1629 lines
95 KiB
Groff
1629 lines
95 KiB
Groff
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
T W I L I G H T Z O N E
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Volume 1 Issue 2
|
|
|
|
July 25th 1993
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Where am I 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.
|
|
|
|
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
LIST OF CONTENTS
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
|
|
|
|
EDITORIAL - Richard Karsmakers
|
|
A KILLING TIME - Bryan H. Joyce
|
|
STAR RAY - Richard Karsmakers
|
|
RICK DANGEROUS - Richard Karsmakers
|
|
THE WILD LIVER - Bryan Kennerley
|
|
OBLITERATOR - Richard Karsmakers
|
|
THE PROPHET - Richard Karsmakers
|
|
SOON COMING
|
|
VARIOUS SMALL HOUSEHOLD ITEMS
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
EDITORIAL
|
|
by Richard Karsmakers
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
|
|
|
|
Never had I thought it would be so easy to get recognition. Originally I
|
|
sent out "Twilight Zone" Volume 1 Issue 1 to about half a dozen people, most
|
|
of them just friends that I happened to know the email address of, and a mere
|
|
couple of days after that I already got subscription requests of people I had
|
|
never heard of before. It surely seems that there are enough people out there
|
|
(yes, you!) who like to read fiction, which is definitely the kind of
|
|
motivation I need to keep on doing something the likes of "Twilight Zone".
|
|
Thank you, therefore, for your support and your willingness to want this
|
|
second issue bad enough to subscribe to it.
|
|
Er...someone interested in doing sortof a graphics-like "Twilight Zone" logo
|
|
using ASCII <128? I'd be much obliged.
|
|
|
|
Hope you'll like this issue. Lots of fun reading,
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Richard Karsmakers
|
|
(Editor)
|
|
|
|
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
A KILLING TIME
|
|
by Bryan H. Joyce
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
|
|
A Tale From The Tavern On The Edge Of Nowhere.
|
|
|
|
|
|
The Abcronxuddlern grinned with needle tipped poisoned teeth. A drop of
|
|
milky poison was licked from its thin lips with much relish. It extended a
|
|
massive hand on the end of one of its almost skeletal arms, towards me.
|
|
With a noise like a switchblade opening, a stumpy, black splintered claw
|
|
sprang out from its index finger.
|
|
"Here, allow me!" It growled.
|
|
A year ago, I would have fainted dead away with fright, but now I just
|
|
smiled and handed over the green crystal bottle. With a pop of gases, the
|
|
Abcronxuddlern levered off the stainless steel cap from the beer bottle and
|
|
handed it back.
|
|
"Thanks," I said.
|
|
"No problem." Its claw never made a sound when it sprang back in to its
|
|
fleshy home. Someone told me that the 'Crons don't need to make a noise when
|
|
their claws spring out. When they are feeling comfortable, the claws slip out
|
|
in a noisy manner. When they are feeling aggressive, the claws slip out quite
|
|
a bit slower, in total silence.
|
|
The worse thing to watch for in a 'Cron is when they lose control of their
|
|
claws. When they start to slip silently in and out in a seemingly absent
|
|
minded fashion, you are in trouble. That's a sign that violence is not far
|
|
away.
|
|
To make matters even more confusing, they seem tense when they are feeling
|
|
relaxed. If they look relaxed, then something is bothering them and you
|
|
better watch out.
|
|
This Abcronxuddlern was so happy and comfortable that an Earthman, who I'd
|
|
just noticed sitting on a stool at the other end of the almost empty bar,
|
|
mistook its body language for aggression and drew a large gun. "Put that
|
|
away, bud!" I laughed at his nervousness. "There's a beam nullifier
|
|
operating! Directed energy weapons don't work in here."
|
|
"This isn't a beamer. It's chemical," He said. His voice was high pitched,
|
|
almost feminine, and nasal with it. He sounded like that woman on the Channel
|
|
18 Newszine, but with a cold.
|
|
His clothes looked as if they belonged in the 1990's but his manner seemed
|
|
out of another century. He had an air of sadness and femininity that seemed
|
|
to be very out of place with his bad skin and mousey features.
|
|
"Even more reason to put it away then. There's a selective friction field in
|
|
operation as well. You'll blow your hand off if you try to use it." This bit
|
|
was a lie.
|
|
No matter what you may have heard about friction fields, they are total
|
|
garbage. If one was operating, I'd need to spoon out the drinks with an ice
|
|
cream scoop. Folks would choke trying to drink their favourite tipple.
|
|
It had been very quiet in the Tavern today. The rest of the bar staff was
|
|
around the back, pretending to be tiding out the stores - but actually
|
|
sitting with their feet up gossiping.
|
|
Thursdays were usually quiet. At least, I think it was Thursday. Sometimes
|
|
it's difficult to keep track of time when you work in a bar at the edge of
|
|
space and time.
|
|
"Are you male or female?" Growled the 'Cron good-naturedly.
|
|
"Why?" The Earthman started to put the gun back under his coat.
|
|
"Tell it, Tony." It gave a long throaty grow and wandered off towards one of
|
|
the dark sleeping booths in the far left hand corner.
|
|
"It was laughing at you. Abcronxuddlern's are hermaphrodites! They've got
|
|
both sets of organs under that black fur. They choose their sexual roles by
|
|
combat. The loser assumes the role of female. Their society is built on
|
|
consenting rape!"
|
|
"There's no such thing!" The Earthman gave a disgusted look and crossed his
|
|
legs.
|
|
"It was implying that you'd already lost a fight. Haven't you ever met an
|
|
alien before?"
|
|
"No."
|
|
"From Earth? I'm of Earth decent, but I was born in orbit. I'm an L5 Trojan
|
|
baby." This seemed to puzzle him. He didn't answer.
|
|
I took a long suck from my bottle of beer and wondered for the umpteenth
|
|
time where all the bottle openers had gone.
|
|
"What's your poison?" I asked, wiping froth from my lips with the back of
|
|
one hairy scarred hand.
|
|
"You stock beer? I really need one." I got the impression that he was deeply
|
|
distressed about something.
|
|
"Do we stock beer! Only over four hundred and twenty varieties. From 23
|
|
different planets and 16 major time zones.
|
|
"Time zones? You mean, I'm not the only time traveller that's been in here?"
|
|
"Oh, no. Not by a long chalk. We get them now and then. One in last week
|
|
from 2039. Think he was called John Brendan. He claims to have been a good
|
|
friend of mine in one of the alternates. Says that I died when I was 21 in an
|
|
accident with a parabolic asteroid smelter. I looked identical to the Tony
|
|
Wheelbough from his Universe except that that Tony had a middle name and I've
|
|
none. Creepy, huh? When you from?"
|
|
"Been living in the 1980s for about the last six years. Originally from
|
|
1901. Scotland."
|
|
"Bloody hell! We've never had a record breaker in here before. This calls
|
|
for a drink on the house. Time travel's only existed officially since 1995."
|
|
"So I gather." He gave a deep sigh.
|
|
I fumbled under the bar and triggered the auto-chooser. It was a partially
|
|
organic computer that used comparative subliminal telepathy to deduce which
|
|
drink the customer would get the most pleasure from. It was hardly ever used.
|
|
Most customers didn't like being told what they wanted.
|
|
"Can you prove you're from 1901."
|
|
"No and I don't want to. Just want to forget about everything. Time travel
|
|
has ruined my life."
|
|
"You're in the right place to get things off your chest."
|
|
I took the bottle that had appeared in the hopper of the auto-chooser,
|
|
brushed the thick dusk off the label and poured him out a large measure into
|
|
a heavy, transparent plastic cup.
|
|
"This isn't beer?"
|
|
"What do you want for nothing? Drink it."
|
|
He gave a shrug and poured the whole measure into himself without stopping.
|
|
"Oh, boy is that good. You can feel it doing the harm as it goes down!
|
|
Scotch?"
|
|
I poured him another large one and then showed him the label.
|
|
"Thought so. Glen Lowtil 1850? Never heard of it, but what a year!"
|
|
"Think it comes from Alternative Universe 4. It's very rare. We don't get
|
|
much trade with the Alternates. Too much power expenditure to open a Vinculum
|
|
for long."
|
|
He downed the second glass in another long swallow.
|
|
"Slow down a bit there! What grieves you?" I put the bottle down and he
|
|
helped himself to another. I was relieved when he didn't drink it straight
|
|
down. Just cradled it in his small delicate hands and gazed sadly into the
|
|
golden liquid.
|
|
"Huh! What doesn't?" He spoke quietly and gave a deep sigh.
|
|
"Woman trouble?" I said.
|
|
"Isn't it always?" He took another mouthful. For a second, I thought that he
|
|
was going to cry.
|
|
"Who's the dame?" I asked. It had been a quiet day. If I could encourage him
|
|
to talk, maybe I could kill an hour.
|
|
"Me."
|
|
I know what you're thinking, I must have picked him up wrong. You're right.
|
|
That's what I did think for about 5 seconds, then I remembered that he was a
|
|
time traveller.
|
|
Ever since creatures first thought up the idea of time travel, they've been
|
|
writing fiction about time travellers who fall in love with one of their
|
|
Great Grandparents or their future descendents. In fiction, this is always
|
|
shown to be dangerous. The writers always assume that such actions would be
|
|
harmful to the space/time continuum.
|
|
They always give very complex reasoning as to why this would be bad for the
|
|
space/time continuum. But, as any time traveller would tell you if they were
|
|
allowed to, this is utter rubbish! Time cannot change. Every eventuality that
|
|
is possible is happening somewhere right now. A myriad of alternate universes
|
|
exists like a tapestry of tangled, not quite infinite, spaghetti.
|
|
I realise that the phrase, *not quite infinite*, is like saying, *slightly
|
|
pregnant*, but it's the nearest to an accurate description that I can manage.
|
|
Time travellers can't change time. Their current actions make them jump
|
|
uncontrollably between alternate realities, so that it looks to them that
|
|
history has changed.
|
|
Say that you did the old, going-back-in-time-and-killing-your-Grandfather-
|
|
before-your-own-birth routine. When you got back to your own time, it would
|
|
appear that history had been changed. You'd be wrong.
|
|
History would always have been that way. You'd just be in an alternate
|
|
universe where your Grandfather had been killed by a time traveller from
|
|
another alternative universe. Your original reality would still be there.
|
|
Knowing this means that you could get back in your time machine and jump
|
|
back into the reality where your Grandfather didn't get killed, to find
|
|
nothing had changed.
|
|
Unfortunately, for time travellers, reality jumping is an inexact science.
