textfiles/magazines/TWILIGHTWORLD/twilight.world-1.1

                          T W I L I G H T   Z O N E



                              Volume 1 Issue 1

                               April 21st 1993



               "Where I am to go now that I've gone too far?"










 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,  be sure to get 
it cheaper somewhere else next time, as it's FOR FREE and we didn't intend it 
to be for free just so that someone else could make lots of dosh with it!
 Please  refer  to  the  end of this  text  file  for  information  regarding 
submissions, subscriptions, copyright and all that.


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                              LIST OF CONTENTS
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                       EDITORIAL - Richard Karsmakers
                     FIRE & FORGET - Richard Karsmakers
              LOVE, DEATH AND AN AMERICAN CAR - Bryan H. Joyce
                        THE FALL - Richard Karsmakers
                                 SOON COMING
                        VARIOUS SMALL HOUSEHOLD ITEMS

                  This issue is dedicated to Dan Appelqvist
                              my prime example


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                                  EDITORIAL
                            by Richard Karsmakers
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 Hail thee, noble reader!

 A  massively  enthusiastic welcome to what will soon - hopefully  -  be  the 
hottest  on-line  medium either side of the Sahara!  In your hands (or  on  a 
disk, or in the buffer of your terminal, or whatever) you now have the virgin 
issue of "Twilight Zone", a new and totally exciting fiction-only magazine.
 "Twilight  Zone" will be the start of an utterly new sensation for you  -  a 
experience  filled  with  VIOLENCE,   SEX,   TOWERS,   DIM-WITTED   WARRIORS, 
BREATHTAKINGLY  GORGEOUS GIRLS,  TABLES,  PASSION,  KILLER  GADGETS,  CHAIRS, 
PROTAGONISTS, ROADS and POETS (and perhaps even some actual POETRY!).
 There's  no  telling  what you will encounter in  this  and  future  issues, 
really.  All I can tell you is that I hope you'll like it and will be wanting 
plenty more of it!

 So  here it is,  after about half a year of plotting:  The virgin  issue  of 
"Twilight  Zone",  a  new  on-line magazine that will have  heaped  upon  its 
shoulders  the sheer impossible task of competing with most  highly  esteemed 
contenders the likes of Dan Appelqvist's "Quanta".  I really hope  everything 
will  work out and that,  in the end,  masses of people will be enjoying  the 
fruits of our labour and imagination.
 "Will  this magazine be yet another on-line medium that will never be  heard 
of after its first issue?" you may now ask yourself.
 Certainly not, I would think. Its parent magazine, "ST NEWS", has been going 
on for a long while already and there is no reason why it should stop in  the 
foreseeable  future.  "Twilight Zone" will be published at regular  intervals 
(the actual interval is yet to be determined, but expect the next issue soon) 
and  the way things are looking now it seems that we'll be having  sufficient 
material to publish for quite a while. And, of course, YOU are certainly (and 
most  enthusiastically)  invited to write for it,  too - if  you  don't  mind 
global fame, that is!

 As  the  editorial is usually the bit everybody skips,  I think  there's  no 
point  in me continuing here.  I just hope you'll like what you get to  read, 
and that I may see all of you back in the next issue of "Twilight  Zone".  If 
you want to subscribe, please refer to the end of this document.

 Happy reading,


 Richard Karsmakers
 (Editor & Technical Editor)


P.S. I  would like to extend thanks to Ronny Hatlemark and  Marinos  Yannikos 
     who,  because of their letters, gave me the idea to try out this sort of 
     on-line magazine.


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                                FIRE & FORGET
                            by Richard Karsmakers
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 Rrrrrrrr. Rrrrrrrr. Rrrrrrrr.

 Irritated, Cronos Warchild grabbed the phone.
 "Yeah?"  he  groaned,  a  vision  of an evil  monster  wearing  off  in  his 
subconsciousness.
 There was a brief silence,  then someone cleared his throat on the other end 
of the line.
 "You Cronos Warchild?" a voice inquired.
 "What's it to you? Know what time o'day it is?! I..."
 "We've got an assignment for you,  Warchild," the voice interrupted, "Get to 
H.Q. on the double!"
 SLAM!

 Why  did  everyone always want to call him when he was just  having  one  of 
those   fantastic  dreams  where  he  was   single-handedly   beating,   nay, 
*slaughtering* the entire enemy forces of Spectra?! People never gave him any 
privacy.  He  hated all mankind for it.  They were lucky they were  the  ones 
paying  him,  otherwise  he  would gladly have tested  one  of  his  recently 
acquired killing gadgets on them - it wouldn't have been pretty  sight,  even 
though he *did* like the sound of blood dripping on the floor.

 Rrrrrrrr. Rrrrrrrr. Rrrrrrrr.

 "Yeah!?" Cronos bellowed in the receiver that he snatched off the hook as if 
it  was an insect that needed to be  killed,  "Warchild  speaking,  dumbhead! 
You'd  better have a damn good excuse to bother me again at this  Godforsaken 
hour!"
 Another silence, that lasted maybe three seconds.
 "Oh.  I am so awfully sorry, sir," a feeble voice muttered on the other end, 
barely audible, "but it seems that I have dialled the wrong number."
 Warchild's face went red,  then purple and eventually took on a green hue. A 
deep grumbling sound emerged from his throat as he clenched his teeth, took a 
small device,  held it close to the mouthpiece and resolutely pushed a button 
labelled "KILL".
 "AAaarghh..!^$<24>....mmmbblll*("<22>$.....aaaaaaarrgghh!!!" it went on the  other 
side  of  the phone,  immediately after which the line  went  dead.  Warchild 
looked at the device and cursed.  The voltage had been set too low. Probably, 
the line had been the only thing to go dead. Lucky bastard.

 Warchild's  steps  sounded  heavy and damp as he walked  through  the  early 
morning  mist.  The streets were wet.  It had rained all night.  The sun  was 
about  to throw some light onto the scene,  but it had obviously decided  the 
moment hadn't quite arrived yet.
 A  black  cat flitted across Cronos' path.  Lucky for it,  it  succeeded  in 
getting  away with its life instead of ending up as an easy  breakfast  snack 
for  the mercenary annex hired gun.  He cursed a string of curses as the  cat 
escaped from his huge hands, only to keep on observing the violent human from 
a safe distance,  partly hidden behind a pile of trashcans and other assorted 
garbage.
 "GOVERNMENT  BUILDING"  it  read  in dimly lit lights ahead  of  him  as  he 
stopped.  He rapped his gauntlet heavily on the door;  it made an awful noise 
and someone had better open the door soon or the whole neighbourhood would be 
widely awake.  But nobody did as of yet. Cronos rapped another time. If doors 
could groan, it would have.
 After  a  while,  someone  lit a light in a house  opposite  the  government 
building,  after  which  a window was opened.  A man's face appeared  in  it, 
sleep-infested.
 "Hey buster!" the man yelled agitatedly,  "You know what time it is?! If you 
don't quit that noise, I will get down and..."
 The  man's  eyes  went blank and his words died in his  throat  as  Warchild 
turned around with the speed and agility of a panther. The man sighed deeply, 
then slid to the floor.
 "Jack?  What's happened?  Jack!?" a female's voice started crying inside the 
house  as she saw a small red spot become visible,  wet and  getting  larger, 
just between the man's staring eyes.

 "Yes?"
 Cronos  turned  around,  ready  to grant whoever startled  him  the  fastest 
possible  passage  to  the realm of the  dead.  Just  in  time,  however,  he 
recognized a butler in tails that had opened the door he had previously  been 
abusing.  Flicking the safety switch back in position, he put away his Exact-
O-Kill Gun and followed the butler inside, muttering something about the time 
it had taken until someone had finally opened that bloody door.

 "Good  morning,  Cronos," the prime minister  greeted,  ignoring  Warchild's 
indignant  look  as he was ushered into the  politician's  office,  "how  are 
things going?"
 Warchild  merely  continued looking at the man.  Obviously he had  not  been 
ordered  to get to H.Q.  just so that people could inquire as to  how  things 
were going.
 "Cut the crap," Cronos said, "Get down to business."
 The  prime  minister  felt ill at ease now he had seemed to  have  lost  the 
initiative.  He  also  didn't particularly like the fact that  the  mercenary 
seemed to refuse to say "Sir". He cleared his throat.
 "We  need  you once more,  Warchild," he  said,  "Top  secret  stuff.  State 
security. That sort of thing."
 Warchild  kept  looking at a spot a few inches behind the  prime  minister's 
head,  apparently unmoved.  The politician sifted in his seat,  clearing  his 
throat again.
 "Ever heard of 'Thunder Master'?" the man ventured.
 Cronos shook his head. "Something you can eat?"
 "No,  stupi...uuuuh...Mr.  Warchild," the prime minister corrected  himself, 
"it's a new and ultimate weapon we've designed.  We want you to drive it.  To 
hell  and  back.  Right into enemy territory and back to base,  some  way  to 
restore the unity in the world. The 'Thunder Master' is a spacecraft, but not 
just  *any*  craft.   This  one's  about  indestructible,   and  armed   with 
tetranuclear  propulsion missiles guided by undecodable oral frequency and  a 
magnetic sustenation MV module with 117 GigaWatts per second firepower.  It's 
controlled by a 128 bits Inmotofel T8006809080986 transprocessor at 4,77 GHz. 
Someone must fly it to a planet called Kryptium and annihilate some  military 
installations  that we believe can be dangerous to the earth.  All  we  need, 
basically, is a daring pilot. You."
 The man sighed as he relaxed again,  feeling pretty pleased with himself. He 
had wanted to say something quite different from "daring pilot",  but he  had 
decided against using it what with Cronos being in the mood he was in.
 Warchild sat down, still seemingly unaffected by what had been said.
 "What's the pay?" he said levelly.
 "Let's say fifty grand. Plus expenses."
 "What currency?" Cronos asked,  his interest aroused somewhat, "Lires, Yens, 
Dollars,  Kruger  Rands?  Swiss Francs?  Maybe even Dutch guilders?  I  don't 
accept pounds. Too unstable."
 Every time Lord Blessington summoned this man, each time he had to make some 
sort of deal with him,  tiny beads of perspiration came onto his forehead. He 
took his handkerchief and removed them.  Then, carefully and meticulously, he 
folded the piece of textile and re-inserted it in his pocket,  trying to keep 
his hands from shaking.
 "Dollars," he said after clearing his throat once more, "On a Swiss account, 
of course, if need be."
 Cronos  looked thoughtfully at his gauntlet.  The prime minister shifted  on 
his seat uneasily - for all he knew the mercenary might be wondering what the 
result would be of that thing's impact on his bald head.
 "No deal.  Not enough," Warchild said finally, making a gesture as if he was 
going to leave the room - after having terminated this pitiful politician, of 
course.   He  hated  mankind.   He  hated  politicians  in  particular.  Lord 
Blessington's handkerchief was drawn from his pocket again.
 "Right, right. OK," Lord Blessington stuttered, trying to keep in control of 
the situation,  "But I'll have to take this up with my superiors if you  want 
the amount to..."
 "Shut  up,  fool!" Cronos said,  his voice thundering through the  room  and 
leaping at the poor politician from just about every corner of his mind, "You 
have no superiors. Or would you perhaps mean King Charles?"
 Warchild's  trigger  finger itched - it was quite a while ago since  he  had 
killed his last politician,  and he had certainly liked the hang of  it.  His 
Exact-O-Kill Gun seemed to sense this.  It almost started to burn in  Cronos' 
pocket, like money.
 "Besides,  *midget*," Warchild added as an afterthought,  "I don't want none 
of your stinkin' money."
 Lord Blessington glanced in the mirror that hung on the mantlepiece.  Was he 
*that* small?  Noone had called him 'midget' before.  Nobody, that is, except 
possibly for His Royal Majesty.
 "Then wat *do* you want?",  the man ventured.  He was beginning to look very 
nervous now, and acting accordingly. His hanky remained outside of his pocket 
now, too.
 Warchild  stood  up  and leaned menacingly across the  heavy  wooden  table, 
making the prime minister shrink back in his chair,  *just* out of reach of a 
red alarm button he was almost dying to press.  Cronos seemed to stretch  his 
hands out to Lord Blessington's throat,  who closed his eyes frantically  and 
imagined he saw a man clad in black,  scythe in hand,  beckoning him to  come 
near.
 Warchild took the prime minister's handkerchief instead,  however, and wrung 
it out before the terrified man's face.
 "You  shouldn't  perspire  that  much,  Mr.  Blessington,  *sir*,"  Warchild 
exclaimed,  his  face brightening,  "It's like waking me up too early in  the 
morning - bad for you health."
 Lord Blessington thought he was seeing angels already. He tried emphatically 
to hear their heavenly chants,  but only Warchild's prediction of doom echoed 
through his mind.  When he opened his eyes,  all he could see was the massive 
figure of Warchild,  holding a dry hanky in his outstretched hand. He noticed 
a  small pool of fluid on his desk.  He was still alive,  or  otherwise  hell 
looked distinctly similar to his office.
 "I'll take on the assignment," Warchild said,  matter-of-fact. "Fifty grand. 
Sir." He added the last bit with a sneer.
 He  patted  Blessington on his shoulder quite  thoroughly,  who  immediately 
continued sweating rather vehemently.
 "Only  next time," Cronos said,  putting sufficient threat in his  voice  to 
scare off a Blitzkrieg army, "don't call early."
 Lord Blessington felt close to fainting. He nodded his head in confirmation.
 "The  file  with your orders and required data is on the  desk,"  the  prime 
minister said, his voice barely more than a somewhat frightened whisper - but 
Warchild had already left, taking the documents with him.
 Lord  Blessington guessed he needed a vacation.  Preferably a long  one.  Or 
perhaps a transfer to some distant planet.

