs. Smith could see the very first time she had a drink
and how sick she got the next day. She remembered her first line and how sick
she felt the next day. She struggled to get a clear picture of her family
but the mirror she looked into was covered in a thin white film. Mrs. Smith
could no longer fight nor speak. As the solution began to displace her life,
Mrs. Smith became very conscious of the sounds surrounding her. She could
hear the tiny drops of solution, ordered especially for her, as they entered
the long stretch of plastic-to-vein connector, the clock on the wall ticking
louder and louder, the sound of her heart as it raced to kick open her chest
and, most importantly, she could hear God ringing the phone. The ringing was
unbearable, it made her chest hurt from the pounding and her ears hurt from
the drops ticking and then when she could no longer take it... white.
= JUDGEMENT DAY =============================================================
by Richard Karsmakers
"Do you believe in love at first sight?"
The voice that asked her this question took her totally by surprise. She had
just spent an hour or so idling around, looking at an orchard of particularly
fine apple trees. She had let her mind wander freely around, join the birds
in flight and song, enter the bodies of various other animals that roamed the
garden. She felt good, at one with nature yet completely free, and very
content.
She turned around to face the voice. She looked into the face of a man. She
had never seen a man before in her life, but she had always reckoned this was
what they looked like, without anyone ever having told her. He looked pretty
much like her own reflection in a pond, only he had a flat chest and where
she just had a fluff of hair he had, well, a dangling sort of fat worm, a
kind of added bonus? She looked at it for a while, then her gaze returned to
his face.
His face, too, was different from hers. It was rather more rugged, and where
her skin was covered with soft, almost peach-like hair, his seemed more,
well, coarse. She could not resist the temptation and stroked his cheek.
Coarser, indeed, she could only compare it with pig skin, or elephant skin,
although not quite as rough as those. She next stroked her own skin by
comparison. Yes, that was definitely a lot more agreeable. She took the man's
hand, as if to convince him of his own rugged coarseness, and let him stroke
her cheek in return.
Ever since she could remember she had thought about the concept of a man.
She had never seen one before in her life, and nobody had ever mentioned them
to her. It just seemed that the idea had always been in her mind to muse
about. It had always held a peculiar kind of attraction to her, though she
never quite knew why or how.
"What was that again?" she asked.
The man seemed a bit taken aback. He, too, had never in his life seen a
woman before. He, too, seemed to have had the concept in his mind, innate.
He, too, had dreamed and fantasised about these weird and wonderful creatures
he'd never met, these *women*, she-men. He had made up quite a few different
names for the concept, but now all of a sudden 'woman' sounded particularly
apt, for some or other reason that he couldn't quite put his finger on. He
had never quite realised that a woman would be different from himself, but
now that he saw that she was, he reckoned it was quite logical. And he had to
conclude that whoever had thought up the woman standing in front of him, or
whoever had *created* her, had definitely improved on his own physical
appearance. Where he had hair on his chest, hair in which little insects
always got stuck when he ran from place to place, she had these two wonderful
things. He had never expected them to be there, but now he saw them it seemed
very, well, logical. They simply ought to be there, and they were there in a
most agreeable way. He looked at them, hesitant to see if they, too, were as
soft as the woman's cheeks. In the end he did. Her cheeks turned a faintly
more intense hue of pink, almost red, and she looked down. The breasts were
even softer. He had never in his life touched anything quite as soft as those
cheeks - the sensation of the thin, soft hairs creating a pleasurably
tingling sensation on his fingertips. And now already he had touched even
softer skin, and it made him sense a strange kind of wobbly moving feeling in
his guts. Like leaves blown by an autumn wind, maybe, or like hummingbirds
wanting to make a nest there. He loved hummingbirds.
He also had to conclude that her general form was a lot more appealing than
his own. He, too, had looked at his own reflection in brooks and ponds. It
looked quite different from any of the animals he saw around him, even from
the bigger monkeys with which he shared a general if somewhat less gangly
semblance. He thought he looked pretty sturdy and, well, *ready* for the
world. The woman, on the other hand, was shaped more delicately, with curves
where he had none, a more subtly built face, and those breasts which his eyes
just couldn't get enough of.