|
|
They often slip sideways in time and never notice it for weeks; until the
|
|
differences show up and then it becomes really difficult to find their way
|
|
back to their original reality. Everything will look the same until they
|
|
realize that, say, their favourite colour was once red and now their
|
|
possessions show a predominance of blue. At other times the changes may be so
|
|
subtle that they never notice at all. This sort of thing happens to them all
|
|
the time.
|
|
Time travellers are crazy mixed up people.
|
|
The only reality jumping that is totally safe is the mini secured inter-
|
|
dimensional vinculum. To you and me, that means a black hole. Nearly
|
|
impossible to find, there are only a few in the known universes, and they are
|
|
ridiculously expensive to open.
|
|
"Safe" is not exactly the sort of word one would be tempted to bandy about
|
|
in the vicinity of an gravitational force of interplanetary strength which is
|
|
the size of a squashed melon.
|
|
The word "safe", when connected to black holes, means less than one chance
|
|
in a ten of being squashed to the size of an atomic nucleus. That brings the
|
|
odds of completing a two way journey down to one in five.
|
|
Not bad odds if you're getting paid a million credits per jump. It's
|
|
rumoured that the owner of the Tavern made the jump 12 times before quitting
|
|
and investing the money in the business. It's also rumoured that the man who
|
|
took the next jump that he was thinking of going on, the 13th jump, never
|
|
came back.
|
|
Personally, a million credits isn't enough. What does that buy these days?
|
|
Maybe a really nice car or a third hand time machine?
|
|
Not even enough creds to buy your own house.
|
|
I could understand someone being tempted to do the trip once or twice, but
|
|
12 TIMES! Time travellers are not the only crazy people about!
|
|
Enough of this banter. I've digressed enough for the time being. It's time
|
|
to get back to the main story.
|
|
"The woman who's mucked up your life is you?"
|
|
"Yes."
|
|
"Well I've time to kill. Tell me your story." I joined him on his side of
|
|
the bar, opened an extra large bag of Dodo flavoured crisps and pulled over a
|
|
stool.
|
|
"Time to kill. How appropriate." So saying, he took another mouthful of
|
|
Scotch and began to talk.
|
|
|
|
"It was 1985. I had been making a living for sometime as a gambler.
|
|
Nothing big, you understand. Not the football pools or anything like that.
|
|
Just small bets spread throughout two dozen betting shops. I'd jump forwards
|
|
a week, buy a paper with the racing results, jump back and put the bets on.
|
|
Now and then I'd lose sizeable bets deliberately so no one would get
|
|
suspicious.
|
|
I'm led to believe that the time police monitor all famous gamblers, so I'd
|
|
get different trustees most times to put on each bet for a part of the
|
|
winnings.
|
|
I had to be very careful. All it would take was one mention of my amazing
|
|
luck in a newspaper and the time police would be down on me like a ton of
|
|
bricks.
|
|
That never happened. Never get greedy, that's the secret.
|
|
Life was as perfect as it could be. Good food, everything I wanted -
|
|
including enough money to pursue my scientific interests. The only thing that
|
|
was missing was the love of a good woman. That was not really missing because
|
|
I didn't need anyone else in my life.
|
|
Or so I thought.
|
|
It was a Saturday when she walked into my life. It was the Grand National. I
|
|
had just personally put a hundred and fifty pounds on the nose of Last
|
|
Suspect. With a name like that, I would have bet on it anyway. On the way out
|
|
of the betting office, I bumped into her.
|
|
"Sorry!" I started.
|
|
"Oh, there you are. Thought I'd gotten the wrong place." Her voice was high
|
|
pitched but rough, as if she had a sore throat. I started to tell her that
|
|
she must have mistaken me for someone else when I was bewitched by her smile.
|
|
It was a case of love at first sight. She was not what you'd call a looker
|
|
but to me she was an angel.
|
|
A love so strong out of the blue like that was frightening. Bam! It was like
|
|
a firework exploding inside me. A wibbly wobbly feeling under the ribs and a
|
|
coldness of the skin as blood drained suddenly from the extremities. A
|
|
fluttering pain in the stomach. A lightness in the head.
|
|
From the beginning, everything was strange about her. I felt as if I'd known
|
|
her all my life. Her plain curveless body excited me with an intensity that I
|
|
would previously have found impossible to believe could exist in our
|
|
ephemeral sphere of existence.
|
|
Her legs incased in sheer black nylon were lumpy and too muscly. A small
|
|
swell of a bosom and a manly square jaw. Her short, dark hair was sexless and
|
|
her skin had that roughness that only those who have had a lifetime out of
|
|
doors can acquire.
|
|
There was a vigour and strength about her that emanated from her totally
|
|
feminine smile. When she smiled, she smiled not only with her entire body but
|
|
with her soul. A soul that reached out of the one part of her body that could
|
|
be conventionally called sensual. Her eyes. Blue flecked, grey pools of
|
|
tangible eroticism.
|
|
I fell into those pools and came out of the other side a weaker man full of
|
|
an arousal that must surely have been sent straight with a blessing from
|
|
Satan's dark loins.
|
|
Why I felt this way about this stranger froze me to the very core of my
|
|
marrow with terror. Yet, there was a bitter sweetness to the terror that
|
|
complemented the very fabric of this sudden and total devotion.
|
|
One thing only softened the fear. Her reaction to me was the same as mine to
|
|
her. Hot and passionate, our bodies came together like lovers that had been
|
|
long parted. We kissed long and hard before coming down to earth with a sharp
|
|
jolt.
|
|
"Eer, you's should be ashamed. Behaving like that in public. Yide think you
|
|
were teenagers!"
|
|
It was an old woman clutching a betting slip. She pushed past us and out
|
|
into the quite coolness of the street. Laughingly, we followed hand in hand,
|
|
soul in soul, behind her.
|
|
That week became an awakening dream that hurt to remember. A single long
|
|
explosion of primitive orgasm. An intercourse of souls. Two sweating,
|
|
straining, intertwined creatures of pure sexual instinct. A single organism
|
|
agape in its obsession. Needing. Demanding. Burning. Eating. Hurting. A
|
|
passion of infinite depth. A fiery universe of lust.
|
|
And then, with a strange suddenness, the madness was over.
|
|
The talking began.
|
|
As the story unfolded, the intensive fear came back. It deepened and slowly
|
|
turned into disgust and hate.
|
|
She was also a time traveller. More precisely, we were both the same time
|
|
traveller. She was me. I was her. We were one and the same person.
|
|
I had been born with the XX chromosomes of a woman. The hormones of my body
|
|
were all wrong. I never grew facial hair and my voice never broke. These
|
|
things never bothered me. I was a man who never cared for body things.
|
|
Some time in the future, in a far off century, a drug was created that would
|
|
develop the sexual body of an individual to the pattern contained in the
|
|
genetic structure of the chromosomes.
|
|
No more would there be unhappy macho women with muscles and a moustache. No
|
|
more men with smooth, shapely legs and feminine graces. The individual was
|
|
free to develop their real self in a physical way that had never been
|
|
possible before. A lot of sad people had been freed. I was not one of those
|
|
sad people. I was from a century that knew little about chromosomes. She only
|
|
came looking for me to warn me.
|
|
Sometime in the near future, I would commit the unforgivable crime of murder
|
|
and go on the run through time. Taking the chromosome corrector was just an
|
|
extreme method of disguising myself from the time police. Time is a one way
|
|
street, but crime is still crime. Murder is still murder.
|
|
She came back for me with the impossible idea of changing time so that the
|
|
murder would never happen.
|
|
It was unfortunate, but inevitable, that we would fall in love. Mankind's
|
|
animal herd instincts make us search for those most like us to breed with.
|
|
Who is more instinctively and hormonal suitable than a sexually opposite
|
|
exact copy of one's self?
|
|
Exact fitting chemical pheromones provide the strongest of aphrodisiacs. An
|
|
instinctively perfect understanding of each others body language and sexual
|
|
desires are a time bomb. Animal lust can be the only outcome.
|
|
I felt so angry. So dirty.
|
|
In the society in which I was brought up, the worse thing that one could do
|
|
was to be caught touching one's self in a sexual way. I had sex with a female
|
|
version of myself. What had occurred was an incestuous, masturbatory,
|
|
homosexual act of obscenity! It was a crime of morality that could not be
|
|
forgiven.
|
|
How could *she* do such a thing to me?
|
|
The truth brought me to the edge of madness and over into the red cloud of
|
|
rage.
|
|
When the mists of hate had cleared, I was standing over her body holding the
|
|
handle of my old revolver. Blue sulphurous smoke drifted from the barrel and
|
|
my ears rang with the deafening silence that followed the penetration of
|
|
another human being by two killing projectiles.
|
|
Two almost black holes in her side leaked her life away into scarlet pools
|
|
of betrayal and waste. There was movement in those sexual eyes. A question
|
|
unanswerable.
|
|
Why?
|
|
Then nothing. That fragile spark, that we call life, was gone for good. She
|
|
didn't live there any more. Oh, my God! What had I done? I had killed her!
|
|
I had killed my self?
|
|
With my gun still smoking, I ran from that place. Must go into time
|
|
and...what?
|
|
I set the time machine adrift without any coordinates and drifted into a
|
|
morbid flux of despair. A long time later, I became aware that the time
|
|
machine had stopped.
|
|
I got out and found my self outside of what appeared to be a drinking
|
|
establishment and wandered inside."
|
|
|
|
He finished the tale, took a long slug from the bottle and suddenly began to
|
|
sob uncontrollably. He slumped across the bar. The bottle was knocked over.
|
|
Most of the remains spilled out before I snatched it up.
|
|
"What am I to do? What am I to do?" He said quietly over and over again.
|
|
He was lucky to be alive. Every so often, a time machine with unset
|
|
coordinates turns up here at the edge of time and space. Sometimes, the
|
|
occupants are dead from starvation or dehydration. Some, the luckier ones,
|
|
end up in here in the Tavern.
|
|
"Have another drink," I said, putting the bottle back down beside him.
|
|
I went into the back room and called the time pigs. Like the man said,
|
|
murder is still murder. When I got back he was just finishing of the final
|
|
remains of the bottle.
|
|
"The worst of it is, I can't stop it. Its going to happen again. This time
|
|
I'll be the one who gets killed. And then It'll happen again, and again and
|
|
again! Round and round in time until the killing time comes around again!"
|
|
He took a pocket watch out of a coat pocket and put it on the bar.
|
|
"Here. Payment for the drink. I must go back and try and stop it before the
|
|
cycle gets properly started."
|
|
He left in a hurry. I didn't try to stop him. Video cameras by the doors
|
|
take pictures of everybody who comes in or out. The time pigs would get him
|
|
unless he did something drastic, like disguising himself by changing his sex
|
|
or hiding out close to the scene of the crime.
|
|
I had a look at the watch.