 Outside, someone laughed. A cat screamed.

 Original version written November 1988. Rehashed November 1992.


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                       LOVE, DEATH AND AN AMERICAN CAR
                              by Bryan H. Joyce
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                A Tale From The Tavern At the Edge Of Nowhere


 With space and time being the size they are (too big),  it's not  surprising 
that some stories get lost in memories.  Usually they turn up again to  haunt 
or tantalize;  sometimes,  again and again and again;  always when you  least 
expect it.
 The  night in the Tavern had been a lively one.  I did not have a minute  to 
myself all night.  The nearest that I got to a conversation was when some guy 
joked about my pure white hair.  Potentially an interesting question,  but  I 
just didn't have the time.
 Later,  two time travellers got talking about causality violation and  ended 
up  in a very heated argument about cause and effect.  Quickly the fists  and 
boogers started to fly. The bouncers came in to bounce their skulls. A few of 
the bystanders got clobbered just for good measure.
 As Big Joe (king of the bouncers) always said,  there's no such thing as  an 
innocent bystander.
  Understandably,  this spoiled most folks' night out.  The bar  cleared  out 
fast,  leaving only the regular hardened drinkers.  It would take more than a 
fight to put them off their drinks.
 I had just finished cleaning up the bloodstains when a familiar short figure 
lurched  into  the the bar.  He tripped over the leg of a  broken  chair  and 
nearly  dropped  the lumpy,  soccer ball-sized,  brown paper package  he  was 
carrying.  Alburt Greshin. His anorak and silly walk brought back memories of 
one of the strangest stories I'd ever heard.
 Although  I was pleased to see him,  I gave a mental groan for I  knew  that 
after a few drinks he would tell the story again. And again, and again!
 "Yo!  Hello, stranger. Not seen you in here for a while, Albo!" He carefully 
put his package on the bar and jumped up onto one of the taller bar stools.
 "Not  been  about,  Tony boy.  Been on a management course.  The  old  boy's 
retiring soon."
 Who  he meant by the 'old boy' I couldn't remember.  Think that  Alburt  was 
still doing a bit of private investigating the last time that I saw him. When 
was that? Six months ago? A year? More?
 He slapped both my shoulders and I slapped both his back.
 "Who would have thought it? The old bugger must be nearly into the middle of 
his second century by now." I said.
 "More like his third. Start the bombs flowing, buddy!"
 "Still  doing  the dick-tective work?" Without waiting to be  told  what  to 
pour,  I started to pour out his drink.  Three fingers of Polish White vodka; 
another  two  of barley wine and a dash of lemon.  For the  final  touch,  an 
olive. Does this guy have a self destructive streak in him, or does he have a 
self destructive streak in him?
 I tried one of Albo's 'bombs' once. It made me sick almost instantly. Yuk! I 
can't stand olives.
 "Yup. The way things are going, I'll someday end up owning the company. It's 
been  one  step up the ladder followed by another and  another  and  another. 
Cheers!"  He  threw the drink back in a single  gulp,  swallowing  the  olive 
whole.
 "Cheers."
 Now  that  he'd  been jump-started by the vodka and barley  wine  he'd  need 
something to soothe his throat. I poured out his beer.
 "How'd married life work out?"
 He didn't answer for some time.  After gulping anything containing a lot  of 
Polish  white  vodka,  it  is advisable to hold your breath for  at  least  a 
minute.
 "Great,  Tony boy.  Just great!" He coughed.  "Sammy's just as lovely now as 
the  first time I laid eyes on her.  If it had been up to me,  we would  have 
been married years ago. Things have never been better."
 "So you're finally getting ahead in the world?"
 "Yeah,  you could say that!" He grinned,  gave a laugh and patted the  brown 
paper parcel. "Ahead, ha! Ahead, that's a good one! Did I ever tell you how I 
met Samantha?
 "Probably," I sighed.
 Don't  know how he'd managed it but he'd found an excuse to tell  his  story 
again.  He usually waited until he was drunk to tell it.  He'd broken his own 
record.
 "Well...."

 "It was nearly five years ago. I was unemployed and of no fixed abode.
 The  reason for my state was that I was one of the victims of  the  HOLKELIN 
tests. The so called synchronicity drug. It left me with what they still call 
enhanced senses.  It's amazing,  isn't it? Science invents a drug that allows 
people  with "the gift" to develop it,  but would they officially admit  that 
extra sensory perception exists? Would they hell!
 Anyway,  I couldn't put up with all those thoughts belonging to other beings 
inside my head 24 hours a day. For nearly a year I lived out in the mountains 
of Scotland as a hermit.  Eventually the effects of the drug weakened to  the 
point  where  I  could only use the so called enhanced  senses  if  I  really 
concentrated.
 It  was then that I went back to civilization.  Three years later and I  was 
practically still living on the streets. These days that's not actually a bad 
place  to be.  I imagine that it was a different story before the human  race 
learned to control the weather.  Even then, back in 2080, weather control was 
very nearly spot on.
 In  fact,  if my memory serves me correctly,  the people who do such  things 
were  so  good with the weather that it was about then that they  started  to 
terraform Mars.
 Think that the bevy must be reaching my brain cause I'm getting side tracked 
already. Where was I? Oh yes....
 I'd just turned thirty and had been getting very depressed lately.  I needed 
to  get a home,  a job and settle down with someone nice and raise a  family. 
Not very likely at the moment. No permanent home would be coming for at least 
another  six  months.  I'd  spent  the last few  months  living  in  bed  and 
breakfast-land  courtesy of the DHS.  There were not even any  females  about 
worth focusing my thoughts on.
 Life was really getting me down.  What I needed was a goal to work  towards. 
One Thursday, I found one. Her name was Samantha Mercury.
 She  was sitting behind the wheel of a large bright red American  Salamander 
that was parked in the shadow of the DHS building. What she was doing hanging 
about outside the dole I couldn't even begin to guess.  She smelled of money. 
Even if bankruptcy had recently struck her, she would not need to sign on for 
a long long time.  That Salamander could easily go for a megabuck in a  quick 
sale. More, if the money wasn't needed in a hurry.
 Ground  effect cars like the Salamander were much in demand  by  millionaire 
playboys as toys.  Indeed,  they were the only people who could afford to buy 
them.  Sleek,  ceramic bodies designed for speed not looks. Zero to a lifting 
speed  of  40 miles an hour in 7 seconds.  Slow,  but once in  the  air,  the 
cruising speed was 80 miles an hour on ground effect. If licensed for it, the 
Salamander could jump from ground effect to full flight.
 I've  heard that when in full flight mode they could only just make the  200 
mile  an  hour  speed  mark  but that the  efficient  cold  fusion  pile  and 
regenerative  ramjet engines could hold that speed for days.  Wonder if  it's 
true?
 I slowed my walk and curved my route to have a closer look at the  beautiful 
car.  I  hadn't yet realized that the driver was far better looking than  the 
vehicle.
 The car looked deceptively fragile and inefficient.  This was a manufactured 
deceit for the Salamander has been dubbed the world's safest car.  The  roof, 
wings  and side walls were retracted - she would have been crazy to have  the 
car shut up in this programmed hot weather,  though it was probably well air-
conditioned - but,  if danger threatened,  then the car could fold in seconds 
into an armoured tank of shining red ceramic laminate.
 I really didn't expect someone of her obvious social status to speak to  me. 
When she did, she took me by surprise.
 "Could you tell me the time?"
 Her  voice  was almost too feminine.  Mellifluent in the true sense  of  the 
word; her question stuck in my brain like sugar smothered in honey.
 I  was  shocked  into silence by her voice and her  unexpected  good  looks. 
Approaching from the back of the car, I hadn't seen much of the driver except 
her closely cropped red hair.  Now I was suddenly aware of a beauty that,  in 
my eyes at least, matched the smooth fragile look of the car.
 For a short while, she stared at me with those gorgeous baby blue eyes. Then 
after wrinkling her small (cute) nose she nervously asked the question again.
 "Do you have the time?"
 "If you've got the place?" I wanted to say.  She would giggle.  I would grin 
and the ice would be broken. Didn't a car like that have a clock?
 Waiting for a reply,  she sucked momentarily at the side of her well rounded 
bottom lip.  The tight,  pale lemon T-shirt that she was wearing was low cut. 
The  movements of her bosom as she breathed was  intoxicating.  Ashamedly,  I 
realized that she was breathing too fast. I was making her nervous.
 "I...er, I...yes, sure!" I mumbled, amazed at the nervousness that I noticed 
in my own voice. Fumbling at my wrist, I eventually found my watch button.
 "It  is 11.15 A.M." it said in the voice of some star from  antique  movies. 
Think  she was called Madonna.  Tacky I know,  but it was a present  from  my 
youth.
 "Oh,  he  said  to  meet him here at 20 past."  Her  long  dark  fingernails 
clickity-clicked in annoyance on the lighter red of the car door.  "I thought 
he was late. The clock must be fast again. Thanks for your trouble."
 "No trouble. Any time."
 Please, who are you? Do you know you're lovely? Will you go for a drink with 
me?  Are  you married?  I had a strong urge to reach over and run my  fingers 
through her short hair. Then gently hold her chin whilst I kissed her ever so 
softly on the lips.  What was wrong with me?  I'd never felt like this  about 
anybody before?
 I  stood  there  a few seconds clearing my throat and trying  to  summon  up 
enough courage to say something.  God, was she magnificent! I was a wimp if I 
let this beautiful creature go without fighting for her.
 I  was in trouble.  My powers of speech were too far gone to help me out  of 
this one.  Without realizing it,  my jaw must have swung open.  I was  almost 
drooling by the time that I came back to my senses.
 With hindsight,  she must have been projecting very strong emotions which my 
enhanced senses were picking up and affecting me.  For a second I toyed  with 
the idea opening my mind and reaching out to her.  That was not a good  idea. 
Peoples'  private  thoughts are an off-putting chaos  best  left  alone.  The 
nicest person alive can appear like a raving loony in their  thoughts.  You'd 
be  amazed  how much sexual stuff flicks through nearly  everyone's  thoughts 
almost constantly.
 They  can  be having an in-depth conversation to me about buying a  new  bin 
whilst  their  thoughts might be something like,  "I wonder if  he's  gay  or 
straight?"
 It's  difficult  to  judge  people by their  actions  when  their  innermost 
thoughts are hammering at you non-stop.
 My stare made her shift position with embarrassment. I hoped that she didn't 
have  "the gift".  Its not for nothing that it's known as  the  synchronicity 
drug. She suddenly clasped her hands together.
 "Well, like I said thanks."
 As  the car folded shut I sobered up and realized that I'd been  staring  at 
her cleavage.  My eyes sliding all over her body, examining all the available 
curves.
 You blew it, Albo!
 Red faced,  I wimped off into the nearby DHS building to sign on.  Inside, I 
joined the nearest queue and listened to my senses.  My blood was pounding in 
my veins like molten lava.  I was sweating. There was a lump in my throat and 
I felt sick.
 What an idiot!  What a prize idiot!  Why didn't you ask her for a drink?  Go 
back now and do it.  How do you expect to end up with kids if you can't  even 
do something as simple as asking her out? You've done it lots of times before 
with  other women.  What made it suddenly so hard this time?  You silly  sod! 
Please,  oh please,  oh please,  oh please God let me die right here and now. 
Make the ground open up and swallow me! Oh God, I need to get drunk fast!
 After a few moments of observation,  I started to calm down realizing that I 
was in a condition to be compared to shock. No one could hear the beat of the 
blood in my ears but me. My wild thoughts were mine and mine alone. There was 
no one else about with the gift.
 By  the time I'd reached the front of the queue,  20 minutes  later,  I  was 
feeling much better.  My compu-cred card was renewed and I had money to  last 
me  another  week.  I could afford to get drunk at least once a week  and  it 
looked like this week's session would be starting in a few minutes.
 That reminds me, this beer is too wishy washy. Gimme another bomb Tony.
 Ahhh, that's better!
 This story is probably sounding like a load of sloppy crap to you. It sounds 
like  a load of sloppy crap to me and I'm in it.  I've tried to  describe  my 
feelings  as closely as possible.  If anything,  I've played them down a  lot 
which is just as well otherwise you'd probably be sick.  Yes I know, shut up, 
Albo your ruining the story. Where was I? Oh yes...
 I  hadn't expected to ever see her ever again so when I left the building  I 
was amazed to find that she was still there. I mean, her car was still there. 
For  no logical reason I assumed that it was still occupied.  Perhaps  I  had 
just  wished it was.  It was still closed up and was now sitting in  the  sun 
light as the passage of time had made the shadows grow ever shorter.
 I  should have gone straight to the pub and not looked back but  the  molten 
lava had came back and shouted NO!  This was another chance to grab the  bull 
by  the  horns.  From out of the Twilight Zone popped that old joke  into  my 
head.  Do cows have bells because their horns don't work? I almost gave in to 
an insane urge to giggle.
 You're losing it, Albo!
 I licked my lips and smoothed back my hair - stupid,  as although I couldn't 
see  through  the  mirrored windows,  she could see out -and  tapped  at  the 
drivers window.
 For a moment I thought that the car was empty.  Then with the soft whir of a 
motor, the window slid down.
 She looked as if she had been crying. Her eyes were damp and her cheeks were 
streaked with tears.  In my mind's eye,  I reached out and wiped a tear  from 
her cheek and lifted it to my lips. Then I....
 "Oh, there you are!" Came a rough masculine voice from behind me.
 "Huh?"
 "Huh,  indeed.  There I am searching the dole for you and you've already met 
Samantha by yourself. The synchronicity drug?"
 "Probably?" I was confused.
 The voice belonged to super sleuth Samual T.  Sponge. He grinned his perfect 
smile. He looked, as usual, to be in his forties. I'd heard on good authority 
that he was well over a hundred years old.  At the moment, his hair was black 
and short.  He had a thick moustache. Last time I'd seen him he'd been blonde 
and long haired.
 In actuality,  he was bald and never needed to shave because he had had  all 
his facial hair roots removed decades ago.
 I had known him for nearly two years.  As a last resort,  he would sometimes 
pay  me to go to the scene of a crime and use my enhanced senses to  pick  up 
latent vibrations of the events that had happened. It was money for old rope. 
He didn't believe in extra sensory perception. Why did he listen to me then?
 "Whatever crap gets the job done, gets the job done." He told me a long time 
ago.
 "C'mon. Get in the nice big red car. I've got a quick job for you. The usual 
rate of payment." He said quickly.
 "Negotiable," I said.
 "Thought  that was the usual rate of payment?" He opened the back  door  and 
got in.
 "The usual then." I smiled and followed him.
 Don't know why, but Sam was an instantly likable character. I've never tried 
to open his mind and I don't think that I ever will.  He just gives off  good 
vibes.  He  makes me feel good about myself.  That doesn't happen too  often. 
When it does,  I won't spoil it by trying to analyse the reasons why.  I know 
this  much,  its  not my gift picking something up because  he  makes  nearly 
everyone  feel like that.  Think he must have a bit of the gift  himself  and 
projects it instinctively.
 In the back of the car he set the scene for me.  The young woman was  called 
Samantha Mercury.  A silly name that I found strangely appealing.  Her uncle, 
Dr.  Richard Thrum, was a scientist. He was rich. Very rich. He worked for no 
one  but himself.  His latest project would make him the richest man  on  the 
planet,  if  he  could pull it off.  A super conductor that was  100  percent 
stable at ANY temperature.
 His lines of research had lead him in to avenues where no one else had  ever 
contemplated  going.  In the past,  he had made enough discoveries  in  other 
areas to gain the respect of the scientific community and had almost  doubled 
his fortune doing so.
 His  superconductor  theory  was straight out of the  fiction  of  the  last 
century.  Stasis  fields had to be the perfect super  conductor.  His  matter 
freezing  experiments  were  preposterous.  Even if by  a  miracle  he  could 
permanently  freeze  the electrons in their orbits and stop the  protons  and 
neutrons  from  vibrating,  nobody believed that he would  have  created  the 
perfect  superconductor.  Superconductors  still relied  on  quantum  nuclear 
forces. If the matter was totally 'frozen' how could the quantum forces still 
operate?
 Much  to the amusement of the scientific community,  he  had  "conveniently" 
discovered discrepancies in current quantum theory that allowed his  theories 
more elbow room.  This time he was way out of line. People had begun to think 
that  he  was  out to lunch.  Or rather,  that HAD been the  general  way  of 
thinking. Recently he had begun to get results.
 So  interesting  were  the results he released,  that a  very  large  multi-
conglomerate  had  tried  to buy him out for one  billion  creds!  He  wasn't 
interested and told them so.
 Nearly a week earlier he had disappeared along with a lot of lab  equipment. 
Think  that I remember hearing something on a newszine about a mad  scientist 
going missing. That was obviously Dr. Thrum.
 "What do you think?" I asked Sam. The back of the car was partitioned off by 
a sliding panel of armoured glass.  There was no way that Samantha could hear 
us. Where was she driving us to anyway?
 "I  think he's dead.  There was signs of a lot of violence and an annex  was 
being  built at the time.  The electrically drying ferro-plascrete floor  had 
been put down that day."
 "So?"
 "So,  a slit in his throat and thrown into that Olympic swimming pool  sized 
area of wet 'crete.  That's what I think.  Somebody ran a current through  it 
and his body is as safe as in the Bank of England.  You're my last  hope.  If 
you can't pick something up then all that 'crete's coming up."
 The car stopped and the three of us got out and went into a tower block. The 
lab  was  in  the  basement.  The lift doors  opened  out  onto  the  largest 
underground work floor that I had ever seen.  Every square inch was taken  up 
with  some sort of electrical equipment.  How anyone could tell that some  of 
the  equipment was missing I'll never know.  I couldn't see  any  uncluttered 
floor space at all.
 From  the main lift,  the annex was in the right hand wall.  It was  only  a 
quarter  of the size of the first room,  but massive in its  own  right.  The 
instant that I stepped over the threshold I began to feel very odd.  My  skin 
felt as if it had a small current running all over it and I felt as if I  was 
about to have a panic attack.
 "You look uncomfortable. You feel something?" Said Sam.
 "Yes.  It's very strange.  It's like,  er,  like, oh I can't describe it!" I 
said.
 "Try."
 "It's  like someone is in torment.  Not in the past.  Right now.  A  massive 
intellect being tortured. Think that I better sit down for this one."
 I sat down on the cold floor and leaned against the wall.  Closing my eyes I 
began  to  concentrate  on relaxing my body.  I'm  more  receptive  when  I'm 
relaxed.  After a few minutes,  I opened my mind and reached  out.  Something 
grabbed at my mind and took control of my body.
 "I'M ALIVE!" It screamed painfully through my lungs.  My brain was  overcome 
with an incredible amount of information....