"I asked if you believe in love at first sight," the man repeated.
The woman was yet unfamiliar with the concept of love, let alone love at
first sight. But the word had a pleasurable ring to it. It sounded nice, in
the same way words like 'cuddle' and 'hug' rolled off one's tongue agreeably,
in the same way these words couldn't possibly refer to anything base, dirty,
or vile.
"Love," she said, pronouncing the world just for the hell of it, savouring
the sound it brought, like sampling particularly fine fruit juice.
She looked at the man again. She didn't know that she made him feel all
wobbly inside his guts, but she noticed she felt as if something was amiss in
her own tummy. It was a feeling close to nausea, but not quite the same and
eerily more, well, *fun* than the similar sensation she sometimes had the
morning after she'd eaten that particularly tangy fruit that only grew on a
few trees and that also made monkeys go all woozy and unbalanced.
A breeze picked up his scent and made it brush past her nose. She had never
smelled anything like him before. Although it wasn't like the smell of
flowers she so much liked, it had faint undertones of attraction, of *good*.
"Love," she repeated, faintly, as if in a dream.
The wind now changed direction for a bit, bringing the scent of the woman to
the attention of the man. He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, deeply,
filling his lungs with her. He had never smelled anything like her. The
wobbly sensation in his stomach worsened, but he didn't mind. Not at all. He
became aware of another feeling in his lower abdomen, a feeling like he
sometimes had upon awaking early in the morning when he had to pass water.
Only, like the woman's smell and the way she looked when compared with what
he was used to, it was something similar yet importantly different from
anything he had experienced before. He didn't quite know what to do. The
silly thing was that the woman also seemed wholly at a loss as to how to
react to his question, a question which he considered pretty straightforward
and easy to reply to. A simply "yes" or "no" would suffice.
"I think I do," the woman now said. Love, she thought, must be something
really good, exquisite, really powerful, something that, yes, it sounded
right, could conquer all.
She looked in the man's eyes. They were blue and appeared cool but at the
same time full of feeling. Nobody had ever looked at her like this, and she
was sure that nobody would ever have, even if there had been other people
around that looked at her in the first place. There was a subtle difference
in the way his eyes appeared when compared with hers. Like his overall
appearance, they seemed less refined. Not in a *bad* way, she added to
herself, but, well, in quite an attractive kind of way. She didn't really
know who or what put these thoughts in her head, but they seemed to be the
proper thing to do, something directed by the flow of nature. Nature. She
liked nature. She *loved* nature. Yes, she knew what love was.
He, too, returned her look by examining her eyes. He noticed her lashes.
They were longer than his own, he noticed, and it made her eyes look rather
like stars. He could look up into the night sky for hours, just
philosophising about the hugeness of black, those manifold small flickering
dots, and the way some of them seemed to belong together and form vaguely
identifiable shapes. But the woman's eyes, he thought, were a different kind
of stars. Where stars just looked back unwaveringly, you see, the woman's
eyes blinked, darted away shyly, quickly returned to his, and seemed to have
a hidden depth to them. He had to tear his gaze away for fear of being sucked
in, drowning, not being able to breathe anymore. Yet already he thought that
drowning in those eyes would be altogether more enjoyable than any other sort
of drowning. He was sure that the lack of air to breathe would be replaced by
some other ingredient that was even better, though he knew not what.
"You do?" he asked. There was an trace of incredulity in his voice. Could he
be this lucky?
He wasn't quite sure if the woman realised exactly what he had asked, if she
really understood what he wanted to know. But he felt with all his body, to
such an extent that the hairs on his skin erected themselves in spontaneous
goosebumps, that it was extremely important that she did. It seemed like
there had never before in his life been such a vitally important thing as
this. His future, the entire future, might hinge on it.
She nodded her head, slowly, with deliberation. He hadn't noticed her hair
before, but now he did. It's funny, he thought, how someone's movements can
suddenly accentuate a particular part of the body. Her nodding her head
caused his attention to be drawn to the mound of dark blonde, curly, if
somewhat unruly-appearing hair. He wondered what it would look like around
his hands. She, too, as if sensing that he was getting lost in her hair,
examined his. There was rather less of it than there was on her. A lot
handier to get tidy in the morning, she found herself thinking, though she
was quite content with hers.