|
|
Huh!
|
|
Just as I expected. Crappy Victorian junk! I threw it straight in the bin. I
|
|
wouldn't see him again, at least, not in this reality.
|
|
Like I said, time travellers are crazy mixed up people!
|
|
Just then, one of the far doors was kicked open and a noisy group of bright
|
|
green feathered Arcturan army conscripts breezed nosily into the Tavern. They
|
|
would be itching to spend their monthly pay checks. There would be many more
|
|
arriving after that lot.
|
|
It was time to call up some more bar staff.
|
|
"Good day gents! What's your poison?"
|
|
|
|
Original version written July 1991, (c) Bryan H.Joyce.
|
|
|
|
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
STAR RAY
|
|
by Richard Karsmakers
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
|
|
|
|
Note: A rather complex and certainly experimental thing written as part of
|
|
the ST NEWS magazine software review of Logotron's "Star Ray".
|
|
A part of its original introduction has been left almost intact, which might
|
|
serve to help you a bit. The actual thing contains three stories that end up
|
|
as one. Well, sortof.
|
|
|
|
A very cold and hard autumn wind is blowing outside. Gusts of rain smash
|
|
into the window panes and make me feel even more lonely and melancholic than
|
|
I feel (if you know what I mean). It's dangerous to go outside now; only in
|
|
last Saturday's papers could be read that the rain had the pH of vinegar...
|
|
Sweet thoughts about Miranda - the lady of my heart - are floating through
|
|
my brain, together with the fondest wish to be with her now, keeping one
|
|
another warm while listening to the violent weather outside. If only that
|
|
could be true...
|
|
Tomorrow, I will have to perform a heavy zoology test - which I will
|
|
probably not make successfully since I haven't done anything for it so far.
|
|
As usual, at times like these, I get sudden enormous amounts of inspiration
|
|
and then I just *have* to write. Whether it's any good for my academic future
|
|
or not. You shouldn't feel too guilty now (I already doubted you would),
|
|
since I couldn't think of anything else but Miranda anyway. She is now
|
|
present in every cell of my brain - even the whole rest of my body. She's
|
|
gorgeous, sensual and adorable, nice, understanding and lots more that is
|
|
none of your business. She's THE girl for me.
|
|
Isn't it strange? It is as though, outside, the clouds are gathering to form
|
|
a large circle in the skies. A circle out of which purple light appears. It
|
|
is raining more viciously by the minute.
|
|
|
|
But listen to me now, again talking like a raving mad about girls, girls and
|
|
nothing but girls. This here is no medium created for the sole purpose of
|
|
spilling forth my oral diarrhoea, is it? So I will now continue with that
|
|
what we are all here for, somethint called "Star Ray".
|
|
I'm just wondering what the plot of this will have to be. I can't seem to
|
|
come up with a decent one.
|
|
|
|
*****
|
|
|
|
The Growing Pains of Cronos Warchild (Part II)
|
|
|
|
(For those of you that hadn't guessed it already: This is
|
|
where the whole thing really starts)
|
|
|
|
Location: Kryptium, a small and remote planet somewhere in the Universe.
|
|
Further details not present in database.
|
|
Atmosphere: Almost entirely carbon monoxyde and sulphuric acids. High water
|
|
concentration indicates large seas covering its surface.
|
|
Lifeforms: Only minuscule creatures still alive in the seas.
|
|
Remark: Formerly inhabited by humans. Now automatic production plant.
|
|
|
|
"What the hell are we here for?!" murmured Cronos Warchild, mercenary annex
|
|
hired gun, when he checked the readout on his machine's plasma computer
|
|
screen.
|
|
His fist smashed against the control panel, causing his craft to make some
|
|
rather unusual movements through the damp and quite dangerously acid sky.
|
|
Had he known that a computer freak had once been down there, hundreds of
|
|
years ago, being sad and lonely and staring outside to the gusts of rain
|
|
smashing against the window pane, Warchild might have felt a bit comforted.
|
|
Then again, he might have not at all.
|
|
He murmured a bit more, turned some knobs on the panel and pushed some
|
|
buttons. The sterile readout screen vanished, to be replaced by the even more
|
|
sterile face of the Home Base Android.
|
|
"Good...." (the Android check its watch) "...evening, sir. What might I do
|
|
to make your day a better one?"
|
|
|
|
At a location quite near to Warchild's, only way back in the fourth
|
|
dimension, a lonely computer programmer sat in his room. He was also watching
|
|
the night sky solemnly, listening to gusts of rain smashing against the
|
|
window pane. Yet this man was completely unaware of any such problems as
|
|
those that occurred with Warchild - nor for those that occurred at a
|
|
relatively minute distance eastward that mainly involved a stunning girl
|
|
whose name shall not again be mentioned here as well as the writing of a good
|
|
sort of story with a decent kind of plot.
|
|
He was playing with his moustache, much in the way his father had always
|
|
told him not to, when, suddenly, he bent forward and typed some code in an
|
|
assembler program. To an outsider it might have appeared like he was
|
|
momentarily freakin' out. He looked at the lines, assembled the code and
|
|
executed the program.
|
|
|
|
"S(censored)t!" (Warchild just uttered an, unfortunately commonly used,
|
|
synonym for an animal's excrements)
|
|
"Pardon me?" the Android on the other end of the line stammered. "The word
|
|
you just utilized is on the list of banned words, as specified during the
|
|
Gore Convention, July 1994, and I am therefore authorized, yes, actually
|
|
*obliged*, to ban YOU from this intercontinental support network. Thank you
|
|
for having us attempt to make your day a better one. Don't bother to do so
|
|
again. I wish you a good..." (the Android checked its watch and shook his
|
|
head at his own lack of memory) "...evening. Have fun being left on your own
|
|
accord."
|
|
BLEEP.
|
|
The screen went black again, and after a picosecond pause the planet's
|
|
status readout reappeared on the screen.
|
|
Warchild's only reaction to this fact was the utilization of an,
|
|
unfortunately also quite commonly used, synonym for the process through which
|
|
most higher organic lifeforms (especially those with a backbone that live on
|
|
dry land) try, and indeed often succeed, to multiply themselves.
|
|
Had the Android not immediately disconnected the line, Warchild would
|
|
probably have tried one of his Kill-O-Gadgets on him, electrocuting him at
|
|
distance, or something likewise.
|
|
But the Android had, so Cronos couldn't.
|
|
|
|
An extremely violent gust of rain smashed against the computer programmer's
|
|
window again. He looked up from the keyboard, realizing that the weather
|
|
wasn't particularly improving.
|
|
The phone rang. He took the receiver without hesitation; this new game of
|
|
his wasn't coming anywhere, anyway. No good plot. Answering the phone
|
|
wouldn't hurt whatever fragment of inspiration that might or might not be
|
|
lingering somewhere deep within him.
|
|
"Hello? Steve here."
|
|
"Yeah. Herbert here," the voice on the other end said, "is that new game of
|
|
yours coming anywhere, anyway? Remember that the deadline's not far off,
|
|
please, Steve!"
|
|
"But, er...Herbert, listen, I've got this...."
|
|
"No time to chat now, Steve. Must be goin'! Be hearin' ya!"
|
|
Before the line went dead, the programmer imagined hearing a sound as if two
|
|
connected plungers were taken apart. There was also, so it seemed, some
|
|
sighing and moaning.
|
|
|
|
Warchild's trigger finger was getting itchy. Something BAD had better turn
|
|
up soon so that he could get rid of his frustrations. On second thought,
|
|
something GOOD might also suffice.
|
|
He lowered his craft so that he was now below the thin layers of purple mist
|
|
that normally kept the planet's surface from sight. Relatively small
|
|
production platforms could be seen on the planet's surface, regularly
|
|
distributed.
|
|
His lasers spoke. One platform was blasted into thousands of tiny fragments.
|
|
A smile appeared on Cronos' lips. He liked senseless violence.
|
|
If he would have looked in his rear view mirror, Warchild would have seen
|
|
the purple mists transforming into a disc-shaped appearance, that seemed to
|
|
draw matter to its centre.
|
|
A message appeared on the on-board computer screen.
|
|
|
|
Steve, the computer programmer, was sitting back in his chair, relaxed. Or,
|
|
rather, *seemingly* relaxed. His mind was working overtime. He simply *had*
|
|
to come up with a decent plot, or concept, or whatever, or he could kiss this
|
|
Logotron job goodbye. Permanently. He was not even disturbed by the clouds
|
|
outside, that now seemed to regroup themselves around a centre out of which a
|
|
soft, purple light came.
|
|
He closed his eyes and thought deep, completely unaware of what was
|
|
happening outside now. If Steve had been an Android, his current state would
|
|
be reffered to as Total Sensory Perception Shutdown.
|
|
|
|
A name suddenly popped up in Warchild's mind. A name that he had never heard
|
|
before. Together with that name, a vision came. A vision of a girl of utmost
|
|
gorgeousness, niceness, sensuality, adorability, well...everything a guy
|
|
could possibly want. For a moment, her fawnen eyes met his. Although this
|
|
never happened in his particular plane of reality, it was as if Cronos' heart
|
|
suddenly melted. As if, unlikely though this sounded, a crust fell off.
|
|
By then he had already been sucked in by the tornado of purple mist that
|
|
had been gaining behind him.
|
|
|
|
ZAP.
|
|
Silence, only if it was for a microsecond.
|
|
BAM! (A very loud 'bam', by the way)
|
|
"Miranda?" the programmer suddenly wondered as he opened his eyes again. He
|
|
must have been dreaming, as he now saw a gorgeous, nice, sensual and adorable
|
|
girl walking over the surface of a planet he had never laid eyes on before
|
|
now. A small craft was hanging in the air, having just wiped out what seemed
|
|
like a small production platform on the surface. It was now no more than a
|
|
shapeless heap of garbage.
|
|
Everything seemed covered by purple light now, something that even Steve
|
|
found extremely weird (him being a game programmer, that should say something
|
|
about the weirdness of it all). And where, for heaven's sake, did this girl
|
|
fit in?
|
|
|
|
Warchild spotted an alien spacecraft, soaring closer and closer to the girl.
|
|
Who was that strange chap down there, the one with the moustache and the
|
|
baldening head?
|
|
No matter what, the alien craft had to be zapped utterly. Evaporized
|
|
exceedingly.
|
|
ZAP.
|
|
EVAPORIZE!
|
|
|
|
Steve sat stunned in his room, his eyes wide open. The window had broken,
|
|
the rain was staining the carpet dark wet. He stood up and looked outside,
|
|
only to see more rain. He thought he saw a small purple cloud disappear into
|
|
nothingness in the distance. He felt the rain on his eyes. It burnt a bit.