 The time when my sister Jackie sat on a wasp. (I don't
 have a sister?) It was her fifth birthday. She was having
 a ride on my tricycle when it stung her.

 On her twentieth birthday she borrowed my ten-speed racer
 and went for a cycle in the nearby countryside. On the way
 back she sat on a wasp. (What's a wasp?)

 I remembered the time when I was seven. I found out that
 IT was true. The most horrible thing that could happen to
 a male was really true! You really did have to touch a
 girl with your whatsit when you were married. How awful!

 I'd rather devote my life to science. (I hate science?)

 Then I remembered all those good times when I was about
 seventeen and Mary Rush had proven that it wasn't awful at
 all. Sigh! (I've never known anyone called Mary Rush?)

 I remembered Samantha Mercury being born to my sister.
 Jackie died without ever seeing the baby. The baby nearly
 died too. Samantha you didn't mean to kill your mother! I
 love you! (So do I!). Your daddy was a one night stand and
 he doesn't even know about you. You're too small to be so
 alone in this world. I'll look after you for ever.

 I cried when the dog got cancer and had to be put down.
 (I've never had a dog?) Next was the day that I won the
 Nobel prize. Samantha's a woman now. When is she going to
 meet someone and get married?

 ...I was drowning in someone else's memories.

 Suddenly,  the memories were gone.  Fragments remained like the memory of  a 
dream.  I opened my eyes. I was lying in a bed. The room was dimly lit. There 
was  a mask over my face and a drip in my left arm.  I knew that I was  in  a 
hospital.  I felt safe.  All that had just happened was confusing.  Only  one 
thing was certain.  The infatuation that I felt for Samantha was gone. It had 
been  converted  into  love  by the other person's  memories  that  had  been 
whizzing through my head. I felt as if I had known her for most of my life.
 "I love you,  Samantha." I whispered. I closed my eyes again and slept for a 
long time.
 When I eventually woke Samantha was by the side of the bed holding my  hand. 
She smiled like an angel and offered me some water.  When my head had cleared 
a bit,  I realized that Samual T. Sponge was sitting on the other side of the 
bed. He told me what had happened.
 One night Dr.  Richard Thrum was working late at the lab by himself.  He did 
that most nights.  Three men broke into the lab with the intention of killing 
him and stealing his project data.  Not straight away. First they had to have 
a bit of fun. After a bit of torture they pushed his head into the chamber of 
his own matter freezer and turned it on.
 Richard  Thrum's  theory  was  proved  correct.   His  head  turned  into  a 
superconductor.  Now that his head was also a frictionless surface,  the rest 
of  his body separated from it in a massive gush of blood.  There was no  way 
that  the perpetrators could hide the evidence of all that  blood,  but  they 
tried anyway.
 The body and head went into the ferro-plascrete.  An hour of current and the 
crime  was well hidden.  The head of the good Doctor was superconducting  his 
thoughts.  He was alive in there and thinking thousands of times faster  than 
normal.  In the week in which it took to find his body,  he had lived several 
lifetimes.  In  his  thoughts,  He  perfected the matter  freezer  and  other 
devices. He spent the equivalent of several decades stark staring mad.
 The  thing that brought his sanity back was when he thought up the idea  for 
psionic  mechanics.  He  invented a device that could  transmit  and  receive 
thought waves without the user having to have any of the gift.
 Then  I  wandered in and opened up my mind to him.  His  massively  powerful 
superconducted thoughts were enough to take my mind and body over completely. 
Where I went to, I don't know. Perhaps I went into some sort of hibernation.
 Deprived  of all his senses for so long,  he had gone wild at the  input  he 
received  from my body.  Ignoring everybody he used my body to construct  the 
psionic device.  If anything had happened to my body he would have been stuck 
alone inside the limbo of his superconducting head forever. This was his only 
chance to build the device and he wasn't going to waste it.
 Bit  by  bit,  Sam  and Samantha got the story from him as he  worked  at  a 
furious  speed.  Richard was aware of the way I felt about Samantha and  told 
her about it.  He didn't realize that the love he saw in my sleeping thoughts 
was put there by his own memories.   Samantha didn't know me from  Adam,  but 
she was willing to give love a chance.  Days later, when Richard had finished 
with my body and gave me back control,  I was so physically exhausted that  I 
collapsed and nearly died.
 Two  weeks  after I left hospital,  I moved into  Samantha's  apartment.  It 
wasn't  quick  enough for me.  Thanks to her Uncle,  I knew her  better  than 
herself. And the rest, as they say, is history."

 "What ever happened to Richard?" I asked.
 "I was hoping you would ask that Tony. He is bored with science and wants to 
be  left  somewhere  where he can talk to a lot of  people  with  interesting 
stories to tell." Said Albo.
 "He could do much worse that stop off here."
 "That's  what I thought.  Here take this and put it on.  It's  that  psionic 
device I mentioned. Its adjustable." He gave me an object which looked like a 
silver locket on a chain. I put it on.
 "I better be going now. See you another time." He said, winked and left.
 Then  it  sank in.  He hadn't said that last sentence at all.  It  had  been 
transmitted straight into my brain by the locket.  I took the locket off  and 
examined it for a while.  It was made of a silvery shiny stuff as smooth  and 
cold as ice. Too smooth. Perhaps it was made out of that superconductor stuff 
he had told me about.  What did he mean,  adjustable?  There's no buttons  or 
switches on it.
 Alburt Greshin had left several minutes ago.  I noticed that he had left his 
brown  paper  parcel behind.  I gave a grin as I guessed what was  in  it.  I 
opened  it  and placed the slippery object contained in it on  a  high  shelf 
above the mirror at the back of the bar.
 Later  a short black man walked in and ordered a Surfboarder.  There  wasn't 
any fresh cream. He took it without anyway.
 "Hey, what's that shiny thing?" he said nodding.
 "A mirror." I said just to be irritating.
 "Don't be daft! That creepy thing above it on the shelf."
 "Oh that! That's the head of a scientist. Want to talk to it?"

 Original version written November 1991, (c) Bryan H.Joyce.


