textfiles/magazines/TWILIGHTWORLD/twilight.world-3.1

= TWILIGHT WORLD - Volume 3 Issue 1 (January 23rd 1995) =====================

 You  can do anything with this magazine as long as it  remains  intact.  All 
stories  in  it  are fiction.  No actual persons are designated  by  name  or 
character and similarity is coincidental.
 This magazine is for free. Get it as cheaply as possible!
 Please refer to the end of this file for further information.


= LIST OF CONTENTS ==========================================================


 EDITORIAL
 by Richard Karsmakers

 TORVAK THE WARRIOR
 by Stefan Posthuma

 CADAVER
 by Richard Karsmakers

 THE LADY WORE BLACK
 by Richard Karsmakers

 THE PROMISED LANDS
 by Richard Karsmakers

 A MALIGNANTLY CLOSE ENCOUNTER WITH A GREEK GODDESS
 by Stefan Posthuma and Richard Karsmakers

 SIMULCRA
 by Jurie Horneman

 GHOST BATTLE
 by Richard Karsmakers

 THE KILLING GAME SHOW
 by Richard Karsmakers


= EDITORIAL =================================================================
 by Richard Karsmakers


 Welcome to a new year, dear reader, and here's hoping that it will prove not 
too dramatic a one.  My education is wrapping itself up - not exactly neatly, 
but  it's  getting there nonetheless - and will ask a lot of my  time  before 
it's truly finished.  Even though "Twilight World" is not the most intense of 
the projects I have taken on through the years,  it may well be that a few of 
the future issues - like this one - will be overdue (slightly or otherwise).
 I just ask for your patience, and I would also like to stress the point that 
I  won't have free email access anymore after the summer of 1996 so  I  would 
either  have to commercialise "Twilight World" to pay for Internet access  or 
cease publishing it.  I certainly hope it won't come to the latter. Donations 
would  be  a preferable alternative to commercialisation (yes,  that  *is*  a 
hint!).
 This  issue has a few recurring themes:  Fights fought by means of  manuals, 
and Poetic Love.  Hope you like the different angles.  I should also like  to 
note  that there are ever more stories that in some way refer back  to  older 
stuff in "Twilight World".  Please get your hands on whatever back issues you 
still need.

 As usual,  it is my fond wish that you'll like reading this issue.  Remember 
that you're more than welcome to spread the word - and the file!  And if  you 
have  something  written that you're proud of,  you're more than  welcome  to 
submit.


 Richard Karsmakers
 (Editor)

P.S. If you no longer want to receive "Twilight World", *please* unsubscribe; 
     don't let me wait for the messages to bounce instead,  totally  flooding 
     my email box!  This especially goes for people on AOL,  1 out of every 5 
     direct subscribers.


= TORVAK THE WARRIOR ========================================================
 by Stefan Posthuma


 An  elaborate description of different forms of alien excrement  passed  the 
lips of the mercenary annex hired gun. Out of gas. Wonderful.
 It had seemed like a nice trip to go to that new shop on the third planet in 
the  Tippecanoe system.  It had just opened and advertised on the  TriD  with 
large swords, axes and other barbaric weapons. Just the kinds Cronos liked to 
play  with on a lost afternoon.  For the real stuff he had  his  gadgets,  of 
course, but slicing and chopping opponents for a change was a nice passtime.
 So  he  hopped in his latest toy,  his Corvette.  Named  after  some  famous 
antique sports car, this was the latest in short-range space travel. Equipped 
with all sorts of devices to make it go at insane speeds and more features in 
its on-board computer than a military assault ship, it was the top thing. One 
problem,  though,  was that it was more like an engine with a hull around it. 
There wasn't much space for fuel and other things. In his enthusiasm, he flew 
around the planet a couple of times before landing to buy the enormous  sword 
and the book. He hadn't brought his killer gadgets; they simply didn't fit in 
the small cockpit.
 After consulting his on-board computer,  he sighed.  The planet he landed on 
after scrambling out of the warp was not yet civilised.  There was one  self-
service station some hundred miles from where he had landed. Great. He had to 
travel a hundred miles on foot through unknown country.  The computer  stated 
that  there  was  life,  but  that most  of  it  wasn't  very  nice.  Several 
expeditions  had  failed  because  too  many  of  the  colonists  had  gotten 
themselves killed.
 Something strange happened.  Cronos actually thought. Several neurons in his 
brain  actually sent some coherent signals to each other,  forming  thoughts. 
Not really knowing what happened,  Cronos was a bit taken aback by this.  His 
first impulse was to eliminate the source of confusion,  but he soon  thought 
better  of it after he had almost beheaded himself with his  infamous  killer 
fingernail.
 Then he decided. He had to take the sword and defend himself with that. Only 
one  problem  posed  itself - Cronos' ability with swords  and  stuff  wasn't 
particularly  great.  He  knew  how to handle a  Gargantuan  Omni-Deth  Meson 
Blaster, he was skilled with the Giga-Kill Slaught Wrench and nobody mastered 
the Krikkit Klepto-Krusher as well as he did. But a sword?
 Fortunately,  he  had a book.  A book with pictures telling him how to be  a 
fierce warrior. So he put on some nice music on the on-board sound system and 
started reading.