|
|
"Damn it! Feels like vinegar!" he cursed.
|
|
Then, his face brightened up. He had just envisioned a great plot. In his
|
|
new game, the player would have to guard the priceless energy cells of a new
|
|
and mysterious planet, somewhere in an obscure corner of the Universe. A
|
|
modern-day version of the good ol' arcade game "Defender". He decided to call
|
|
the planet...er...Kryptium would do nicely.
|
|
He felt a definite urge to introduce a gorgeous girl into the plot but,
|
|
remembering all the quarrels he had had with his wife during his married life
|
|
(including the three major ones, the ones other people refer to as 'kids'),
|
|
he decided not to do so.
|
|
He dialled a number on his phone.
|
|
At the other end, a click could be heard, some sighing and groaning after
|
|
that, and then a tired: "Herbert here..."
|
|
|
|
Warchild looked around. Not even the battered remains of the alien spaceship
|
|
were there to be seen. The mysterious chap and, what was worse, the
|
|
mindstaggeringly exquisite girl had disappeared, too.
|
|
His presence here was useless, after all. He decided to go back and kick
|
|
some ass. His physician first, for he seemed to have life-sized daydreams
|
|
recently, and his analyst next. Last, but surely not least, he would try out
|
|
one of his Kill-O-Gadgets on the guy that sent him here. The Behead-O-Axe? Or
|
|
perhaps his Blood-O-Sucker? He would see.
|
|
Where had all that purple mist gone?
|
|
As he left Kryptium's unhealthy atmosphere, he casually glanced at his rear
|
|
view mirror. He adjusted it so that it no longer reflected the alien
|
|
spacecraft that suddenly popped up from all directions, which started
|
|
destroying the planet's production platforms. Instead he now saw his own
|
|
hair. He combed it.
|
|
He smiled to himself. Er...on second thought, he'd better hop over to his
|
|
dentist instead of his analyst. Quite some work to be done there.
|
|
Was it not yet too late to get involved with females?
|
|
|
|
Way back in the fourth dimension, and at a relatively minute distance east
|
|
of our computer programmer, a computer freak looked outside and noted that it
|
|
had stopped raining. He had almost forgotten all his worries with regard to a
|
|
certain girl as he looked at a small purple spot in the night sky, high above
|
|
him.
|
|
It vanished.
|
|
"I think I've got a nice plot for my introductory novelette", he thought,
|
|
"But let's hope the readers won't find it a bit too complicated..."
|
|
He got up from his chair, now putting aside all thoughts about the lady of
|
|
his heart. He turned on his computer system and started typing.
|
|
"The Growing Pains of Cronos Warchild (Part II)" he spoke aloud, as he typed
|
|
the sentence on his keyboard.
|
|
|
|
Original version written October 1988. Rehashed July 1993. By the way, I
|
|
*did* pass that zoology test. As a matter of fact it was the only test I ever
|
|
passed during my Biology studies, that I was to quit less than five months
|
|
later.
|
|
|
|
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
RICK DANGEROUS
|
|
by Richard Karsmakers
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
|
|
Inspired by the Stavromula Beta thing in Douglas Adams
|
|
(And with a touch of Terry Pratchett)
|
|
|
|
|
|
The jungle was dense and even slightly foggy. The cries of exotic birds
|
|
littered the brainwaves of Sir Richard 'Rick' Jones. He wiped some sweat off
|
|
his brow, preventing it from dripping in his eyes and obscuring his sight.
|
|
A rather exotic (though rather precarious) gnat had the somewhat irritating
|
|
tendency of flying around his head. With a carefully aimed prod of his stick,
|
|
he ricocheted the little invertebrate into the lurking womb of some kind of
|
|
carnivore plant.
|
|
"Oh no. Shit." the gnat thought to itself.
|
|
The plant didn't take long to react. It quickly closed its womb into a
|
|
little prison out of which no living beings smaller than a mouse would ever
|
|
be able to escape.
|
|
The unfortunate gnat made a sound like that of an air particle colliding
|
|
with another, and ceased to exist.
|
|
|
|
Sir Jones looked around him with a rather pleased look in his eyes.
|
|
Something caught the attention of that rather pleased look. It was a small
|
|
plant, struggling to get up through the dense, damp jungle soil.
|
|
"Interesting," Sir Jones muttered to himself, and bent down to examine it
|
|
more closely.
|
|
As he did so, he saw something shining underneath that particular little
|
|
plant that was still, almost visibly, struggling to get up and behold the
|
|
warm rays of the afternoon sun.
|
|
An eager look replaced the pleased one.
|
|
"Oh no. Shit." the little plant thought to itself.
|
|
Guessing that there might be some kind of archaeological treasure hidden
|
|
under the little greenie, Sir Jones tore away the little sapling and
|
|
uncovered a small thing with some shining parts on it - as well as a piece of
|
|
skin-coloured plastic that seemed to have been shaped like the inner part of
|
|
an ear.
|
|
A hearing aid.
|
|
The sprout made a sound like a drop of water falling on an immeasurably
|
|
large piece of desert sand. After having done that, it simply ceased to
|
|
exist.
|
|
|
|
Now what was Sir Jones to do with a hearing aid?
|
|
Nothing, you may think. And that, by some extraordinary coincidence, was Sir
|
|
Jones' thought too.
|
|
So he tossed it away with an air of nonchalance, thereby killing a tiny
|
|
little bug that was eating off the remains of what used to be a fresh and
|
|
young sapling struggling to get through the dense and damp jungle soil to
|
|
have a look at what the warm sun rays would be like.
|
|
Just before the tiny little bug saw the hearing aid on collision course, it
|
|
felt a strange kind of nausea.
|
|
"Oh no. Shit." the tiny little bug said to itself.
|
|
The hearing aid, no bigger than a man's inner ear, was of formidable
|
|
dimensions in comparison to the tiny little bug.
|
|
It had no chance and died quite instantaneously.
|
|
It didn't even make a sound.
|
|
|
|
"HA! There it is!" Sir Jones cried triumphantly.
|
|
He saw the jungle growing less dense before him, and a large cave could be
|
|
seen beyond the branches that hung there, partly obscuring it.
|
|
Finally, he had reached the goal of this journey: The uncharted caves where
|
|
Incas had one day dwelled. A place, so he had heard, of immense wealth and
|
|
immeasurable treasures. "Stacks and stacks of 'em," his museum director had
|
|
quoted before he sent Rick off on this archaeological treasure hunt.
|
|
He carefully pushed aside the branches, and brushed the spider webs from his
|
|
forehead (also making sure that the sweat kept on not dripping in his eyes).
|
|
A gasp of breath came from him when he now saw the cave entrance in all its
|
|
full glory before him. It was several times a high as him, and perhaps just a
|
|
tiny fraction less so in width. Around this arch, there were texts written in
|
|
all kinds of strange dialects of equally strange and possibly very obscure
|
|
tongues. "Hakkitakkiwegballezakki!" he decyphered aloud, as well as "Wie dit
|
|
leest is gek", "Scott me up Beamie, A.L." and "Durex is the best...you know
|
|
what to do with the rest!"
|
|
There was a faint ring in his mind that told him the latter one was perhaps
|
|
not genuinely authentic.
|
|
Then he saw something that was even more important.
|
|
There was a door in the arch. It was made of thick stone and didn't look
|
|
like it would open easily.
|
|
"Oh no. Shit." Sir Jones muttered to himself.
|
|
"Hey chap! That's my line!" a little, happily flying butterfly said before
|
|
this momentary distraction caused it to fly equally happily into that very
|
|
same, thick, stone door and to cease to exist.
|
|
|
|
Sir Jones scraped the dead butterfly remains off the door and carefully
|
|
scanned as much of the door as he could, by touching every inch of it, and at
|
|
times knocking and listening to the lack of echo.
|
|
The sun was already setting, and Sir Jones realized he had to set up some
|
|
kind of camp quickly if he didn't get in before soon.
|
|
It was at times like this, when the melancholy of a setting sun struck his
|
|
being, that he started wondering about certain things of nature. For example,
|
|
why the sun was there during the day and not at night - during which its
|
|
light would certainly have come in handy.
|
|
And that just among many other things.
|
|
He discarded these thoughts rapidly as he noticed that the door seemed to
|
|
open when he touched some kind of oval that was vaguely visible in the door.
|
|
He stepped aside.
|
|
The scent of centuries of death, damp stone and urine struck him like a ton
|
|
of bricks.
|
|
He staggered for some seconds, then regained his composure and walked in.
|
|
He did this while carefully prodding with his stick in all directions. He
|
|
kept his revolver handy as well - just in case.
|
|
It was at the moment that he totally unexpectedly bumped into something
|
|
utterly huge when he remembered that he had forgotten to take with him
|
|
something like a torch. So everything was now pitch dark around him - which
|
|
was only logical, for even the Inca torches that hung silently on the cave
|
|
walls, probably having been left lit many centuries ago, had by now ceased to
|
|
cast off their eerie, dancing light.
|
|
He tore a piece off his trousers, wound it around his stick and lit it.
|
|
The bright light sufficed to show him that he had bumped into a leg.
|
|
A leg of formidable dimensions.
|
|
Attached to the top of that leg was what seemed to be like a giant. A giant
|
|
of gigantic giantish proportions, even (quite big as far as giants go,
|
|
actually).
|
|
The giant looked down at the pathetic little human with a pleased look in
|
|
its eyes, and gave forth a wicked laugh.
|
|
"REVENGE." it said.
|
|
Something inside Sir Richard 'Rick' Jones made him assume that he was in
|
|
some shit of the deepest conceivable kind.
|
|
"FINALLY, THE TIME HAS ARRIVED." the giant of gigantic giantish proportions
|
|
further proclaimed.
|
|
Yes. Something now even told Sir Jones that he was absolutely right in his
|
|
aforementioned assumption.
|
|
"AFTER DEATH UPON DEATH, I AM NOW DECIDEDLY IN THE DISPOSITION THAT ALLOWS
|
|
FOR SOME INDUSTRIOUS RETALIATION." the giant related.
|
|
Sir Jones was beginning to wonder about what life after death would be like
|
|
- and if there indeed *was* any. He also wondered what 'retaliation' was.
|
|
The giant was now obviously all set and prepared to execute the retaliatory
|
|
actions it had announced in one of its earlier statements. It lifted its
|
|
enormous foot (the one at the lower end of the enormous leg into which Sir
|
|
Jones had bumped) and carefully aimed at putting it back at precisely the
|
|
piece of floor that was currently being occupied by the zealous
|
|
archaeologist.
|
|
All Sir Jones could do was grab his revolver and aim it at that foot.
|
|
He shot.
|
|
And he shot again.