=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
                                  THE FALL
                            by Richard Karsmakers
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


                                  I - Youth


 Ail had always been the odd one out,  ever since he had been a small  child. 
Although  he looked pretty much like any other child except for his  somewhat 
darker   complexion,   something   about  his  attitude  made   people   feel 
uncomfortable when they were around him. There was nothing you could put your 
finger on. He was just *different*.
 When  he  sat in school the benches near to him were usually  not  occupied, 
when  he  worked  in the fields people avoided being at  the  same  patch  of 
ground.  Everybody seemed to act as if he suffered from something contageous, 
something  invisible he carried with him that might leap at you  unexpectedly 
when you came too close.
 Ail  had learned to cope with the isolation that was forced upon him by  the 
other villagers.  He didn't need the other children to entertain himself.  He 
would  wander through the nearby forests for hours,  or he would sit  in  his 
room thinking about everything and nothing, daydreaming, or drawing.
 At least his parents treated him with care and love. He was their only child 
and they were proud of him, though they were reluctant to show it too clearly 
when  they were around others.  Probably for that reason the villagers  still 
spoke  with  them and frequented their place - be it only when  Ail  was  out 
wandering  in  the  forests or sitting in his room,  entangled  in  his  deep 
thoughts.
 Ail would often stare at the sky, dreaming away. He would gaze at the stars, 
which  held  for  him a true beauty he had yet to  see  reflected  on  earth. 
Somehow,  the  stars  seemed more pure  than  earthly  things.  Somehow,  the 
galaxies that floated high above him succeeded in diverting his thoughts from 
the day's chores and his outcast position. He would float among those eeriely 
flickering  points of light amid infinite darkness,  possessing the power  to 
decide  what would happen to those people far below,  the people  who  roamed 
Morvynna,  the people who did not accept him because he was *different*,  the 
children that harassed him because he did not like their games. He would soar 
higher than the mountains, higher than the clouds - like a true god.
 Ail knew he was different.  He realized it himself,  too.  All others of his 
age were interested only in chasing and kicking balls, or catching birds. He, 
on the other hand,  was completely engrossed in thought most of the time.  He 
found other children's interests petty and useless, opposite to his own. When 
he  saw a tree he would wonder how it was shaped and which powers were  great 
enough  to  do so.  He fantasized what trees would have looked like  if  *he* 
would have created them.
 The  most  important  thing that set him apart  from  the  other  villagers, 
including the adults,  were the nightmares. Almost every night, he would wake 
up  with  his eyes wide open in fear as if he had seen visions of  the  worst 
things  imaginable,  unspeakable  evil,  doom  encompassing  everything  that 
existed.  His parents had found this odd, the village's Healer had considered 
it yet another sign of the boy's *difference*.  There was no cure.  It  would 
simply go one day - or stick with Ail for the rest of his days.
 In  the nightmares he would see the earth blackened,  fires burn the  trees, 
volcanoes erupt,  skeletal armies slaughter women and babies.  He would  gaze 
into  the eyes of Undead,  tremble at the sight of concentrated,  hot  malice 
burning  like two little red suns in the hollow depths of their eye  sockets. 
Death  roamed  the lands,  the heavens were coloured dark  grey  with  clouds 
stampeding across them like marching armies hurling physical destruction.
 The  most frightening thing was that,  each time,  his nightmares seemed  to 
start and end in terrible heat,  seclusion, a prison. Through the black skies 
he saw no stars,  no sun and none of the moons but one - the third  moon.  It 
would  hang above the horizon threateningly,  as if  suspended,  unnaturally. 
Distant yet much too close.  It would loom above the horizon, silently, as if 
gazing down on the ravished and plundered lands with a smile wrought upon its 
barren surface.

 The  night was cold and starless when Ail woke up.  He had torn his  clothes 
partly off his body,  his bed cover lay atop a rug on the ground.  He had had 
one of those nightmares again. He could still hear his own cry of terror fade 
away around him, as if it was being sucked up by the furniture in his room.
 He  heard the sound of some movement on the other side of the  wooden  wall; 
his parents had learned not to come to him when he woke up after a nightmare, 
but they had not quite found themselves capable of sleeping through the cries 
with  which he would wake up.  After a short while he heard the  rustling  of 
blankets stop, their voices cease.
 Ail looked outside.
 The  three  moons were visible,  the largest one partly  hidden  behind  the 
horizon.  Yet  the  red  moon,  the third moon,  somehow seemed  to  be  more 
prominent, more poignant in the way it hung above the forests. Ail recognized 
the smile on the barren surface - or at least he thought he did.  It was  the 
same smile he always saw in his nightmares,  the same smile that haunted  his 
every waking hour of the day.  A shiver ran up and down his spine, making his 
hair stand up on his skin.
 He turned around,  trying to go to sleep again.  He found himself looking at 
his own shadow,  with the light of the moons around it, tinged red. Even when 
he closed his eyes he could not ban the luringly red light from his mind.  It 
seemed as if the moon was calling,  beckoning like the grim reaper beckons  a 
sick man on his death bed.
 Ail  jumped out of bed.  His stomach felt gnarled,  as if he  had  swallowed 
something  bigger than his body that was fighting its way  out.  Thoughts  of 
getting  to sleep again were banned from his mind as though by  a  mysterious 
force. He gazed at the moon much in the way he used to stare at the stars. It 
did  not hold their serene beauty but it was obsessive in very much the  same 
way. He could not tear his eyes off the red globe that seemed to float on the 
darkness yet support it at the same time.
 He put on his clothes,  careful so as not again to awaken his parents on the 
other side of the thin wall.
 At first he thought he was merely imagining the moon calling at him.  It was 
ridiculous.  Moons don't call. Moons are inanimate objects and everything you 
think they do is but a figment of your imagination. But *something* out there 
was calling,  even if it wasn't the moon. *Something*. He felt it in his head 
and in his abdomen.  It was a call he could not resist,  not even if he would 
have wanted to. And he did not even want to resist. Maybe that was why he was 
different.
 He  stalked  out of the house.  He didn't really know where  his  feet  were 
leading  him.  It  seemed logical to walk in the direction of the  moon  that 
loomed above and amid blackness.  A light breeze caught his hair as if urging 
him on.
 Within minutes he seemed to be enfolded by trees on all sides.  At night the 
forest he knew so well had suddenly transformed itself to something he  could 
no longer feel at home in at all. He heard sounds he had never heard before - 
quick rustles in the undergrowth, calls of animals that did not roam the land 
at daytime. The trees seemed to bow down on him, making him want to tremble.
 He reasoned his fear away.  He knew this forest was well known to him -  all 
that  it lacked was light to fall upon it.  All of it was just like he  knew, 
only  painted black instead of the luscious greens and browns he was used  to 
see.
 Boughs  seemed  to have grown where previously there  had  been  none;  they 
slapped against his body and in his face. Vines seemed to grapple at his legs 
as if wanting to make him fall,  as if waiting for an opportune moment to tie 
their victim to the ground and consume him whole.
 Suddenly  the trees seemed to bend back,  boughs retreated and the vines  no 
longer  held any power within their inanimate structures.  They released  Ail 
into  an open spot within the forest where the light of the third  moon  fell 
unrestrained. The ground seemed to be dipped in blood; it even seemed to drip 
off the trees of which the long leaves hung down disconsoledly.
 Looking around him,  expecting anything to vault at him from those ominously 
dark red shadows around him,  Ail carefully walked towards the middle of  the 
clearing.  Somehow,  it  held him bound as if by a magical spell.  There  was 
nothing in the middle of the open space, yet he seemed to be convinced it was 
the place to be at.
 The red moon looked down on the frail figure that walked stealthily  towards 
the  middle  of the clearing.  If only it could,  the burst  smile  upon  its 
surface would have widened.
 Ail  arrived  at the spot in the middle.  He had anticipated  someone  -  or 
*something* - to step out of the darkness around it and come to him now  that 
he had made himself most vulnerable.
 The moon kept gazing down,  silently, threatening in a strange way - like in 
his nightmares. He had expected skeletons to stagger out of the shadows, wild 
animals  to  get  attracted  to  his  scent,  and  attack.  He  had  expected 
*anything*. Anything, that is, except for what *did* happen.
 A  sound  as if wood was growing and breaking at the same  time  arose  from 
around him. It came from all sides, and it softly grew in intensity. What had 
first been a wooden whisper he could barely hear now gradually became a sound 
as if his clothes were being torn from his body,  as if wood was being ground 
on  wood within his own ears.  He could not guess where the sound  originated 
from. It seemed to come from all directions around him yet from within.
 He looked at the ground,  startled by the growing intensity of its  redness. 
It  seemed as if he was standing knee-deep in  thick,  coagulated  blood.  It 
seemed to creep up his legs like ragged gasps.  He tried to escape but  found 
that  he could not move his feet.  The earth seemed to have come alive  -  it 
held his feet in an iron embrace that he could not tug free of.
 Then he was temporarily deaf and blind. The redness of everything around him 
was  for a briefest of instants replaced by a whiteness as pure  as  flawless 
diamonds lying on fresh ice in a cloudless midwinter night. He could not hear 
his own desperate cry even though it made his throat hurt,  his cheeks  ache, 
his jaw muscles tear,  his eyes sting.  After that brief instant,  vision and 
sound  came  back with a force that felt as if they  would  obliterate  every 
nerve in his body, shatter every muscle, grind every bone.
 A fork of lightning had struck him,  fire running up and down his body as if 
wanting to undo him instantaneously.  Yet he did not cease to be. Instead, he 
absorbed the tremendous power fed to him by the elements, his body bulging in 
its extreme efforts to contain all this energy.
 As  the cacophonic sound and visual mayhem wore off,  leaving all  of  Ail's 
senses  utterly numbed,  he thought he heard a deep rumbling  voice  echoeing 
through his skull.
 "Ailric...you   are   the  one...you  are  the   one...are   the   one...the 
one...one...one..."
 Somehow Ail succeeded in staggering back to his parents' place,  in spite of 
his  being  thoroughly dazed and confused.  The entire world seemed  to  reel 
around him,  heaven seemed below and for all he cared hell could be above. He 
bumped into trees,  thin low branches flung in his face, other things hanging 
beside  his path lashed at him.  He felt none of it - all he *did*  feel  was 
that  enormous power contained within him that surged through his  veins  and 
flowed through his brain like molten lead.
 When he came home he inadvertedly woke up his parents.  He slammed the doors 
behind him,  grumbling to himself like someone possessed.  He lay down in his 
bed, not bothering to take off his muddy clothes. He instantly dropped into a 
comatose sleep.


                               II - Adolescent


 Young Ail grew.  He often wondered what had happened precisely that  fateful 
night in the forest but found that his mind couldn't handle the implications. 
Lightning had struck him yet he was still alive. If anything, he had suddenly 
grown stronger and more intelligent.  Whereas previously he had tried hard to 
ignore other youths that made fun of him,  he now didn't even notice them any 
more.  Encapsulated in dark,  brooding thoughts,  Ail would let their insults 
bounce off an invisible wall. His body would not register dirt or sand thrown 
at him.
 He became more isolated within his own walls of confinement.  The  knowledge 
that  he  was something *different* now strengthened him in  his  resolve  to 
ignore the entire world - ignore it, that is, until he would be in a position 
to rule.  Deep inside he felt that, one day, his voice would be heard and his 
opinion would count.  People would *have* to listen to him,  would *have*  to 
take him into consideration. Maybe, one day, he would really soar higher than 
the clouds,  touch the stars, look down upon *others* with disdain in the way 
the others had hitherto looked down on him. He dreamt on like he had done all 
his life.