The next moment they experienced what was likely the world's first ever
occasion of animal magnetism between two people. They each took a step
forward, without talking. It seemed the best thing to do, it would make it
easier to touch each other. Touching was a thing they both were very keen on
doing. They now stood close together, separated only by a thin layer of the
breeze that had earlier helped them to communicate their own particular body
scents. It was no longer needed now they inhaled each other more directly. He
decided to look if her hair around his hands would indeed look as beautiful,
as *right*, as he had imagined. It did. It gleamed. It felt as great as it
looked. She stroked his hair, too, it was a natural reciprocation. Forces
more powerful than her own were at work here. She realised that she was not
completely in charge of her own destiny, but it felt good to be sucked into
this little maelstrom of sensations and emotions, like perhaps there was
something more important in life than anything she'd held precious before.
Next, letting themselves flow with the maelstrom, their mouths found each
other. Nobody had ever taught them to kiss, nor had they ever seen anyone
else do it, but it felt magical and beautiful and, they both realised
instantly, exciting. After the kiss they both took a small distance again,
looking at each other, appraising, agreeing. This was it. It would work. It
would be beautiful. It was the right thing to do.
As if in a story with a sense of melodrama and all that, the sun began to
set around that time, amidst a wildly colourful cloudy palette of the most
beautiful purples, pinks and reds. They marvelled at it together. Of course
they'd seen the sun set countless times before, but now the two of them had
met, in some weird and inexplicable way, it seemed to have attained an extra
sheen that neither of them had ever seen before. And, much in the same way as
their togetherness, it seemed right and wonderful and beautiful and good.
A blackbird sung its evening song and that, too, now sounded different,
better.
When they, again as if they lived and breathed in a story, walked off into
the sunset, the man seemed to inhale happiness and content with every step he
took. He could handle the world now he had found what he never even knew he
had always been looking for. The woman felt a faint nagging sensation, all
but imperceptible, a tiny mental commotion that seemed to conflict as much
with all the happiness the man radiated as with everything she felt and
radiated herself.
Eve couldn't quite put her finger on the feeling and tried to ignore it.
Ignoring it felt like the right thing to do, anyway, so she pushed it back
and let herself be swept away by the currents of that beautiful word, that
word that tasted so much like the finest of fruit juices, 'love'. The curious
nagging feeling would disappear in due course anyway, she hoped.
It didn't.
Written June 28th 1997 during a particularly thin patch in my relationship.
They say that a good author can put a distance between himself and his
personae; by that standard I guess I am not particularly good :-(
= THE NEXT ISSUE ============================================================
The next issue of "Twilight World", Volume 5 Issue 3, is tentatively
scheduled for release somewhere later this year. It will be uploaded to the
FTP sites mentioned further down and sent out to the "Twilight World" mailing
list.
It is not yet possible to specify all the stories that will appear in it;
make sure one of them is yours, and submit a good one! At any rate, it looks
like the following might make it...
SOME CYBERPUNKISH BABBLE II
by Stefan Posthuma & Richard Karsmakers
= 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 the odd bit of absurdity, humour and/or
horror thrown in.
SUBMISSIONS
If you've written some good fiction and you wouldn't mind it being published
world-wide, you can email it to cronos@worldaccess.nl. At all times does the
editor reserve the right not to publish submissions.
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 a one-
space indent, don't include empty lines between each paragraph, don't use an
extra space after a period, and use "-" instead of "--" (such is the
"Twilight World" house style). Also remember the difference between
possessives and contractions, only use multiple question marks when
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Unless specified along with the individual stories, all "Twilight World"
stories are copyrighted by the individual authors but may be spread wholly or
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CORRESPONDENCE ADDRESS
I prefer electronic correspondence, but regular stuff (such as postcards!)
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supply one International Reply Coupon (available at your post office), *two*
if you live outside Europe. Correspondence failing these guidelines will be
read but cannot be replied to.
The address:
Richard Karsmakers
P.O. Box 67
NL-3500 AB Utrecht
The Netherlands
Email cronos@worldaccess.nl
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EOF