|
|
There was no deafening cry (or not even anything remotely similar) to be
|
|
heard, but the foot halted in mid air.
|
|
A chuckle could be heard. Well....it was more like the onset of thunder, but
|
|
relative to gigantically giantish proportions it was probably indeed a
|
|
chuckle.
|
|
Sir Jones shot again.
|
|
The chuckle (or onset of thunder, whatever relation you prefer) transferred
|
|
in some laughing quite unheard before by any mortal. It actually sounded like
|
|
a whole host of Thunder God football hooligans were clashing their clouds and
|
|
throwing hammers around.
|
|
"NO. NO. PLEASE DON'T DO THAT. PLEASE DON'T."
|
|
The giant had difficulty pronouncing the words in between its violent fits
|
|
of hard-core laughter. Obviously, the bullets were doing something to its
|
|
foot that caused it to laugh its head right off.
|
|
If it would continue like that, it *would*...
|
|
|
|
Just before a loud 'pop' preceded the falling of a giant rounded object on
|
|
the floor (causing the giant to cease to exist), it sighed sadly:
|
|
"OH NO. SHIT."
|
|
The way was now free for Sir Richard "Rick" Jones to proceed deep into the
|
|
innards of the temple - his torch shedding light on the dangerous halls he
|
|
was about to enter.
|
|
A little exotic (and, indeed, precarious) gnat flew with him into the dark,
|
|
unknown halls.
|
|
It had the nasty (and, indeed, irritating) tendency of constantly flying
|
|
around the archaeologist's head.
|
|
|
|
Original version written Spring 1990. Rehashed July 1993 (not a lot,
|
|
though).
|
|
|
|
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
THE WILD LIVER
|
|
by Bryan Kennerley
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
|
|
|
|
It was early morning in the local High Street, as it was everywhere else in
|
|
the neighbourhood, and the roads were deserted except for the odd van or
|
|
truck, speeding around the empty streets on their way to deliver their loads
|
|
before the emptiness was spoiled by the daily rush of traffic, at what passed
|
|
for a rush hour in this town whose name, if I told you it, would probably be
|
|
forgotten before this tale is through.
|
|
The story begins with one truck in particular, not an exceptionally unusual
|
|
truck but one whose contents were, comparitively speaking, slightly less
|
|
ordinary. The lorry was, as most are, filthy. The dirt of aeons had
|
|
apparently gathered on the sides and tail of it in the days that it had been
|
|
since the last cleaning, and primitive life was starting to evolve. It is
|
|
doubtful that the truck had any thoughts on the matter, but if it had then it
|
|
would probably agree whole-heartedly with the legend emblazened on its tail
|
|
gate by some youth's wandering fingers, "Clean me". The youth in question
|
|
obviously had other things on his mind when the opportunity for wit had
|
|
glanced its way through his rather tedious life.
|
|
The vehicle in question was of the refrigerated variety and bore a load of
|
|
various meats for all the butcher's shops in the area. It is fortunate that
|
|
the article in question was unloaded at the first stop, at least for you the
|
|
reader, because the whole journey was rather uninteresting and was otherwise
|
|
the kind of thing that happens every day in unremarkable towns all over the
|
|
country. The axles groaned as the vehicle mounted the pavement as if to
|
|
announce the fact that the driver was well aware that the town was empty, and
|
|
that if he had flattened an innocent pedestrian then it was their own fault
|
|
for being up so early anyway. That's the kind of driver he was and as it
|
|
happened that was precisely why he did it.
|
|
The gang of lifters jumped out of the cab, donning their gloves as they had
|
|
done so many times before and began the process of moving so many hundred-
|
|
weight of meat and offal in as short a time as possible. This they managed
|
|
without any major problems although one of them had somehow managed to cut
|
|
his finger whilst carrying a crate of offal. "Strange", he thought because he
|
|
was sure that he was wearing his gloves.....
|
|
The lorry drove on, leaving the butcher's shop to await the arrival of the
|
|
shoppers on which its life, such that it was, depended. The sun rose, cars
|
|
came and went and slowly people that got up at a sensible hour of the day
|
|
began to drift in and out of shops. Those that got up at a less sensible hour
|
|
slowly staggered in and out more than drifted but in and out they went
|
|
nonetheless. At first all seemed well, the occasional pork rib, chicken
|
|
breast and even some tongue was purveyed to customers with appropriate
|
|
degrees of daring. But then, an oldish lady, of indistinguishable age
|
|
somewhere between 70 and 103, pottered into the shop and asked for some
|
|
liver.
|
|
"Certainly madam," said the butcher, "Is this piece big enough?"
|
|
"Yes, that'll be fine," came the wavering reply. The butcher placed the
|
|
liver in question onto the scales but when he announced the price to the old
|
|
lady she muttered forth, "Oh dear, the prices have gone up again haven't
|
|
they?"
|
|
"Yes, I'm afraid so luv, there's been some trouble with the lorry drivers
|
|
goin' on strike. Apparently a pedestrian was run over during one of the
|
|
deliveries - of course the union didn't agree with sacking the driver, they
|
|
said it wasn't his fault. I'll cut a bit off for yer shall I?"
|
|
"Yes, if you would," came the innocent reply. The butcher turned around and
|
|
selected his favourite knife from the rack behind him - is was this kind of
|
|
thing that made being a butcher worthwhile. It gleamed an unnatural gleam in
|
|
the light from the single "Fly-o-zap" lamp on the wall. It was making a
|
|
strange buzzing noise that he hadn't heard it make before - he made a mental
|
|
note to fix it later. He turned back to the counter but just as he was about
|
|
to slice through the meat he was mildly surprised to find that it leapt off
|
|
the scales and ran off into the corner of the store. It wasn't the actual
|
|
event that threw him of balance, more the crushing disappointment that he
|
|
wasn't going to have to slice through blood red flesh after all. He knew
|
|
instantly that it was going to be one of those days.
|
|
"I bet it's a Wednesday," he said to himself. As it happened it was in fact
|
|
a Tuesday but it is perhaps comforting to know that when Wednesday did indeed
|
|
arrive the butcher contracted food poisoning from one of his own meat pies,
|
|
and as a result was closed down by the Health and Safety department.
|
|
"Well, how about this piece then luv," he said pointing vaguely to the vast
|
|
array of liver which he proudly arranged each morning so as to maximise the
|
|
vagueness of his pointing.
|
|
|
|
The liver wasn't stupid, at least it didn't think it was. It had just
|
|
managed to grasp the principle "I think therefore I am liver" when some great
|
|
creature had come along with a pointy sharp thing and it had had the
|
|
overwhelming feeling that it did not want to be friends. So here it was on
|
|
the floor, covered in a fine layer of dust. It was quite fond of its colour,
|
|
kind of greyish but with a definate tint of deep red throughout its form. It
|
|
glanced back up at the wall, for although it had no eyes or other immediately
|
|
obvious sensory apparatus, no-one had told it so. The blue light of the fly-
|
|
o-zap seemed to beckon it somehow and for a moment it became entranced by the
|
|
dull gleam. The liver couldn't help feeling somehow attached to the object
|
|
responsible for that dull buzz and strange sensation that had made its body
|
|
tingle when it had been placed onto the scales. It was at this moment that
|
|
the butcher grew tired of the incessant buzzing behind him and thumped the
|
|
thing on the wall. It flickered for a moment and then went out. The buzzing
|
|
had stopped and the butcher was satisfied that this act of mindless violence
|
|
had been a job well done.
|
|
OK, what next? The liver wasn't without instinct, after all it had managed
|
|
to flee the butcher's knife without too much difficulty, so it decided to
|
|
explore. Moving was a little difficult, lacking in the limb department as
|
|
livers so often are nowadays. Its movement couldn't be described as walking
|
|
as such, but instead it moved in a kind of strained wriggling, like a worm
|
|
but with the added ability to raise itself up slightly on what it had decided
|
|
was its hindquarters. It slowly pushed itself along into the back of the
|
|
store, leaving a trail of drying blood behind it.
|
|
It was getting pretty confident now and moved with a grace that only a liver
|
|
could possess. Outside the liver had its first experience of sunlight. It
|
|
vaguely remembered being surrounded by a dull red glow but that now seemed to
|
|
be ages ago, almost in another life. The light beamed down into the alley,
|
|
down onto the liver's back and seemed to give new energy and vigour to the
|
|
organ. If a liver could dance then that would be a fair description of what
|
|
it did as it travelled down that alley, indeed it would be quite a good
|
|
description as its movement closely resembled one of the recent dance trends
|
|
in one particularly tacky night club in the area. Of course the liver did not
|
|
know this and neither did the people who had started this dance trend, which
|
|
is rather a shame really.
|
|
Suddenly the liver heard voices coming from just around the corner. It
|
|
pricked up two nodules on its front end which had probably been arteries in
|
|
its previous existance. The voices were getting louder which, it reasoned,
|
|
meant that they must be getting closer. It decided to play dead.
|
|
A gang of 3 or 4 youths careered down the alley making counting their actual
|
|
number rather difficult. They had obviously been drinking and moved somewhat
|
|
less graciously than the liver had done. One of them had an extremely dirty
|
|
finger.
|
|
"Hey, wassaden!" offered one.
|
|
"Dunno....wasswaden?!" offered another.
|
|
"Datodair, i' looks lika, o i dunno. Hey Gav, wassaden!"
|
|
"It's a liver isn't it chaps?" replied Gavin, the intelligent one of the
|
|
group which doesn't say much for their collective IQ.
|
|
"Sa footy innit?" said the first and kicked it at Gavin. If there's one
|
|
thing he hated it was a smart-arse. It missed but Gavin tried to return it
|
|
and quite a game started up. Well, quite a short game started up because
|
|
after a few kicks up the backside the liver had decided football wasn't its
|
|
favourite sport and proceeded to scramble off down the alley as quickly as
|
|
its rear haunches could propel it.
|
|
"Hey, wessaballgone?!" - the chase was on.
|
|
It wasn't a particularly fast chase, the liver kept its lead ahead of the
|
|
tailing bunch, more because of their falling over themselves and the
|
|
occasional molecule of air than its outstanding sprinting ability.
|
|
Unfortunately the liver hadn't had any experience of finding its way through
|
|
back alleys and it didn't take long for it to run into a dead end. One of the
|
|
youths who clearly fancied himself as the leader of their clan stepped
|
|
forward.
|
|
"Yer a norty little footy intcha?!" he mumbled in what obviously passed for
|
|
his most authoritative voice. The liver was scared. It most definately did
|
|
not like being stuck in a corner and threatened by a mumbling moron. Not many
|
|
people know how dangerous a liver can be when threatened and this goes doubly
|
|
so for this particular mumbling moron, so it came as a great surprise when
|
|
his "little footy" raised itself onto its hind quarters and leapt into the
|
|
air towards him.