 One  day,  the village was aroused by a warlord with his troup  of  soldiers 
that was staying over at "The Lost Dragon",  the local inn. They brought with 
them many tales of war and conquest.  The villagers could not help but listen 
to these heroic yarns, enthralled, as sun-painted soldiers related adventures 
that took place in distant countries.
 A feeling deep inside Ail urged him to go there and hear those stories, too. 
If he ever wanted to rule those who now made his life a misery, he would have 
to gain knowledge. Knowledge of what was happening in the world, knowledge of 
who was at war with whom.
 That  night  he went to "The Lost Dragon".  He  entered  it  unnoticed,  for 
everybody  was  preoccupied  listening to all those  tales  of  valiance  and 
honour.  Laughter  and excited cries arose from the group of people that  sat 
around  the fireplace.  Even the landlord had left his usual spot behind  the 
bar  so  as not to miss as much as a word of what  was  told.  An  occasional 
phrase  drifted  across  the  room to where Ail  stood  -  usually  involving 
slaughter, death, or technicalities that had to do with weaponry, strategy or 
warfare in general.
 Ail  noticed he was not the only one who sat excluded from the  people  that 
had  gathered  around  the fireplace.  A stranger clad in a  dark  cloak  sat 
huddled in another corner,  his face hidden in hooded darkness. He seemed not 
at  all interested in the tales of supposed bravery.  Occasionally he took  a 
swig of ale from the large mug on his table.
 Ail  realised it must be the soldiers' warlord.  Boldy,  he  seated  himself 
opposite  the hooded man.  He tried to discern a face under the hood but  the 
darkness  within  it was complete,  like looking down from the  edge  of  the 
world.  The warlord did not seem to see the young man at all, even though Ail 
tried to be noticed.
 Suddenly the man flicked back his hood, revealing a roughly hewn face with a 
hawk's  nose  amidst ragged black hair.  His eyes with the  colour  of  steel 
stared intently at the young man. He looked up and down Ail's arms and chest, 
glancing  at  the eager look in the eyes,  the black hair  and  the  athletic 
build.
 "Why  don't you go and listen to the stories my warriors have to tell?"  the 
man sneered.
 Ail didn't reply,  incapable of knowing quite what to say. Why didn't he sit 
near the fireplace? Surely the warriors' tales would be far better capable of 
stirring any young lad's imagination?
 Then it dawned on him - he was *different*.  He was not just any other young 
lad.
 "That's not what you came here for, was it?" the man now inquired.
 Ail nodded, still at a loss for words. He thought for a while, then said: "I 
want to see more of the world,  but not like *them*," he said with  contempt, 
"I want to learn, to be taught to do things others can't."
 The warlord chuckled and took another swig of his ale.
 "Sure,  son," he said, "you sound just as mixed up as my cousin, what's-his-
name, in the Seeker's Tower or something."
 Ail's eyes lit, the small flames inside them suddenly appearing to be on the 
verge of leaping.
 "Seeker's Tower?" he breathed.
 The man nodded. "Down south, east of the Verholst delta. You can't miss it."
 "What's it like?" Ail asked, enthusiasm seeming to writhe within his bowels, 
consuming, "I mean, what do they do there?"
 A deep laugh,  almost out of control,  echoed through the inn.  Some of  the 
people near the fireplace got temporarily distracted,  but decided it was not 
worth while missing the current story's more spectacular bits  for,  whatever 
it was.
 "Well,  son,"  the warlord said once he had got his laughter under  control, 
"they  *seek* in Seeker's Tower...they seek...Knowledge."
 Ail felt as if he was out of breath,  even though he hadn't moved a  finger, 
only his lips.  His heart beat in his throat; he could hear the blood flowing 
through his eardrums.
 "What Knowledge?" he asked.
 The man snorted derisively, pulling the hood over his head again. Obviously, 
he did not consider it necessary to say another word.
 Ail stood up and walked to the exit.  He caught a glimpse of people laughing 
and  jesting in a corner of his eye.  He did not heed them and went  outside, 
deep  in thought as usual.  He went home where his father bade him the  usual 
goodnight.
 That was the last thing any of the villagers saw of Ail.

 The third moon was nowhere to be seen in the night's sky. Instead, the first 
and  biggest of the moons shed enough light on the valley for Ail to  discern 
the ominous silhouette of Seeker's Tower, looming up higher and higher before 
him as he came closer.
 Curiously, no moonlight fell on the building, as if it was afraid to be cast 
off or dismissed,  sent away. Although the Tower's entire surroundings bathed 
in soft,  pale light,  the thing itself was visible only because of its sheer 
blackness  in contrast with everything around it.  It looked like a  well  of 
darkness that could suck you in and swallow you whole.
 Now Ail also noticed the silence.  On his long journey the sounds of  nature 
had always been there to accompany him - even at night he had heard the sound 
of thousands of crickets and the odd owl,  nightly serenades to the gods. Now 
there was a silence so complete he almost thought he must have been  stricken 
deaf.  Not  even  his own boots made any noise on the ground,  not  even  the 
sound of the wind in his ears could be discerned.
 Ail came closer.  The Tower seemed to grow, louring ever more threateningly. 
Yet he felt no fear,  only a sense of purpose. His entire future, indeed, the 
future on the world,  depended on him entering that Tower.  He * would* enter 
it, at any price.
 The  first  sound  he heard again was that of  the  impressively  ornamented 
oaken door that closed off the entrance to the Tower. For a moment Ail didn't 
even realise it seemed to be opening itself, as he was completely absorbed by 
the  intricate  ornaments and arcane symbols that were engraved on  the  arch 
around it.  Its hinges whined a cold welcome,  that seemed to slice his bones 
in half, seemed to pierce his soul with frozen steel.
 "Come on, come in," a creaky voice spoke from within the darkness within the 
Tower, "we...have been expecting you."
 For  a moment Ail felt a fear striking his body that was more  genuine  than 
any other he had felt before.  The moment he passed the  threshold,  however, 
the  sensation  disappeared.  The  door closed itself  silently  behind  him, 
finally shutting with a deep *thud* that sent a low tremor through the  floor 
and Ail's legs.
 His eyes grew used to the darkness almost instantly.  It was as  if,  within 
this Seeker's Tower,  his senses were increasingly aware of what was going on 
around him. What had been silence now revealed itself as the soft whispers of 
dark-robed figures that sat near the walls, observing him. Ail could now also 
see  the man who had let him in.  It was a frail figure,  his  gnarled  hands 
telling  tales of ages of writing.  His eyes were  large,  almost  completely 
white  with small light blue pupils within the wrinkled face to  which  clung 
grey, matted hair. The man had a nose like a hawk's.
 Ail  looked around a bit more,  feeling oddly comfortable between these  old 
Seekers  within what seemed to him their almost sacred place of  Dark  study. 
The ceiling was far above him, with huge rusted chandeliers hanging down. The 
scarce light was emitted from candles and a few torches that lined the stairs 
that ran up around him along the walls,  disappearing high up in the midst of 
darkness.
 "This  is  Ail," the old man now emphasized,  almost  solemnly.  The  murmur 
around the young man increased,  the huddled shapes in their black robes  now 
bending  over  to  each other to  exchange  excited  whispers,  gesticulating 
energetically.  Ail pointed his ears but did not succeed in catching as  much 
as a lost whisper of any of the conversations that took place around him.  He 
looked at the old Seeker,  only to find the man's white eyes staring at  him, 
not looking away until the hushed droning along the walls had worn off.
 "Ail...has come to us to...study," the man now said,  a brief gleam of  what 
could have been joy seeming to pass across his face and eyes, "...to study."
 One  of  the  men  that had sat along the wall now  came  forward  from  the 
shadows, folding back his hood. Another nose like a hawk's protruded from the 
face  that was lined by many years of study and thought - yet from it  looked 
eyes that seemed that of a rather young man's by comparison.
 "I am Master Felgar,  your tutor," the man said with a voice that fitted the 
relative youth that his eyes radiated, "Please follow me."
 Ail went after Master Felgar who went up the winding stairs,  following  the 
rustle  of  heavy robes and the shuffle of sandals on the steps  of  polished 
stone.
 The  Tower must have been higher than Ail had estimated.  He even  began  to 
think he was starting to breathe with more difficulty when, after what seemed 
like  hours,  the Master halted on a floor that was filled with  bookshelves, 
each  nearly giving way to the weight they had to suffer.  It must have  been 
some  sort  of library,  albeit one that had not been visited  frequently  in 
recent times judging by the smell of dust and cobwebs that pervaded the air.
 Master  Felgar lit a torch that sat perched on a ledge like a bird of  prey, 
as  if guarding the books and scrolls that lay stacked and piled  on  chairs, 
tables and shelves.  Some of the books had locks,  some of the scrolls seemed 
to have fields of protection that shimmered in the flickering fire light.
 "This is the Sacred Library of the Very Darkest Arts," the Seeker  said.  He 
paused,  as if expecting Ail to ask something - yet the young man had nothing 
to ask.  Everything seemed,  in some strange way, to add up and fit together. 
He  had no questions.  It all seemed logical to him,  as if he was  living  a 
dream that lived his life for him.
 Ail  did  not  even  notice his  Master  descending  the  stairs  again,  so 
instantly  absorbed was he by all Dark Knowledge stored within  this  gloomy, 
vaulted  chamber high in Seeker's Tower.  He felt he had been after this  all 
his life, without ever precisely having known what it was that he wanted.

 One stormy evening,  when thunder shook the Tower and lightning blinded  the 
windows,  Ail  was disturbed by an unusual sound that arose into  the  Sacred 
Library  from below.  Somehow,  the Seekers down there must have been  acting 
much more agitated than normal, as if something highly unusual was happening.
 Unable to reign his curiosity,  Ail went down. It was the first time he went 
there since he had arrived at the Tower,  some three weeks before.  His  only 
contact with the rest of the world had been his Master, who often brought him 
food that he often left untouched.  Ail was entirely devoted to absorbing all 
Dark Knowledge present in the library, not wanting to do anything else.
 Whereas  it had seemed to take hours until he had ascended the  stairs  upon 
his  arrival,  he  now  went down them within a matter  of  minutes  to  join 
whatever  was  happening in the main hall.  The Seekers shuffled to  and  fro 
nervously, their hushed but excited whispers mounting to a murmur that echoed 
up the stone walls.
 The  first thing other than the superfluous movements of bewildered  Seekers 
to  attract Ail's attention was the strange smell that lingered  through  the 
hall.  It was,  he seemed to recall, something like the scent of perfume, the 
scent of a woman.  For a moment he envisioned the girls that had stood in the 
background,  laughing,  pointing, when the village boys had kicked him or had 
tied  him  to a tree.  For an instant he experienced an  upcoming  and  quite 
nauseating  feeling  of bad memories which left just as quickly as  they  had 
come when he actually saw her.
 She  stood near the huge wooden entrance door,  talking to the  ancient  man 
with  white  eyes that had also welcomed him upon his arrival at  the  Tower. 
Seekers walked around them,  absent-mindedly, succeeding in apparently having 
an  excuse to catch a glimpse of what was probably the first female  ever  to 
enter the Tower.
 Ail looked at her.  She didn't look at him; she was still talking to the old 
man  about something or other.  She wore a dark blue robe of  some  exquisite 
material  that  engulfed her body as if it were a logical  extension  of  her 
natural  skin.  Her long hair fell about her shoulders in some kind of  magic 
way, flowing curled and golden, accentuating her almost unearthly beauty that 
seemed as if inherited from the heavens.
 The  old  man  seemed to sense Ail's eager eyes  burning  on  them,  for  he 
interrupted the conversation and lead her to the young man to be  introduced. 
Ail saw her walking towards him and suddenly felt that strange feeling in his 
abdomen again - the feeling of having swallowed something huge that seemed to 
be fighting its way out.  This time,  however,  it felt *good* in a  peculiar 
kind of way.  For the first time he beheld stars on earth - her astonishingly 
light blue eyes that looked at him,  quite unaware of the kind of damage they 
could cause to any mortal man.
 She bowed ever so slightly, after which Ail bowed low.
 "Adept Ail," the old man said,  trying to fill his voice with dignity, "this 
is  Princess  Cheryss of Morvynna." He then turned  to  the  Princess.  "Your 
Highness,  this is one of our finest and most zealous students, Adept Ail. He 
will, no doubt, find pleasure in showing you around Seeker's Tower."
 Kneeling down and suppressing a tremble,  Ail took her delicate hand in  his 
as  gently as he could and brushed it with his lips.  It seemed as if  little 
sparks flew to and fro between them during that brief moment.
 "Your servant," Ail muttered.  He heard his own heart beat in his  ears.  He 
looked up at the Princess to find her blushing at his behaviour.
 "Don't be silly," she whispered,  smiling.  The old man didn't seem to hear. 
Ail rose to his feet again,  offering her his arm. His eyes did not leave her 
face - the blush remained,  her lips prolonged the silent smile that her eyes 
echoed. Ail saw tiny stars flickering within their depths.
 He lead her up the stairs,  still not quite knowing what else to say or  how 
to husband the wild beating of his heart.  Obviously she didn't know him. She 
did  not  know that he was *different*,  she was not one of  the  girls  that 
laughed  and  made fun of him behind his back.  She was far above  the  rest, 
floating  high  on  an invisible cloud above all other mortals  Ail  had  met 
before.  She was the loveliest creature he had ever laid eyes on.  It was the 
scent of her perfume that he had sensed when he had come down from the Sacred 
Library.
 He seemed reluctant or too nervous to start talking with her,  which Cheryss 
did not fail to notice.
 "It's  actually much less nasty in this Seeker's Tower than I thought,"  she 
said,  "I had expected grumpy old men bowing over endless spells and  charms, 
quite  incapable  of doing anything else - let alone show  hospitality  to  a 
Lady."
 Ail  didn't answer.  He was too enchanted by the music in  her  voice,  that 
seemed to bring forth yet unsung hymns and spellbinding melodies played on  a 
deified instrument no one so far had been able to make in earthly life. If he 
closed  his  eyes  he saw endless pastures with  birds,  blooming  trees  and 
dancing nymphs.
 "So you are Ail," she said, interrupting his thoughts. "The old man with the 
white  eyes told me you came here last.  He seems to think highly of you  and 
your capabilities."
 Ail found himself blushing and looked away.  Normally he knew exactly how to 
handle any situation,  but this young woman made him feel strange,  uncapable 
of uttering coherent words or a simple thing such as looking straight in  her 
eyes.
 During the guided tour he gave Cheryss, he had to concentrate hard. At times 
he  found his heart commanding him to tell her "You're incredibly  beautiful" 
or  "You  are  the  most gorgeous creature I have  ever  laid  eyes  on".  He 
swallowed them back just before his lips began to form the words.
 She had him all confused.
 He  was  glad when the guided tour was over.  It gave him an  excuse  to  be 
without her without appearing rude - so he could think things over and try to 
work out *why* this young woman made him act in such an irrational way.