 A few hours later,  he emerged from his Corvette. Sword in one hand, book in 
the other,  he started towards the forest beyond which the energy station was 
supposed to be.  The country was kinda nice.  He climbed a soft hill, covered 
in long grass and sweet smelling stuff all around him.  Strange. Normally, he 
didn't notice these things. Anyway, before he had time to dismiss these eerie 
thoughts,  his  attention  was  drawn by a grunting  sound.  He  stopped  and 
listened.  A bush parted and a rather nasty-looking creature emerged.  It was 
short,  ugly and probably smelly too.  You know,  the typical orc-like  thing 
that needs slaughtering bad.
 Cronos lit up.  Yeah,  finally some fighting to do.  OK,  refer to that page 
marked 'Assaulting an unarmed Victim'. Cronos memorised the instructions.

A)   Heave the sword above your head.
B)   Yell your favourite war cry.
C)   Run toward the Victim with great speed.
C)   Swing the sword in the direction of the Victim's neck,  and hope for the 
     best.
D)   If you can't stand blood, look away.

 So  Cronos  swung  the sword in the direction of  the  creatures  neck,  ran 
towards it, yelled at it and heaved the sword.
 This was not his lucky day.
 The creature didn't die or anything.  It wasn't afraid either,  and  started 
pounding Cronos' left leg with its claws.
 Damn.
 Cronos looked at the book again in puzzlement.  Shit.  Did it the wrong  way 
around.  And  he had studied so hard.  He also found out that  reading  books 
while there is a nasty creature pounding your left leg doesn't work.  He  hit 
the  thing with the hand that was holding the book.  It stopped pounding  and 
slumped onto the ground.  Great,  now he didn't get to hack at it either.  He 
sighed  deeply and started off towards the forest again.  He had a  long  day 
ahead of him.

 Written end summer or begin autumn 1990.  Not rehashed too  much,  actually, 
for fear of authorial revenge.


= CADAVER ===================================================================
 by Richard Karsmakers


 The fog was still thick around them,  but the two figures at the oars of the 
small rowing boat realised that they could already smell the dampness of  the 
castle  they knew was ahead of them,  somewhere ahead on an island hidden  in 
this damned fog.
 "What  to do once we're there?" one of them asked the other.  The voice  was 
probably that of a middle-aged man,  but was remarkably low in spite of  high 
pitched  hints  of fear hidden in its recesses.  The other person  seemed  to 
sense this.
 "Just  be  quiet," a very low voice said,  sounding as if  its  owner  every 
day smoked rather a few cigarettes too many, "we will see once we're there."
 The first muttered a bit,  but decided not to ask further.  The sound of the 
oars  in  the  water  sounded  muffled.  The  fog  was  getting  increasingly 
impenetrable. Quite suddenly the boat grinded into something sandy. Land. The 
island on which they knew the castle lay.
 "Karadoc," the very low voice muttered, "get out."
 The other obeyed, but his "yeah" betrayed more than a hint of trembling.
 A huge shape left the boat last. Even through the fog, it could be seen that 
this  shape was disproportionately bigger than the other,  broadly built  and 
even...even...well....quadrangular. Its deep, threatening voice spoke again.
 "Come on."
 It  was now obvious that the leader was not only big,  but his follower  was 
very small -  a dwarf,  actually,  with a short and sturdy body as well as  a 
beard.  He wore a shiny harness, though the gleam was dulled by the intensity 
of the weather's conditions.
 They stalked as they went ahead,  when suddenly a vast silhouette loomed  up 
in  front of them.  The looming was quite literal;  the castle of Dianon  the 
necromancer, evil reincarnated, might just as well have been a living monster 
of immense size, ready to lazily drop across them, devour them whole.
 The dwarf cringed as he saw the black outlines appear.
 "Er...er...,"  he  muttered,  "I'd really prefer going back,  if  you  don't 
mind."
 The leader turned around. His eyes seemed to flash temporarily.
 "Like hell you won't," the low voice said resolutely,  "I been paid to train 
you and I want to get it over.  Fast.  I don' do this for fun.  I do this for 
dosh. Shut up. Follow."