|
|
The pounce was carefully calculated and aimed and hit home right on the
|
|
youth's throat where the creature stayed, fixed more firmly than by any glue,
|
|
and sucked. A searing, agonizing pain burnt through the youth's upper chest
|
|
and neck as the blood was absorbed through the very pores of his flesh. For
|
|
the liver had no teeth to bite through the flesh nor claws to rip open the
|
|
veins so all it could do was to suck, more powerful than any leech. Of course
|
|
the victim screamed to his 'pals' to get the footy off him but by the time
|
|
they had realised that it wasn't another drunken game, thought for a while,
|
|
gawped at Gavin after he had calmly informed them that this was 'jolly odd
|
|
behaviour for a liver', and looked with great curiosity at the strange colour
|
|
that their 'pal' was turning, it was rather too late for them to do anything
|
|
about it. He slumped lifeless to the floor, his hands still clutching at his
|
|
throat as a reminder of his last efforts to remove the thing that had drained
|
|
his very life-sap from his body.
|
|
Two of the remaining three turned and ran which given the circumstances
|
|
seemed to be the best immediate course of action. The other youth just stood
|
|
there, open mouthed at the scene of horror that he had just witnessed. His
|
|
friend lay there, his flesh an unnatural shade of pale several tones lighter
|
|
even than corpses are usually imagined to be. The liver was just finishing
|
|
its meal, draining the last traces of colour from the empty husk lying on the
|
|
floor. It was now several times larger than it had been and had obviously
|
|
enjoyed the nourishment it had discovered inside its aggressor. It was aware
|
|
of being watched and slowly turned around to face the remaining stooge.
|
|
Perhaps it was just his imagination but before he turned and ran after his
|
|
friends he could have sworn that the liver snarled at him.
|
|
It was quite pleased with how things had turned out. Not only had it fought
|
|
off its attackers but it had also had a pumping hearty meal. It felt quite
|
|
strange now, partly because it was unaccustomed to its new, bloated size but
|
|
also because the source of its food had been slightly more than a little
|
|
drunk. The liver wobbled off into a storage shed it had found to digest its
|
|
meal and, unbeknown to it at the time, become the first liver to discover
|
|
what the word 'hangover' meant.
|
|
|
|
Several hours passed before the liver became aware of its surroundings once
|
|
more. A figure was moving around inside the shed with it. It backed further
|
|
into the shadows so it could observe the figure unseen.
|
|
The tramp shuffled around, looking for a clear spot in which to spend the
|
|
night. Having found what passed for a clear patch he crouched down into a
|
|
sitting position and took yet another swig of whatever was contained in the
|
|
brown paper bag he held in his left hand. He thought he heard movement in the
|
|
opposite corner of the shed but he had got used to rats in this neighbourhood
|
|
and anyway, he had learnt that they didn't think much of his particular
|
|
flavour. Unfortunately he hadn't learnt that livers hadn't got such delicate
|
|
palates. The sound of breaking glass rang out as the bag fell to the floor.
|
|
|
|
Early the next morning the refuse collectors began their daily rounds. They
|
|
were used to unusual trash of all sorts but they were not prepared for the
|
|
discovery of a blood-drained corpse lying amongst the piles of rotting
|
|
vegetable matter, empty food packets and assorted dregs so it wasn't long
|
|
before the area was sealed off by the police. Various indeciperable messages
|
|
were shouted to the general public through mega-phones which obviously
|
|
conveyed a sub-conscious message telling everybody to gather together in
|
|
groups and murmur a lot because this is the only noticeable effect that they
|
|
seemed to have. It wasn't long before the tramp's paled body was also removed
|
|
from that alley, covered by a regulation police corpse-covering blanket of
|
|
course.
|
|
There was a reporter around the place somewhere but everybody ignored him
|
|
and so will I. The police officers didn't seem too sure about what exactly
|
|
they were supposed to be doing so most of their time was spent pretending to
|
|
talk into their walkie-talkies, pacing around authoritatively and look
|
|
worried as they had been taught to do in their training, and of course
|
|
repeatedly shout to the crowd to stay back and to move along as there was
|
|
nothing to see. Apart from the dozens of police, the ambulance (just in
|
|
case), the official police 'Keep Clear' signs and barriers and the liver
|
|
which had grown to the size of a small to medium sized dog and crawled under
|
|
the chief superintendant's car, this wasn't too far from the truth. Of course
|
|
nobody saw the liver, at least nobody saw the liver and thought it important
|
|
enough to say anything about.
|
|
This was one seriously hungover liver. Whilst people are said to have had a
|
|
skin full when they are drunk, it would be an understatement to say that this
|
|
organ had had a liver full. Both its victims had been intoxicated at the time
|
|
it had taken a dislike to them and now it decided it had taken even more of a
|
|
dislike to them. At least it was quiet where it was now, no people marching
|
|
around over its head, poking and prodding amongst its makeshift bed for clues
|
|
as to what had happened the night before this morning after. All it wanted
|
|
was to be left alone. Some chance.
|
|
To say that the police were bemused would be the biggest understatement
|
|
since someone said that Atilla the Hun had a personality problem. The first
|
|
rumour to go around was that the victims had been attacked by some wild dogs
|
|
but when it was pointed out that the skin had not been broken the theory had
|
|
changed to them being attacked by wild dogs that had lost all their teeth and
|
|
so had gummed the unfortunates to death. Funnily enough, a headline to this
|
|
effect appeared on the front page of only one newspaper. The coroner
|
|
recognised the markings on the bodies as resembling those left by a leech but
|
|
when asked how big leeches grew in this area of town he merely gesticulated
|
|
as vaguely as possible. Surprisingly enough, 'Wanted' posters of a 15 inch
|
|
leech did not go up in too much of a hurry. It is doubtful that they would
|
|
have helped much recognitively anyway because by now the liver had grown to
|
|
almost 2 foot in length.
|
|
|
|
Later that day, when most of the police had left and the Chief Super was
|
|
left loitering around looking bemused at the total lack of clues the team had
|
|
collected for him from various angles, the liver was recovering from its
|
|
sufferings. Feeling a little peckish it raised its head and immediately
|
|
lowered it again when it came into sudden contact with the hard metal of the
|
|
car. Naturally, it tried to eat it. Some strange tasting fluid came out of
|
|
the car but the liver felt it was lacking something.
|
|
When the Chief tried to start his car, the same thought crossed his mind
|
|
too. He knew nothing about cars but like most people was not willing to let
|
|
on about this so he got out of the car, raised the bonnet, shook his head and
|
|
let forth several tuts, tsks and various unhappy noises. He had seen
|
|
mechanics do this whenever he had had the car serviced so he thought he must
|
|
look pretty darn knowledgeable to anyone watching.
|
|
Eventually he tired of this game and it was at this point that he noticed a
|
|
pool of redness slowing growing out from underneath his car. He was sure that
|
|
petrol wasn't red so he hazarded a careful look and saw a reddish brown blob
|
|
filling most of the space under the car and moving gently, as if breathing.
|
|
Now he was sure that it wasn't there when he had parked because he was sure
|
|
that he'd have noticed driving over such a thing. In no time the area was a
|
|
hive of activity again but this time one or two of the cops were armed.
|
|
They waited, and looked at the car as if expecting whatever was underneath
|
|
it to do something. One thing was for sure and that was that if it was a
|
|
toothless wild dog then it was almost certainly skinless as well judging by
|
|
the color of...well, 'it'.
|
|
The liver awoke from its post-hangover doze to realise that there were a lot
|
|
of eyes looking at him. This didn't worry it too much, but what did worry it
|
|
was that the eyes were attached to men holding metallic objects which gave it
|
|
the same feeling of extreme danger as the knife had done the day before.
|
|
The Chief was getting a little bored with just sitting around waiting for
|
|
something to happen. Heck, that was his car in there and he hadn't even
|
|
finished paying for it yet. He barked an order for someone to go and prod the
|
|
thing with a stick or something stick-shaped. After the regulation wise-crack
|
|
had passed through the ranks, a sticks-person was nominated and dispatched by
|
|
a shove in the direction of the car.
|
|
The liver felt something prodding its rear end. At first it tried to ignore
|
|
it but after a couple more pokes, it decided it was rather painful and tried
|
|
to think of something to do about it. It gathered its bulk together and
|
|
started to move forwards, away from the source of the discomfort.
|
|
"What is that thing?!" called policeman number one.
|
|
"Beats me," called policeman number two.
|
|
"My car!" called the Chief.
|
|
The car was now travelling along the road, its wheels raised several inches
|
|
off the ground. The liver was tiring already with the great load on his back
|
|
so, much to the Chief's disappointement it gave a sharp muscular push and
|
|
sent the car flying across the street, landing on its roof.
|
|
It turned to face the shouts that were now aimed straight at it and
|
|
discovered that wasn't all that was now aimed straight at it. It cautiously
|
|
looked around for a way out of this newest predicament. It seemed that it was
|
|
surrounded but those on its left seemed rather ill at ease. With a grace that
|
|
defied its current size and shape, it pounced without warning in that
|
|
direction and wiped out 2 officers in one go. There was no time to feed
|
|
properly, but it had enough time to kill since its power had grown along with
|
|
its size. The bodies were hardly recognisable as human. Shots rang out. The
|
|
liver was hit once and then again, and again. It reared up in pain, blood
|
|
gushing from the wounds torn in its flesh and painting the street with gore.
|
|
Energized by the pain it bounded into the alley once more.
|
|
The armed police advanced slowly after it but it was dark in the alley now
|
|
that the sun had passed over behind the buildings on the west side. They
|
|
could no longer see their prey. Flashlights were brought out and a slow
|
|
search of the alley began but there was no sign of the liver anywhere. At
|
|
least, no-one reported seeing it but several did, for an instant at least.
|
|
The liver had learnt that its pursuers did not look up, and quickly took to
|
|
searching the dark corners of the alley so it wasn't too difficult to make a
|
|
quick kill by hiding above the line of sight.
|
|
But slowly the liver was moving further and further down the alley and it
|
|
soon ran out of places to hide. The line of guns kept what was thought to be
|
|
a safe distance away from the organ although no-one had actually recognised
|
|
that this is what it was. The flashlights spotted it, crouched as compactly
|
|
as its new bulk would allow it, in the same corner it had been trapped
|
|
before. It was a pathetic sight indeed and the order to kill was delayed
|
|
while the onlookers tried to ascertain what exactly it was they were facing.
|
|
The guns lowered their aim but were immediately instructed to point back at
|
|
the 'thing' for safety's sake.
|
|
The liver was more scared than it had ever been in its all-too-short life.