 Cheryss  could get along fine with Ail.  To some extent he could confide  in 
her.  She seemed to understand his childhood,  make him feel comfortable. For 
the first time in the weeks he had spent in the Sacred Library he could  tear 
himself away from the gathering of Knowledge.
 They  sat  up late,  talking about a wide variety of things.  She  had  been 
surprised by the storm and had decided to take refuge in the Tower.  She  did 
not tell him why she had been riding in the Bollgar Valley on her own, but he 
guessed  it was none of his business anyway.  All he knew was that fate  must 
have guided her here. He was convinced that she was destined for him and that 
he was destined for her.  One day, he knew for sure, he would have her as his 
wife and rule the world with her on his side perpetually.
 He told her nothing of his ambitions,  however;  most of the time when  they 
were  together  she  was the one who spoke.  Her tales were  of  royal  life, 
hunting,  games and the wonders of faraway kingdoms. He was pleased to notice 
that none of her stories included a Prince of some kind.  He would listen  to 
the  musical rivulet of her voice and dream away,  gazing at  her  delightful 
face and those twinkling little stars he thought he could see deep within the 
blue of her eyes.  Each time she smiled at him his heart leaped, each time he 
heard  the  music  of her laugh his soul seemed to hurl itself  up  and  down 
between his throat and his stomach.
 The table in the Sacred Library lay silent,  the torch perched on the  ledge 
went out and remained unlit.  Only outside the cold fangs of the wind  seemed 
to  want  to tug at the very stones of which  the  Tower  consisted.  Scrolls 
written with the blood of virgins lay untouched,  books remained open at  the 
spot where Ail had been studying them when Cheryss had arrived. On them shone 
the  weak,  red  light  of the third moon that seemed  to  gaze  intently  at 
everything that was happening within the Tower. For the time being, the young 
man  no  longer seemed to be interested in Dark Knowledge.  He was  now  only 
interested  in  Cheryss,  this Princess that seemed to be the  embodiment  of 
virtue and loveliness, music and joy.
 The storm did not relent for two days.  The Tower seemed to sway in the gale 
as  if  the  elements  were in league trying to  tear  its  entire  structure 
asunder.  Inside,  however,  only the occasional thunder and lightning  would 
come  through,  and sometimes the howling of the wind through a small  crack. 
Cheryss  and  Ail would sit together,  huddled around a smouldering  fire  in 
another room high up in the Tower - talking and laughing until they both fell 
into deep, untroubled sleep.

 On  the third morning after the Morvynnian Princess had arrived at  Seeker's 
Tower, the sun shone. Its warmth gladdened the hearts of the Seekers, and the 
very  Tower  itself  seemed to sigh deeply after  having  withstood  so  much 
undaunted violence for two straight days.
 The  sun  should also have gladdened Ail's heart but it  didn't.  While  the 
weather's  turmoil outside forced the Princess to remain inside the Tower  he 
was able to increase his hold on her.  Now the sun shone again and the  birds 
sang their songs, he knew she would want to go.
 It was as if a frozen claw clasped his heart.  Perhaps everything had been a 
dream.  She had not been nice to him,  she had not laughed,  he had not  been 
able  to bask in the joy of her presence and the attention she gave  him.  It 
had  not meant anything.  She would go and he would be alone once  more,  the 
only purpose in his life being the gathering of Knowledge so that one day  he 
could fulfil his ambitions, teach the world a lesson.
 There was a soft knock on his door.  A voice inside told him it was Cheryss. 
She would come to say goodbye and leave the Tower, leave him, walk out of his 
life. She was no different from the others after all.
 He did not reply. The soft knock was repeated. Again he kept silent, hushing 
the voice of his heart that cried out with the fell voice of true  love,  for 
the first and last time in his life.
 Something  inside him broke when he heard her turn around,  followed by  the 
soft sounds of her feet going as she went down the cold stone stairs.
 He opened the window and looked outside.  He cursed the sun,  he cursed  the 
birds. He cursed the freshness of the after-rain smell that entered his room. 
He  clenched  his fists in powerless anger.  One  day,  everything  would  be 
different.  He swore he would get even with that cruel and vicious world that 
had labelled him *different*.
 The hinges of the Tower's entrance door, far below him, whined their goodbye 
to  Princess Cheryss of Morvynna as she left on her horse.  She did not  look 
back  and  grew smaller and smaller as her horse lead her back home  -  until 
finally she was indiscernible even before she had reached the horizon.
 Ail  closed the window,  shutting his heart with it,  and went back  to  the 
Sacred  Library.  He lit the torch and continued where he left off  with  his 
study of the ancient writings.


                                  III - Man


 With renewed vigour, Ail threw himself on the gathering of Knowledge. Master 
Felgar  continued bringing him his daily food,  which Ail increasingly  often 
left untouched.  They would exchange greetings and the Master would launch an 
occasional  attempt at social talk - but Ail didn't want any of his  Master's 
attention, wanted nothing of the man's pity.
 One  night all three moons were present just above the horizon.  Looking  up 
from the books and scrolls,  Ail once more saw the crude smile that seemed to 
be engraved on the third moon's surface,  on the round redness that looked so 
unmistakably like a face.  Somehow,  its light was more powerful than that of 
the  other  moons  - it had succeeded in dipping the entire  Library  in  the 
almost familiar shade of bloody red,  in spite of the orange and yellow light 
the lonely torch desperately tried to cast.
 Ail heard a deep rumble that he first mistook for a distant earthquake - but 
the  Tower was not moving and none of the volcanoes at the horizon were  lit. 
The rumbling increased and transformed into what seemed like laughter - deep, 
bellowing laughter.  It was the laughter he had heard so often in his  youth, 
but  now it was magnified.  He closed his eyes and ears,  but was  unable  to 
block it out; it might just as well have come from his own throat.
 When  he  opened his eyes the moons had disappeared behind a  dark  veil  of 
clouds.  The laughter had ceased - all he could hear now was the sound of the 
torch  slowly being eaten by its flames.  The entire  library  was,  however, 
still painted red; if anything, the colour seemed to have intensified.
 He  looked  around.  Where  there had previously been  shelves  filled  with 
nothing but tomes there was now an enormous throne,  made of smooth stone. It 
seemed as if the stone was glowing,  as if it consisted of molten rock  being 
held in shape by some mysterious,  very powerful force.  On the throne sat  a 
man,  looking  at  Ail with interest.  His arms rested on the  sides  of  the 
throne, his fingers tapping in an all but impatient way. He seemed to radiate 
some  kind  of power,  *Evil* power.  The eyes were bright white  with  black 
centres, staring at the young man, trying to gauge a reaction.
 Ail had read a lot.  He knew much.  He knew enough to recognise a Demon when 
he saw one. This was definitely a Demon - possible a second level one.
 "So you're called Ail now," the Demon snorted.
 Ail had heard that voice before.  He couldn't quite remember where and when, 
though. He only knew, deep within, that it was familiar.
 The  Demon  seemed to sense Ail's thoughts and could not help  but  chuckle. 
"Maybe things will be more clear to you if I call you *Ailric*."
 Then it hit Ail like a blunt battle lance.  For a brief moment he felt as if 
he  was hurled mercilessly against a brick wall,  as if someone had  hit  him 
with a bell, the echo of its toll slowly wearing off inside his head.
 "Who...who are you?" Ail asked,  not able to suppress the fear in his voice, 
"What  do you want?" He slowly realized this was a Demon of none  other  than 
the  *first*  level,  the  *highest*  level -  the  Lord  Demon.  The  pope's 
equivalent in the underworld.
 The Lord Demon coughed, irritated. "Don't you know, pitiable half-human?" he 
bellowed,  "Are  you  really as dim-witted and naive as you try  to  make  me 
believe?"
 "Half-human?"
 Ail shrank back in his chair, trying to hide behind his own shadow. He gazed 
involuntarily  at  the Lord Demon's incredibly white eyes that seemed  to  be 
ablaze with evil. He didn't understand what the Demon meant.
 "Half-human?"
 Once again the evil Lord was one step ahead of Ail's thoughts.  "Yes, you're 
a half-human. Half human, half *demon*, Ailric! *I am your father*, Guardians 
of Hell forbid!"
 It  was as if Ail collided with another battle lance,  more sturdy than  the 
one before, and heavier. The bell tolling inside him was louder, almost up to 
the point of deafening him from within.  So that was his  *difference*.  That 
was why nobody had liked him - he had been a half-demon all his life, product 
of unholy lust between the Lord Demon and,  probably, a human witch of sorts. 
The  people  that had brought him up had not been his  parents.  He  had  his 
interests for Dark Knowledge impaled within his soul, carved within each cell 
of his being. The difference. Now he knew what it was.
 As the shock gradually wore off, though, he began to relish the thought. His 
entire life he had wanted to *rule*,  he had wanted to inflict his will  upon 
all mortals.  Now he knew he was the son of a Lord Demon - if anyone would be 
able to reign the lands it would be him.
 And, of course, Cheryss would now, ultimately, be his.
 He  was so engrossed in his own thoughts and dreams that he did  not  notice 
the Lord Demon fading away, back to his Dark Domain.
 "I'll  be  seeing  you," the Lord Demon said,  tearing Ail's  mind  back  to 
reality, "one day."
 "No, wait!" Ail yelled, afraid it might be too late already, "I need to know 
your name!"
 He  needed to know it,  of course,  for otherwise he would never be able  to 
summon  the Lord Demon when it deemed *him* fit.  Within his mind he  thought 
rapidly.  He  had to challenge his father,  beat him,  *become* him.  But  he 
needed to know the name!
 "Lerxt,"  the Lord Demon spoke,  his voice carrying with it the  realization 
that this had been the first nail in his coffin.  Then, with the sound of his 
evil laughter disappearing into nothingness, he evaporated. On the spot where 
the  throne had stood were now once again the old shelves filled  with  books 
and potions.

 At night, Ail's dreams became increasingly horrid. They were now filled with 
people wading in blood,  forks of lightning unmaking the earth,  his own soul 
being torn apart between evil choices.  His hands dealt death,  his  commands 
were obeyed by dread creatured he had thought would not dare to occur even in 
the most evil of dreams.  But now he would not wake up listening to the  echo 
of his waking cry, nor would he be bathing in sweat - instead he would relish 
the  nightmares,  enjoy them,  memorise them for the future,  feast on  their 
taste of fear and decay.  One day it would all be his. He would be the one to 
wield the scales of his own justice,  brandish the scythe of death,  show the 
licence of his own hate.
 As if haunted by all his past fears,  Ail read through chapter after chapter 
in the learned books of the Very Darkest Arts.  He would file spells away  in 
his mind, learn to recite the blackest incantations by heart. He knew what he 
had  to  do - he had to challenge his father,  the Lord  Demon  himself,  and 
defeat  him utterly.  He needed the power,  he *lusted* after it.  The  sheer 
thought of possessing it almost made his mouth water, made his eyes ever more 
greedily devour the Sacred Writings.
 He  studied,  no  longer bothering even to cast a glimpse at the  meals  his 
Master  left daily.  Sometimes,  the Tutor would try to communicate with  his 
pupil  but to no avail.  Ail was fully occupied with his mastery of  whatever 
would be needed to challenge the Lord Demon,  to challenge his father.  There 
was no doubt in his mind that he would succeed,  no doubt in his very  *soul* 
that he was the Lord Demon to be.
 He  would  not  sleep for more than an hour or  two  each  night.  He  would 
continue reading and making notes when the moons had almost set already,  and 
would get up with the earliest morning rays of the sun.  He became a ghost of 
his former self,  pale and unhealthy.  His muscles went weak, his eyes became 
large  dark  orbs amid seemingly hollow sockets - much as if they  were  kept 
afloat in a black void.