 As you,  dear reader,  probably already guessed,  the leader of this two-man 
party  was  none less than mercenary annex hired  gun,  Cronos  J.  Warchild, 
known  by various respectful and rather less respectful other names.  It  had 
been  only  weeks  ago  that he had woken up after  some  kind  of  nightmare 
involving a hole, lots of water and the utter lack of any scubagear.
 He  had looked around him,  and had wondered why there had been  three  suns 
shining above him;  obviously,  his previous adventures had caused him to get 
stranded on yet another planet that he had never been to before.
 Instinctively,  he  had  searched his pockets.  All his killer  gadgets  had 
disappeared,  and  his money and American Express Traveller Cheques as  well. 
Somehow  it didn't surprise him at all,  but out of habit he had  nonetheless 
wondered what could have happened to them.  But,  as he was paid to fight and 
not to think (nor wonder),  he had decided to conclude that he had lost  them 
in the flood.
 Why were those friendly people all running off suddenly,  leaving a trail of 
green pieces of paper and American Express Traveller Cheques behind?
 He  had  stood up and felt his head.  It had still been there,  but  it  had 
surely hurt like hell.

 Karadoc  stumbled  after Cronos as they approached  the  castle.  There  was 
something inexplicably ominous about it - even Warchild could sense it.
 Was it the wall, that looked very solid and overgrown with moss?
 No.
 Was it the gate,  that looked equally solid as the wall and slightly  mossy, 
too?
 No.
 Was  it the caped silhouette of a creature with red eyes standing on top  of 
the battlements, laughing satanically?
 That must have been it.
 "Hey, dipshit," Warchild yelled up towards the creature, "open the gate!"
 The laughter ceased instantly.  From inside its cape, the creature retrieved 
what looked like a crystal.  It yelled a couple of obscure words in a dialect 
Cronos nor Karadoc could pretend to understand.
 Karadoc  dashed  for a rock behind which he wanted  to  hide,  but  Warchild 
lifted him up by his harness.
 "No. You're not," the mercenary annex hired gun said.
 At that very instant,  the rock turned into a frog. A large, green one, with 
slime drooling from its jaws and many repulsive-looking warts on its back. It 
used  its  long tongue to lick its teeth,  which were  blindingly  white  and 
looked as sharp as needles.
 "Holy potato!" Karadoc cried, "a Gorf!"

 It  had been nigh the evening as a village announcer had found his way  onto 
the  market place of the town where Cronos had discovered himself to  be.  It 
had  been  a  town  on a planet called Ostrich,  and it  had  been  like  any 
terrestrial town, with but one peculiarity: It had been distinctly mediaeval.
 He  had occasionally wondered about why the planet had been called  Ostrich, 
for he hadn't seen any ostriches around, nor any pictures of them. Indeed, he 
had felt he had enough proof to state that the entire planet hadn't had *one* 
ostrich living on it.  Of course,  the concept of "linguistical anomaly"  had 
never crossed his mind,  especially because there wasn't one large enough  to 
cross.
 The announcer had cleared his throat several times,  and had started to read 
what  turned out to be some kind of mediaeval equivalent of  "The  Sun".  The 
first two pages had been very uninteresting,  and had mainly been filled with 
prophecies  involving Holy Wars and Environmental Disasters.  Page three  had 
had  no words on it.  Instead,  the village announcer had turned the  picture 
that had been on it towards his audience,  which had caused several women  to 
look  at  themselves  rather embarrassed.  Some men had  seemed  to  readjust 
something.
 On page four, the small advertisements had started.