|
|
It was bleeding heavily, albeit not its own blood. It was heavily wounded by
|
|
the shots that had been fired and was trapped in a corner once more, hardly
|
|
an ideal position for a liver who just wanted to see the world. It heaved its
|
|
bulk forward to stretch out its torn body. Every movement sent a searing pain
|
|
through its entire form but the sensation of danger seemed to fade. A feeling
|
|
of intense anger welled up inside it as it turned once more to face the
|
|
aggressors before it. It shifted its weight slowly back onto its rear
|
|
haunches once more - the pain seemed to be fading now and a numb, warm
|
|
sensation seemed to be spreading. Without any warning, the liver let forth on
|
|
a last desperate bid to escape those who refused to leave it alone. It leapt
|
|
towards the brightly lit line of people several yards before it. Shots rang
|
|
out. The liver was forced backwards by the impact of the bullets but it was
|
|
beyond pain now. As it hit the ground it bounded forward once more, digging
|
|
deep into its remaining energy, but as shots rang out once more the liver
|
|
fell in a motionless heap inches from the feet of the marksmen.
|
|
|
|
Only theories were ever proposed as to what the creature was, although many
|
|
of those who studied the remains had remarked on the uncanny resemblance to
|
|
an internal organ of some kind, vastly enlarged, although this was obviously
|
|
impossible. The actuality of what it had been had died along with it since
|
|
no-one could find any evidence that what was left had ever been alive. The
|
|
liver was no more, it had ceased to be.
|
|
|
|
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
OBLITERATOR
|
|
by Richard Karsmakers
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
|
|
Inspired by J.R.R. Tolkien's "Book of Lost Tales"
|
|
|
|
|
|
Darkness was already spreading across the country when Eriol raised his eyes
|
|
upon a small inn, still at a couple of minutes' walk distance from him. He
|
|
sighed deeply, for he had travelled long and his feet were aching - and so
|
|
was his stomach as he had been eating rather little lately. Behind the small
|
|
windows of that shelter for the night he saw the flickering of candles. A
|
|
strange feeling tainted his heart as he slowly came near. He closely examined
|
|
the fair surroundings of this place; he saw the high elms and oaks on the
|
|
hill to the west, and witnessed the sun laying itself to rest behind these
|
|
immense trees - until dawn, when it would proudly rise once more. Coloured
|
|
orange and red as the sun set, the exterior gave him the impression of a
|
|
faerytale. Again he sighed deeply, and went down to the front door.
|
|
|
|
He read the sign hanging outside the doorpost. 'Cottage of Lost Play' he
|
|
spoke aloud. Where had he learned that before? He was about to knock on the
|
|
heavy wooden door, garmented with skillfully manufactured metal ornaments,
|
|
when the door opened and the face of an old man - probably the inn-keeper -
|
|
appeared. He looked old, though not as old as Eriol himself, his hair
|
|
correspondingly grey, but his eyes seemed aglow with youth. Eriol looked over
|
|
the man's shoulder and saw various folk sitting around a cosy fire, laughing
|
|
and chatting merrily.
|
|
The old man said nothing but his eyes smiled. He made way for Eriol to enter
|
|
the candle-lit room. When the old man closed the door, it seemed like all
|
|
fatigue dropped off Eriol, he who was amongst his kindred called the Tale-
|
|
teller of Old. An inner voice told him this was one of the kindest places he
|
|
had ever been to - and this seemed most rightly so.
|
|
His gaze swept around and carefully noted everything in the room. The bar
|
|
seemed made of the same material as the sturdily built door, probably very
|
|
old and inherited from times and places before the history of modern man. The
|
|
people present spoke in different tongues, yet they all seemed to be able to
|
|
understand the otheres perfectly. Some small tables were present on the
|
|
eastern wall, under a window where he saw the two moons of Mandos rising,
|
|
star glittering.
|
|
|
|
"Sit down, please," said the old man, "I am Orom, keeper of the 'Cottage if
|
|
Lost Play' inn." Orom's eyes seemed now not merely to glow with youth, but
|
|
with friendliness also. He offered Eriol a cup of heavenly scenting juice,
|
|
which the Tale-teller of Old did not refuse as his throat was very dry
|
|
indeed.
|
|
Apart from some a vague kind of dizziness after drinking this fluid, Eriol
|
|
suddenly noticed that he could now understand what the other people present
|
|
were talking about. After having seen the look of surprise on Eriol's
|
|
features, the inn-keeper called for a silence. Everybody looked at him,
|
|
instantly keeping silent.
|
|
"This, my dear folk," pronounced Orom, an inexplicable pride warming his
|
|
voice, "is Eriol, the Last Tale-teller of Old. Finally, fate has brought him
|
|
here - though probably together with some good luck!" He added this last part
|
|
with a bit of a blasphemous smile, glancing fleetingly at the ceiling.
|
|
Eriol wasn't concerned about the fact that the old man seemed to know him,
|
|
and was soon talking intensely with the gathered people. The others turned
|
|
out to be Tale-tellers themselves, gathered from all directions - the dark
|
|
countries of the Swamps of Threat, the bright lands where the Empress of
|
|
Everything ruled, hunters from the Plains of Mysticism and folk from the
|
|
ancient tribe now living on the Forgotten Isles over the Great Waters. They
|
|
had all been directed to Orom's inn as if by a kind of mysterious force.
|
|
Perhaps it was fate.
|
|
Nobody knew anything about Eriol's past, nor from the past of anyone else
|
|
present for that matter - except perhaps for vague recollections of their
|
|
own. Orom was the obvious exception. Everybody had known him as long as time
|
|
itself, he had always been part of the Cottage and the unique ambience it
|
|
harboured.
|
|
"Let him who came in the latest be the first to speak forth his Tales!" so
|
|
proclaimed Orom, who had now lit a pipe and made himself comfortable in a
|
|
lowering of the floor near the hearth. The others quietly sat down near Orom,
|
|
waiting for Eriol to start his tale.
|
|
It went thus.
|
|
|
|
"Many years ago, when the planet was still fair and no Swamps of Threat nor
|
|
any other dark countries existed (while saying this, he carefully observed
|
|
one of the aforementioned Tale-tellers, who just sat and kept listening),
|
|
mankind lived happy and prosperous. There were no wars to be fought, no
|
|
battles to be won, and 'tis now known that people then were foolish enough
|
|
not to bear in mind that but a small interference in the balance of power
|
|
would cause global warfare. However, nobody had expected that this
|
|
interference would come from planets formerly unknown, even from creatures
|
|
not earlier seen by man's eyes..."
|
|
He glanced around the illustrious group of men listening to him,
|
|
occasionally sipping their drinks. They now looked at him with incredulity in
|
|
their deep eyes. Never before had they heard of life amongst the stars other
|
|
than their own. Normally, Eriol would not have been listened to any further,
|
|
as there was one unspoken rule between the Tale-tellers of old: True stories
|
|
only. But somehow, because of reasons seemingly not known to any of them,
|
|
they kept listening. Eriol's presence and voice filled everybody's minds with
|
|
a sense of truth. Only Orom seemed to know why, as he smiled self-
|
|
sufficiently, inhaling deeply.
|
|
"It was spring," Eriol continued, "and the trees were full of boughs ready
|
|
to show their newly created leaves to the bright light of the sun, the birds
|
|
sang songs of love and mother nature nursed the newly born with care and
|
|
warmth.
|
|
The whole planet was paradise for the harmless, the innocent, the naive,
|
|
even the powerless. There was no exorbitant richness nor poverty, nor did any
|
|
of the bad virtues of mankind prevail. Every day, the sun would rise and set
|
|
and yet another day of joy and merriment would have passed. Every morning
|
|
there would be shady layers of soft mist and honeydew over heatherclad
|
|
meadows.
|
|
Alas! This joy was not to be for long, as a dark shape obscured the sun on
|
|
one of those merry days, frightening the people and animals dwelling there.
|
|
As no harm was forethought by this peaceful people, it was no problem for
|
|
these extraterrestrials to enslave them all, slaughter their cattle and turn
|
|
the once fair country in a desolate plain where only rough grass would grwon
|
|
henceforth. Dark clouds gathered above the lands, clouds that would grow more
|
|
immense by the day. Dark clouds that mankind had not seen since the Ancient
|
|
Wars of Old.
|
|
It was merely a few days after the brutal and unprovoked act of alien
|
|
aggression that the Federation Council heard of it. It was them who sent
|
|
Drak, the last of the Obliterators, to fight the battle nobody had wanted, to
|
|
claim the victory nobody had sought. Drak was the sole survivor of an elite
|
|
team of warriors that had fought many a battle, and survived. Drak carried
|
|
with him the hopes of all the population with him as he entered the hostile
|
|
territory, now known as the Lands of Enslavement..."
|
|
|
|
Eriol now took a draught of his beer, and went on: "Drak met no resistance.
|
|
He was disgusted by the foul creatures now living there and didn't even dare
|
|
to prey upon them for fear of being poisoned, but there were no apparent
|
|
invaders in the dark lands anymore. Nor were there people, for that matter.
|
|
Drak felt an evil presence, however, and felt worse than he had ever felt
|
|
before when fighting for whoever paid the most - like he had done so often.
|
|
The black mists around him seemed to grow heavier and heavier as he
|
|
penetrated deep into the Lands of Enslavement. After many an hour of walking
|
|
he noticed light just ahead of him. As he came closer, he clearly realized
|
|
that what he saw was a tall tree with fresh green leaves, bathing in light of
|
|
the sun that shone from high above. It was like metal chains falling off his
|
|
heart when he saw this sight of beauty in the middle of darkness.
|
|
But he had not yet fully entered the circle of light when he felt a queer
|
|
sensation running through his veins. He felt giddy for a moment, and next
|
|
thing he knew he was in surroundings completely different from all he had
|
|
ever seen before. It was more frightening than the submarine empire of the
|
|
Sorcerer of Death, technically more highstanding that the dungeons of
|
|
Zerostein the Professor of Retrogation and it felt more evil than the very
|
|
depths of Hell! By a means not known to Drak or to mankind, his molecular
|
|
structure had been moved from the planet's surface to the heart of the Alien
|
|
battleship. It was as if sorcery and wizardry prevailed here, and Drak felt
|
|
uncomfortable right into his bones..."
|
|
Eriol again looked around the men that sat listening in silence, their eyes
|
|
filled with wonder. He emptied his mug. There was a deafening silence in the
|
|
room. The fire had gone out and the coals were only glowing now. The faces of
|
|
the men looked grim with the dark red glow on their faces, some covered with
|
|
heavy beards.