 It did not take long, his stamina leading him through the required books and 
scrolls at almost frightening speed,  before Ail had gained the knowledge  he 
reckoned he would need to challenge and defeat the Lord Demon.  It was one of 
those proverbial starless nights,  with dark clouds covering the moons as  if 
in anger,  when Ail chose to write the Blackest yet most immanent page in the 
history  of  his life - his,  and that of the  world.  He  prepared  candles, 
appropriate scrolls,  incantations,  potions,  everything he thought he might 
need for this challenge of challenges.
 He  put  out the torch and the candles.  Immediately,  the library  of  Dark 
Knowledge  bathed  in an intense black,  like velvet.  Ail whispered  a  soft 
spell, upon which his body started radiating a soft orange glow.
 Then he started to chant. At first the murmers that arose from his lips were 
barely audible,  but they gained clearness until the walls reverberated  that 
one word - the name of the Demon Lord.
 "Lerxt! Lerxt! LERXT!"
 Ail's voice gained strength at each uttering of the word,  until it  arrived 
at  the stage where it was too immense to come merely from one  human  being. 
The floor started to tremble and vibrate;  it seemed to transform itself into 
a  sea of molten lava out of which a large stone arose - an  enormous  throne 
atop which sat Lerxt, the Lord Demon.
 Ail's father.
 The  Demon kept silent,  his lips wrinkled in a mute smile with a  touch  of 
gloomy  foreboding.  After a couple of seconds that seemed to crawl  by  like 
years, he spoke.
 "So  you've decided you're up to it,  *Ailric*,  my son," Lerxt  spoke,  his 
voice  tinged  with  solemnity,  "up to challenging the  Lord  Demon  -  your 
father."
 With that a lightless crack of thunder shuddered the tower, sending a shiver 
down  Ail's  spine.  Something rose in his throat.  Quickly,  the  young  man 
regained his composure.  He swallowed and shook his head. He could not afford 
to show any weakness, let alone fear.
 "Yes," Ail replied,  his voice suddenly too frail to carry meaning.  He  saw 
Lerxt raise his eyebrows and flinched.
 "Yes!"  Ail  now  cried,  his chest uttering the word as if it  was  a  last 
desperate breath.
 For a while a blanket of silence seemed to clasp both opponents' throats. It 
seemed  to numb their senses,  postpone the passing of the very  material  of 
time  and  space.  It seemed as if the world held its breath,  as  if  nature 
itself hung suspended in the air.
 Then  the Lord Demon began to laugh.  At first he only moved his cheeks  and 
his eyes.  Then his body started to shudder.  His mouth fell wide  open,  his 
white teeth showing, his eyes closed. His abdomen started rising and sinking. 
The sound increased from a soft grunt to a heavy rumble that again  succeeded 
in shuddering the floor and making cracks appear in the ceiling.  Ail clasped 
his hands over his ears, closing his eyes.
 He  had no chance.  The Lord Demon was too powerful.  His father laughed  at 
him,  straight in the face.  No chance at all.  He would be crushed,  smashed 
utterly, defeated, reduced to a meaningless dead silhouette of ashes. None of 
his  dreams  would come true,  he would never rule the world like he  had  so 
often almost experienced within the intensity of his fantasies.
 Yet the next moment the laugh ceased.  Its echoes seemed to disappear within 
the  cracks in the ceiling,  behind the impressive throne the Lord Demon  sat 
on.  The sudden silence was almost physically painful, sending ringing noises 
to  Ail's ears.  But it did not cause a fragment of the pain  he  experienced 
next. A terrifying sound enveloped him from all sides until it seemed to come 
from  within his head,  from within his bones,  from within the core  of  his 
ears,  from within his feet and working upward.  He seemed to *be* the  sound 
itself. It sent him to the ground, kneeling, writhing, screaming, causing him 
to  cough up phlegm,  acutely nauseated.  From the corner of his eyes he  saw 
walls crumble to dust,  stones fall to the ground.  His guts told him he  was 
falling down.
 He  strained  his muscles to look up at the throne on which the  Lord  Demon 
sat. Lerxt's face now seemed to portray intense pain.
 Then the skin started coming off,  as if the Lord Demon was peeling himself. 
Soft red tissue was revealed,  blood trickled down the throne onto the  floor 
and  started crawling towards Ail's hands and knees.  It was flowing  towards 
him as if some mysterious force controlled it. It circled around him until it 
had gained in quantity. On the throne now hung a skeleton with dried skin and 
ligaments loosely attached to it.
 All blood had gathered around the challenger. It seemed to extend paws as if 
probing. Then the mysterious force suddenly seemed to lose control over it. A 
wailing cry seemed to break the tower in two as a fiery sensation crawled  up 
and down Ail's body as if possessing him. When the pain eased off the redness 
around him had formed a large, formless puddle amidst which Ail found himself 
sitting when the silence once again was complete.
 The throne had disappeared.  There were no walls - only ruins. Above him was 
the  sky,  with the clouds having formed one hole through which  glanced  the 
third moon.
 He was stunned, panting heavily.
 Then he knew.
 "Now I am Ailric! Ailric! AILRIC!"


                                  IV - God


 The battle had crumbled Seeker's Tower.  Amid the smoking ruins Ailric stood 
mightily,  power  leaping  across his chest and arms like little  flashes  of 
crackling lightning that seemed to feed on him. He, *Ailric*, had now finally 
reached what he had yearned for all this time, all his life - absolute power. 
He  had challenged the Lord Demon,  his father,  and had become the  *God  of 
Turmoil*.  Finally,  he  had fulfilled his ambitions and found himself  in  a 
position to wage war on the world, to teach everybody a lesson - and a lethal 
lesson it would be!
 His  muscles rippled and pulsated as he tried to contain the  fierce  powers 
that  raged  and gathered within him.  His mouth  uttered  demonic  laughter, 
increasing until he himself seemed to become the personification of  it.  His 
eyes flashed, absorbing everything around him. There was nobody, nothing that 
could challenge him now.  The mages among the Seekers were mostly killed, the 
rest had scattered and fled.  No power in Morvynna could ban him or stop  him 
from  achieving his ultimate goal.  He would rule the lands and make  Cheryss 
his Queen - a Queen worthy of him, worthy of a God!
 He  was  now the most powerful creature on earth.  He could do  anything  he 
wanted.  He  could invoke any demonic powers he cared to.  He *would*  invoke 
them!
 He stretched out his arms before him,  lightning blazing between his  hands. 
Strange sounds arose from the earth.  Howling,  crying,  chanting,  breaking, 
tearing. Around Ailric the earth seemed to move in waves, like an ocean, with 
shapes breaking forth from it. At first the forms were made of mud, unshaped. 
As they continued to grow from the soil,  however,  they took on the guise of 
black  horses  with  red  eyes and light grey  manes,  the  forms  of  winged 
skeletons  and  reptilian  soldiers - all armed to  the  teeth  with  lances, 
swords,  battle axes and spears.  They all growled and grunted,  their joints 
cracking at each movement while their transition was not yet complete. Shrill 
cries  were uttered as if they were all swearing allegiance to their God  and 
Creator, Ailric.
 "With this army I will enslave the earth.  Nobody will be forgotten.  I will 
get even."
 Ailric created more and more evil creatures, his magic unrelenting, his foul 
imagination  shaping  every  creature more repellent  and  hateful  than  the 
previous.  Thousands of evil creatures arose thus - built from mud,  dust and 
Dark Magic.

 One night,  a messenger on horseback arrived at the Castle of King Kelin  of 
Morvynna. The horse was not a normal one - it was deepest black with dark red 
eyes  that radiated hate.  Its light grey manes seemed to lick at  its  rider 
like flames.  The soil seemed to whither away at every spot where its  hooves 
touched the ground. On it sat a rider in a robe as black as the colour of its 
horse.  Its  face was not visible except for two little red sources of  light 
that must have been its eyes.
 The guards dared not touch nor hinder this mysterious messenger, afraid that 
it  might strike them dead with one fell swoop of some diabolical  weapon  it 
might have hidden somewhere within the many folds of its robe.
 "Bring  me to your king," a voice said from under the hood.  The  voice  was 
deep, broken, unnatural, carrying with it an almost palpable threat which the 
creature  did not bother to conceal.  One of the guards ran off to  tell  his 
king about this Dark messenger.  The foul creature did not have to wait  long 
until the guard came back,  panting,  bidding it to follow him.  Marksmen and 
knights  had gathered around the messenger,  ready to strike and  shed  their 
lives when called upon.
 The  messenger  was  ushered into the king's hall  of  audience.  Many  more 
knights  and other warriors were present,  poised around the throne on  which 
sat  the king accompanied by his daughter.  Ailric' servant pulled  back  his 
robe  which caused murmurs,  gasps and shivers to be sent down the  ranks  of 
mortals - for it was no man but some gruesome animal nobody had seen  before, 
perhaps it was a demon,  even.  Knights grabbed the hilts of swords when  the 
creature  took something from a fold in his robe.  It was an  sealed  scroll, 
written on parchment.  On an invisible forcefield it floated towards the king 
who took it from the air, failing to suppress a tremble.
 King  Kelin broke the black seal and unrolled it.  Then his  eyes  travelled 
slowly  across  what  was written.  A tear appeared in his  eye.  He  had  to 
swallow.  He passed it on to Cheryss,  his daughter.  She, too, read it - but 
she  sank  on  her  knees,   sobbing,  not  quite  capable  of  handling  the 
implications the message brought.  The King held his head in his hands for  a 
while,  then  looked up facing the foul creature and cleared his  throat.  He 
arose from his chair, trying to look respectful.
 "Never  will we give in to your master's wishes,  heinous fiend!"  he  cried 
proudly, "That bastard of hell will never get my kingdom nor will he ever get 
my...my..." he struggled in an attempt to steady his voice,  "...my daughter! 
If war is what he wants,  then war is what he'll get.  Either that or he will 
have to kill me!"
 The man sank back in his chair,  hiding his face.  His daughter, wiping away 
her own tears, tried to comfort him.
 The Dark messenger turned on its heel, its robes flowing dramatically behind 
it. Outside the hall of audience it mounted its black steed, had it cavort on 
its hind legs and then galloped away, back to its Evil Master Ailric, the God 
of Turmoil.
 Inside the hall of audience,  king Kelin ordered all of Morvynna's mages  to 
gather  at castle Lordsfall in the north of the land.  *Something* had to  be 
done to stop Ailric from reaching his vile goal.  Something had to be done to 
protect the land - not to mention Cheryss,  the beautiful and most vulnerable 
heir to his throne.

 Night  came  and  went.  The  frail morning saw no sun  to  light  its  drab 
greyness,  it heard no birds that could make one forget the sound of the wind 
sweeping  across  the plains around the king's castle,  nor that  of  thunder 
gathering at the horizon.  The entire surrounding land seemed to be festering 
with hate - the trees had been corrupted, having been bent, wrinkled and made 
leafless overnight.  They formed evil figures,  an audience for the war  that 
would take place here. The earth was black as if scorched, echoing the colour 
of clouds that rumbled impatiently, pregnant with fiery storms and torrents.
 Ailric  was in control of the elements.  He wielded lightning as deft  as  a 
warrior would a knife,  he controlled the flow of the winds, he commanded the 
downpour of rain to suit his evil intent. The skies literally vomited rain.
 The  God of Turmoil's armies appeared at the horizon late in the  afternoon. 
At first they seemed like trembling mountains on the horizon,  but when  they 
came  closer  lookouts could tell that it was a huge  army  of  monsters,  of 
Undead,  of  walking  skeletons that no longer abided the laws  of  life  and 
death.  Ailric had corrupted the world,  the sun,  life. No man's heart could 
help but feel desolate in the face of such monstrosities.
 Within what seemed like mere minutes,  Ailric' foul armies swept the castle. 
Men  died like whithered leaves being torn off dead trees by a  winter  gale; 
intense fires consumed wood,  stone and metal. Loyal men fled; proud warriors 
threw  down  their  swords,  sunk  on their knees and  wept  until  they  got 
slaughtered.  Blood  coloured red the ruins of the once proud  fortress  that 
kings  had  ruled  Morvynna from for many a generation.  Within  a  few  dark 
minutes, black pages in the history of Morvynna's monarchy, it was reduced to 
a meaningless pile of rubble.
 In  the  end only the King stood,  wounded,  his sword hanging limply  in  a 
paralysed hand. Only his crown, golden amid the blackness of the world, stood 
on his head with a remnant of pride,  its diamonds shining defiantly.  Guards 
lay around him,  killed in horrendous ways. It was a sight even maggots would 
have thrown up on.
 Not so Ailric, God of Turmoil, who descended from his black steed and walked 
towards the monarch. His evil warriors left the King untouched, not daring to 
defy  their  Lord's  commands  though  their  fangs  dribbled  rabidly   with 
anticipation of death and slaughter.
 "Or I will have to kill you, eh?"
 For a moment Ailric breathed in his triumph,  then his face darkened -  this 
was  *not*  the  castle where magicians were at that very  moment  trying  to 
prepare  the spell that would attempt to banish him forever to  some  distant 
place. Furthermore, he had not found Cheryss here.
 The King looked at Ailric, reading the thoughts from the deep frown embedded 
on the evil fiend's face.  He smiled a smile of content.  Ailric' victory was 
not  complete.  Not yet.  The God of Turmoil could yet be  defeated.  He  had 
bought time, precious time.
 King Kelin smiled his last smile.  Frothing with anger, Ailric took a dagger 
from  his  belt  and  with a fell swing of it  decapitated  the  old  man.  A 
noiseless  cry froze on the King's lips as the head flopped off the neck  and 
rolled down amid blood and dirt.
 "Lordsfall."
 Ailric  jumped on his black stallion,  not looking back as the  King's  body 
dropped  to  the earth,  just like any other casualty.  The  God  of  Turmoil 
uttered  a  silent command.  He rode north with  lightning  speed.  His  army 
followed him, lethal and agile like some evil mythological creature.