|
|
|
|
The hunter from the Plains of Mysticism, known as Valor the Impetuous One
|
|
amongst his kin, was the first to break the silence. "What did happen? Was it
|
|
the Gods' will for Drak to survive? Please do tell more!" While saying this,
|
|
he signalled Orom to fill Eriol's mug to its rim.
|
|
A look of sadness settled itself on Eriol's face. "The rest of the story is
|
|
too sad to tell. If have not come here to tell tales that will make your
|
|
hearts feel weary. I would rather tell faery tales of happiness but alas! I
|
|
know them no more."
|
|
After having said that, Eriol erected himself, putting down the mug. For a
|
|
moment it looked as if he was going to reveal the end of his tale after all,
|
|
but he merely sighed from deep within his torso, turned around and left the
|
|
'Cottage of Lost Play' inn. The sound of crickets entered the inn for a brief
|
|
moment, after which the door was closed again, sealing it off from the
|
|
outside world once more.
|
|
|
|
The man from the Swamps of Darkness cleared his throat and, to Orom, said,
|
|
"Who is this man? Who is Eriol, Tale-teller of Old?"
|
|
Orom remained silent for a while. "Eriol," he added, "is the only descendant
|
|
of the last of the Obliterators. Drak's son."
|
|
The men fell silent.
|
|
|
|
Under the light of the two moons of Mandos, both equally pale, Eriol walked,
|
|
sad and lonely. On his way to the next inn to tell his Tale of old, the tale
|
|
of the destruction of his home planet...earth.
|
|
|
|
Original version written in Spring 1988. Rehashed July 1993.
|
|
|
|
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
THE PROPHET
|
|
by Richard Karsmakers
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
|
|
Inspired by Queen - "The Prophet's Song"
|
|
|
|
|
|
When he closed his eyes he saw a moonlit stair. It just stood there, amidst
|
|
of triviality. It seemed to be the only object of importance, the only object
|
|
his eyes seemed willing to register.
|
|
It stood in a mysterious way, not supported by anything except nothingness.
|
|
It led up, up. Far up to beyond his sight. Yet atop the stairs he thought he
|
|
saw light.
|
|
The sound of wind gathered in his ears - a storm was building up somewhere
|
|
beyond his vision, beyond the stairs.
|
|
Then, from the light, a man descended the stairs. When he had come
|
|
sufficiently closer, it could be seen that he was old, battered, worn, clad
|
|
in a tattered robe. He came down slowly, as if he had all the time in the
|
|
world - indeed, as if the very world and all time and space on it were his in
|
|
the first place.
|
|
The young man felt an urge to flee, but a power held him in place - as if in
|
|
a dream where you want to run but you can't. Your feet move but your
|
|
surroundings don't. Nowhere to go to.
|
|
The old man seemed to see him now. From somewhere, as if summoned by him,
|
|
clouds had come. The clouds lingered like fog, but instead of revealing
|
|
everything, peculiarly enough, they seemed to bundle the young man's vision
|
|
on the stairs and the old man. It all seemed very unreal.
|
|
The old man's gaze did not leave the other's, did not waver from its tired
|
|
concentration as he went down to the very bottom. His eyes were intent on
|
|
something noone could fathom, strangely unfocused.
|
|
He spread his hands on the multitude, as if trying to cast a spell of which
|
|
the words were forgotten, the chants no longer remembered.
|
|
The young man felt as if he was falling downward, a giddy feeling that was
|
|
completely out of place. Something in the old man's face and expression
|
|
brought him back. He regained his senses.
|
|
Then the old man was suddenly close to him. The young man had not heard the
|
|
whispered shuffle of the old man's feet on the floor, nor the soft sounds of
|
|
the flowing of his robes.
|
|
"Beware the storm that gathers here," the old man said. His voice was
|
|
scarred by age but the underlying power was enormous. He seemed like a man
|
|
void of purpose, whose love of life and the world had gone stale. A desolate
|
|
man. The ice cold hearts of bare charity seemed to tear mutely from the tips
|
|
of his fingers. He slowly lowered his hands.
|
|
"I see no day," he said, much of the power in his voice suddenly lacking,
|
|
"so grey is the face of every mortal."
|
|
The word 'mortal' seemed to echoe through the young man's mind as the old
|
|
man heaved his eyes skyward, sighing profoundly. Then the lash of the old
|
|
man's cold, penetrating glance caught him once more - merciless, compelling.
|
|
"Listen to the warning," the old man said, his voice heavy with doom and
|
|
some ancient sense of regained purpose, "for soon the cold of night will
|
|
fall."
|
|
Only then the young man seemed to become aware of the coldness around them.
|
|
Only then did the see his own breath form small clouds in front of his face -
|
|
the old man had none. The mists had intensified, and so had the cold. He
|
|
looked around him for something to concentrate on. Once more he felt like
|
|
falling, flailing down towards the earth, helpless, inescapable. The mists
|
|
turned black, the impenetrable black of death, doom, lack of purpose,
|
|
desaster, cold night. He shivered.
|
|
The moon had vanished.
|
|
The scenery changed. It seemed to melt but it was a process unlike melting
|
|
altogether. He wavered, he had difficulty remaining on his feet, had to use
|
|
his arms to keep his balance.
|
|
Then he stood eye in eye with the bone white haze called death. A scythe
|
|
glimmered unearthly in the darkness. Death's eyes were hollow, like screaming
|
|
mouths to deaf gods. His teeth seemed to smile, but it could also have been
|
|
but a grin of anticipation. Under his bony feet lay a crushed white dove and
|
|
green boughs - freshly cut but dying. He stretched one bony hand, and at its
|
|
end the young man now saw the vision. The gaze of death had not been on him,
|
|
but on a dream-like vision of people fleeing, kings of beasts hurling agony
|
|
upon mankind, estranged sons wandering 'round. Wretches running, beyond help
|
|
or hope. A baby, the reaper's hands just releasing the tight, choking grip on
|
|
the little creature's neck that had snapped. The earth under their very feet
|
|
broke in two. The dead fell in a chasm unlike any one can imagine, beasts,
|
|
kings, mothers, sons. The abyss was bottomless, eager to receive. It showed a
|
|
dow'ry of death, sadness, mystery, and more death. There was rain. Not just
|
|
*any* rain, but a torrent that seemed alive, intelligent - a torrent that
|
|
seemed to be evil incarnated. Or maybe *good* incarnated in a fight against
|
|
evil - it was impossible to tell from the vision.
|
|
It was impossibly real, almost as if he was standing there. Life was nothing
|
|
but some abstract thought, death a palpable reality.
|
|
A strange laughter filled his ears, echoeing, vast, filling his being. Many
|
|
colours seemed to fly by. Blue, pink, yellow. Then white. Black. The colours
|
|
turned around, flipped, transformed to beings that seemed human, then melted
|
|
into a bleak lack of features.
|
|
Death. Running. Genocide. The utter purging. He felt it was a vision of
|
|
thruth, a glimpse into the future. A vision of death to be, the fires of hell
|
|
taking mankind. Mankind who heeded him not would be made by all their
|
|
treasure. The bone white haze would get to those who would not mark his
|
|
words, the people who would call him mad, deranged, taken by lunacy. Those
|
|
who dared laugh at the Madman, those who feared him.
|
|
For one last moment, the old man reappeared in the vision.
|
|
"Listen to the Madman!" the ragged figure cried, once again spreading out
|
|
his hands as if summoning the heavens. Then everything faded away, the mists
|
|
seemed to conquer the entire image until everything was all but a blur.
|
|
|
|
When Noah opened his eyes, it had started to rain. The sound was strangely
|
|
comforting to him. His heart felt heavy but he knew what to do. At last.
|
|
He hoped his wife would like the idea.
|
|
|
|
Written November 25th 1991 (the day Freddy Mercury died). Not rehashed.
|
|
|
|
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
SOON COMING
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
|
|
|
|
The next issue of "Twilight Zone", Volume 1 Issue 3, is to be released early
|
|
October this year. Please refer to the 'subscription' section, below, for
|
|
details about getting it in case you're interested.
|
|
Quite an enormous mass of fiction lies in waiting for publication in future
|
|
issues. Nonetheless, you should refer to the section on 'submitting', below,
|
|
for more detail on submitting material.
|
|
Anyway, the next issue will probably contain the following items.
|
|
|
|
|
|
THE PRESIDENT IS MISSING
|
|
Where Cronos Warchild Meets Roger Rabbit
|
|
by Richard Karsmakers
|
|
|
|
THE LAST TEMPTATION OF AN ARCADE ADDICT
|
|
Where Cyanide seems the only solution for games addiction
|
|
by Richard Karsmakers
|
|
|
|
IGNATIUS' DAY OUT
|
|
Meet a belching fop, inspired by
|
|
John Kennedy Toole's "Confederacy of Dunces"
|
|
by Stefan Posthuma
|
|
|
|
WHAT HAPPENS WHEN A WRITER ISN'T GETTING ANY
|
|
Sex, sex, and perhaps a bit of sex. Well, at least in *thought*
|
|
by Bryan Kennerley
|
|
|
|
CIRCUS GAMES
|
|
Where a Mercenary Annex Hired Gun eats floor
|
|
by Richard Karsmakers
|
|
|
|
SLY FOR PRESIDENT
|
|
Chuck Stallone (or Sylvester Norris) meets Charlie
|
|
by Richard Karsmakers
|
|
|
|
THE SCHOOL OF LIFE!
|
|
A story of life, love and lots (more)
|
|
by Kai Holst
|
|
|
|
ECO
|
|
The computer age invades Darwin's personal Universe
|
|
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.
|
|
"Twilight Zone" is limited in size to a maximum of 99,999 bytes as some
|
|
email systems simply refuse files of 100,000 bytes and larger.
|
|
|
|
|
|
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 bit of a tosser if you
|
|
don't, and you may expect your name on a black list of sorts!
|
|
|
|
|
|
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.
|
|
Subscription terminations should also be directed to the mentioned email
|
|
address.
|
|
About one to two weeks prior to the current issue being sent out to all
|
|
subscribers you will get a small message to check if your email address is
|
|
still valid. When this message gets bounced more than once your subscription
|
|
automatically expires.
|
|
|
|
|
|
PHILANTROPY
|
|
|
|
|
|
If you like "Twilight Zone", a spontaneous burst of philantropy aimed at the
|
|
postal address mentioned above would be very much appreciated! Please send
|
|
cash only; any regular currency will do. Apart from keeping "Twilight Zone"
|
|
happily afloat, it will also help me to keep my head above water as a student
|
|
of English at Utrecht University. If donations reach sufficient height they
|
|
may secure the existence of "Twilight Zone" after my studies have been
|
|
concluded.
|
|
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).
|
|
|
|
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
================================ END OF FILE ================================
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
|