 For a moment,  Cheryss felt a tremble shuddering her bones,  her brain,  the 
very core of her being.  For a while she saw the world turn around  her;  she 
could  not focus her attention on the incantations and the chants uttered  by 
the magicians around her.
 She felt that her father, King of Morvynna, had died. She felt the last beat 
of his heart echo through her head, refusing to abate for long seconds during 
which seasons seemed to pass within her.  He had stalled time.  She prayed it 
would be enough, she hoped he had not died for naught, that his life and that 
of  all who had died with him would count.  Already she felt Ailric's  cursed 
attention  upon her;  she could imagine a cold hand,  like that of a  corpse, 
resting on her shoulder. She could see herself turning around to stare within 
those  fiery  red  eyes filled with anger and hate no  mortal  man  had  ever 
possessed before.
 Driven  as  if  by  some evil inferno,  Ailric and  his  army  drew  towards 
castle  Lordsfall.  What would have been many a day's journey  through  dense 
forests  and across endless plains was decreased to mere hours.  The  God  of 
Turmoil combined all his tremendous power to make his army move on the  wings 
of  the  wind's frenzy.  The forests below seemed to greet them  with  warped 
trees stretching out towards them,  the blackened planes radiating some eerie 
power of darkness that urged them on.
 Early  in  the  morning - or perhaps it was in the middle  of  night  -  the 
lookouts  at castle Lordsfall saw Ailric's army and heard the  stampeding  of 
unnatural  horses.  They  sent hurried messages down into the bowels  of  the 
castle where the magicians were feveredly trying to complete the preparations 
for  the  Banishment spell.  They could not rehearse.  There was no  time  to 
double-check.  This  one  had to succeed in *one* go - either  that,  or  the 
entire world would enter a period of dark infinity it would surely never wake 
up from.
 Ailric rode at the head of his army,  that he seemed to hold back. Lordsfall 
would have to be taken more carefully, as he did not want Cheryss to be hurt. 
He  needed  her for himself to become a whole person,  he needed her  to  sit 
beside him on her own throne, the two of them ruling the universe supreme.
 Ailric crushed the ancient wooden gates from their hinges,  storming through 
the first defence with a handful of his Undead lieutenants - straight at  the 
core of Lordsfall,  where he would find Cheryss and those accursed  magicians 
that had somehow gained the courage to challenge him, to try a feeble attempt 
at *banishing* him, even!
 He slew the second defence ring, that guarded the room deep inside Lordsfall 
from behind which the God of Turmoil sensed a large concentration of magic. A 
flash of light,  the sound of thunder.  The door ceased to exist, transformed 
into as many small bits as there are stars in the universe.
 When the dust cleared he walked in,  full of confidence and ready to  strike 
at whatever would dare to attack him. He saw the shapes of the magicians, but 
only dimly.  In the centre of the ring sat Cheryss.  Beautiful  Cheryss,  the 
woman  he  had yearned for so long.  The only mortal who had ever  seemed  to 
understand him, who had not laughed at him, who had not found it necessary to 
kick him.
 Now  he  heard the arcane hum that hung in the air.  Now  he  saw  Cheryss's 
hands,  stretched out at him - but not as in a welcoming embrace. They held a 
jewel.
 He sensed excessive magic.


                                  V - Exile


 For a moment,  Ailric stood frozen.  His eyes opened wide,  filled with  the 
fears of recently forgotten memories.  The God of Turmoil was made  painfully 
aware  of the fact that there were more powers in the universe  besides  his, 
besides Dark and Evil ones.  He now felt all forces combined - and being used 
against him.  All shades of grey,  red,  yellow,  white. They were all there. 
Mages  looked at him as if they would personally want to banish his  pitiable 
being  to some faraway planet.  Within the fraction of a moment  that  passed 
between the realisation of defeat and the actual banishment, his eyes flashed 
to and fro the mages.  To Cheryss.  Cheryss. The only human he had ever truly 
felt some affection for, the only mortal that he had wanted to make his, that 
he had wanted to share his life and his powers with.  Her eyes looked at him, 
filled with hate but tinged with pity.  Her hands were stretched out at  him, 
holding out the intricate jewel,  on the verge of casting that One Spell  all 
sorcerors  had  prepared.  The banishment spell Ailric had  never  considered 
possible,  the  surge  of  power that spelled out  utter  defeat  in  bright, 
coruscating capitals.
 His  Undead  legions  stood as motionless as  their  master,  their  victims 
rescued  in  mid-thrust,  their Lord's mind not being able  to  control  them 
anymore.  Frantically,  Ailric thought of ways to deflect this ordeal. In his 
mind  he tried to leaf through the scrolls and tomes he had studied  for  all 
that  time  in Seeker's Tower.  Words flashed,  but they did not  connect  to 
anything he could make use of.
 He looked in Cheryss's eyes one last time.  They still seemed like beautiful 
little stars,  but now they only predicted his defeat.  He was about to  sigh 
when his entire being was enveloped in fire. It scorched his body like he had 
scorched  the land,  his arms and fingers grew gnarled like the trees he  had 
bent, his eyes burnt in his head as if scornful birds had pecked them out. He 
sunk to his knees,  helpless,  powerless, weakened completely. The sorcerors' 
chants  softened and died off as he seemed to be moving away  from  them.  He 
could  see  nothing  around  him,  nothing but a  vast  blackness  and  then, 
suddenly,  everything was red. He could not move. He dared not think. He felt 
as  if he were encased in something solid and infinitely big.  It felt as  if 
the red colour had frozen solid, redness incarnated.
 The red moon, the third moon. His prison for eternity.
 Outside Lordsfall,  Ailric's Undead legions crumbled to dust,  their  shrill 
cries  of  defeat echoing up the heavens as if hailing their master  for  one 
final, horrible time.
 Then there was silence.

 A thousand years passed by.
 The land forgot its sufferings,  the people went back to living their normal 
lives.  Evil powers were banished from the earth,  all levels of black  magic 
repressed. The monarchy flourished. Kings died natural deaths and peace ruled 
the land.
 Generally, everybody was happy.
 Everybody,  that is,  except for the odd mage with *blacker* interests  than 
those  of  his  tutors.  These  formed  small  guilds  in  obscure  places  - 
communicating,   learning,  brooding,  gathering.  Ultimately  they  got  the 
ambition of releasing the legendary God of Turmoil from the ethereal womb  of 
his banishment.
 For  years  they studied,  much in the way Ail had done when he had  been  a 
young  lad,  although  it  was  made more difficult for  them  as  most  Dark 
Knowledge had been written down in books that had been destroyed a long  time 
ago.  New incantations had to be devised, forgotten scrolls had to be sought, 
restored  and  interpreted.  The Black Magic Guild slowly regained  the  Dark 
Arts,  their minds occupied plotting the symphony of destruction. Some Undead 
were seen roamed the land again.
 Nobody  noticed - or perhaps nobody *wanted* to notice at  all.  Slowly  but 
certainly,  the  rotten  core within the lands grew in  size  and  power.  It 
infected,  administering decay and dissatisfaction to those eager to be  fed. 
And there it strained to remain hidden.
 Hidden, that is, until the sore spot burst.

 Original version written April 1992. Rehashed April 1993.


=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
                                 SOON COMING
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


 The next issue of "Twilight Zone", Volume 1 Issue 2 (probably) should be out 
later  this year.  Please refer to the  'subscription'  section,  below,  for 
details about getting it in case you're interested.
 As was said earlier,  quite an enormous mass of fiction lies in waiting  for 
publication  in  future  issues.  The next issue will  probably  contain  the 
following items.


                                  EDITORIAL
         Looking back on the success of the first issue (hopefully)
                   and a short look at who your editor is


                               A KILLING TIME
               The next story in a sequence of Tales from the
                        Tavern at the Edge of Nowhere
                              by Bryan H. Joyce


                                  STAR RAY
             A story featuring Cronos Warchild in a truly weird
                 and metaphysically psychological situation
                            by Richard Karsmakers


                               RICK DANGEROUS
            The first of a two-part story featuring a charmingly
            disturbed person who constantly meets his own destiny
                            by Richard Karsmakers


                               THE WILD LIVER
            A rather disturbing tale of a dead alcoholic's liver
                             by Bryan Kennerley


                                 OBLITERATOR
          The sad and heroic story of the Last of the Obliterators
                            by Richard Karsmakers


                          THE PRESIDENT IS MISSING
            Where a Mercenary annex Hired Gun meets Roger Rabbit
                            by Richard Karsmakers


=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
                        VARIOUS SMALL HOUSEHOLD ITEMS
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


                                 DESCRIPTION


 "Twilight Zone" 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 fiction and absurd humour of the respective genres to which J.R.R. 
Tolkien and Douglas Adams belong.
 Its  source  is  an Atari ST disk magazine by the name of  "ST  NEWS"  which 
publishes  computer-related  articles as well  as  fiction.  "Twilight  Zone" 
principally consists of the best fiction featured in "ST NEWS" so  far,  with 
possible additions submitted by dedicated "Twilight Zone" readers.


                                     AIM


 We  have  no particular aim,  but "Twilight Zone" would like to be  a  fresh 
breath to all you people out there that get on-line texts hurled at them that 
seem  only to talk about "Star Trek" and that kind of thing.  We try  not  to 
conform to any preset rules, which might indeed cause some of our stuff to be 
considered   'rude'  or  perhaps  totally  disgusting  (or   worse,   plainly 
uninteresting).


                             SUBMITTING ARTICLES


 "Twilight  Zone"  is  a daughter magazine of "ST  NEWS",  which  means  that 
most  of  the fiction appearing in "Twilight Zone" will have  been  published 
previously  in  "ST  NEWS",  and that submissions to this  magazine  will  be 
published in "ST NEWS" as well.
 If you've written some good fiction and you wouldn't mind it being published 
world-wide,  you can mail it to us either electronically or by standard mail. 
At all times do we reserve the right not to publish submissions. Do note that 
submissions  on disk will have to use the MS-DOS disk format (which  is  also 
compatible with the Atari ST/TT/Falcon) on 3.5" Double Density floppy  disks. 
Provided  sufficient  International  Reply Coupons have  been  supplied  (see 
below),  you will get your disk back with the issue of "Twilight Zone" on  it 
that features your fiction.  Electronic submittees will automatically get  an 
electronic subscription.
 At all times, please submit straight ASCII texts without any special control 
codes whatsoever,  nor right justify! Avoid using characters above ASCII code 
128  because these may vary considerably on different computer  systems.  Use 
*asterisks* to replace italics if needed, please.


                                  COPYRIGHT


 Unless  specified along with the individual stories,  all bits in  "Twilight 
Zone"  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 Zone"  and/or  "ST 
NEWS".
 If  you don't follow these rules,  there is nobody who is going to tell  you 
off  or  sue  you  or anything - we only think  you're  a  most  proverbially 
flippin' smeghead if you don't.


                           CORRESPONDENCE ADDRESS


 All  correspondence and submissions should be sent to one of  the  following 
addresses.  If you need a reply to a letter,  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 addresses (both 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 (only electronic subscriptions available!) can be requested by 
sending  me some email (at the address mentioned above).  For now (and  until 
well  into the forseeable future) "Twilight Zone" will only be  available  in 
ASCII format.


                                 PHILANTROPY


 If you appreciate "Twilight Zone",  a spontaneous burst of philantropy aimed 
at the postal address mentioned above would be much obliged! Please send cash 
only;  any  regular  currency  will do. Apart from  keeping  "Twilight  Zone" 
happily afloat, it will also help me to keep my head above water as a student 
of English at Utrecht University.
 Thanks!


                                 DISCLAIMER


 The  editor wishes to notify that all authors are responsible for the  views 
they  express,  which  may  not  at all coincide  with  his  own  views.  The 
individual  authors  are  also  the  ones  you  should  sue  when   copyright 
infringements have occurred!


                                   ST NEWS


 In case you have an Atari ST/TT/Falcon,  you would do well to check out  "ST 
NEWS",  the  "Twilight Zone" 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. "ST NEWS" will *not* be available electronically!
 "ST NEWS" should run on any TOS version, needs a double-sided disk drive and 
prefers one meg - or more - of memory (though half a meg should be  supported 
too).


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