 "Academy of Adventurers seeks Practical Tutor."
 Cronos  remembered it well,  and only wished he had never applied  for  this 
particular job. Not without any of his killer gadgets, that is.
 He  found the feeling of a Gorf gnawing grittingly in a gross gamble at  his 
gonads  not  a  very exciting nor a very pleasing one,  no  matter  how  many 
alliterations  the act had included.  He just felt immensely lucky  that  his 
Mega Absorb Groin Protector was switched on this time.
 As  the Gorf's gnawing went grudgingly closer to the on/off  switch,  Cronos 
felt  some  kind  of  alarm and decided it  was  time  for  some  interactive 
intervention.  He connected his fist to the back of the enormous head of  the 
monster.
 For  about  one or two milliseconds,  the Gorf didn't quite  know  what  had 
happened.  Then  it  found it necessary to discover that its skull  had  been 
split  wide  open and its miserable excuse for a brain was  horribly  exposed 
to elements it was not designed to be exposed to.
 It decided to die, which was probably a wise thing to do.
 In a puff of smoke, it changed itself back into the rock it had been before.
 Karadoc  hadn't  seen any of this,  for he had dug his head in  the  ground, 
assuming  this would keep the monster from seeing him.  It appeared to  work, 
for the monster had given only Warchild its undivided attention.
 Warchild wondered about this, but not for long (you know why).
 The creature on the battlements looked around.
 "Where is the dwarf?!" its voice of doom bellowed.
 Cronos wondered again.  The dwarf was clearly at a very short distance  from 
him,  his half-shiny harness plainly visible. The creature didn't seem to see 
him.
 Cronos would not have been Cronos if he wouldn't have been able to count one 
and one together. The result was seven, and he therefore decided to head back 
to  the Academy to get his fee.  The dwarf had arrived safely at the  castle, 
which  was the extent of his job exactly.  Furthermore,  something seemed  to 
indicate that the dwarf was no longer in immediate danger.
 As Warchild rowed off again,  the creature disappeared off the  battlements, 
laughing in triumph.

 As  Cronos  glanced at the island for a last time,  he  saw  Karadoc's  head 
appearing again.
 The nitwit dwarf would be OK, he knew.

 Original written mid November 1990. Rehashed slightly January 1995.


= THE LADY WORE BLACK =======================================================
 by Richard Karsmakers

 A story - or, rather, an exercise in metaphore wielding - loosely based on a 
song of the same name by Queensryche.


 When he topped the hill something like awe struck the poet.  It was as if he 
suddenly heard the soft vibrations of an ode to beauty, a ballad to nature. A 
cool wind touched his face,  bringing with it the soft scent of  spring,  the 
fragrance of budding trees and roses,  drifting beyond his senses as the  sun 
spread  its glorious rays across seemingly endless pastures and  meadows.  It 
seemed  to  be playing tricks with shadows like dark flames  probing  at  his 
hair.
 The poet sighed deeply.  This was a sight for sore eyes,  a view that  could 
lift the spirits of the dullest hearts. Tastefully positioned hills sloped as 
far as the eye could reach as though a frozen green sea of land and grass;  a 
light  mist  hung  in the air,  as if delicately placed to  mimic  the  dream 
visions  of a true Goddess.  Voices seemed to whisper enchantingly  amid  the 
trees, beautiful colours of green and gold reached the most inner part of the 
poet's being. Shimmerings as pure as those of diamonds caught his eye as dew-
covered boughs heaved and bowed placidly in the gentle morning breeze.
 He had never seen the world portrayed in all its grace and virtue like this. 
Not  before.  It seemed like magic,  the kind of magic that only a  beautiful 
spring morning with a soft breeze and a light mist can invoke.
 When he listened more carefully he could hear a brook flowing, somewhere. He 
descended  from  the hill top,  almost being absorbed  physically  into  this 
palpable magnificence,  the almost uncanny grandeur of everything around him. 
He felt the force of life flowing into his lungs with every breath,  he  felt 
his nostrils tickling in a teasing, almost exciting way. He stifled a leap of 
sheer happiness.
 There  it was.  Just behind a copse,  a rivulet trailed off into  the  mist-
covered meadows. Its water was clean, inviting him to touch it, almost luring 
him into drinking it.  Fish swam and jumped energetically,  the clearness  of 
the water reflecting off their silvery skins.  The little river's bottom  was 
covered with rocks and the occasional water plant.  It was as pure as  liquid 
diamond.
 He  knelt  down,  closing his eyes so he could absorb the sound  of  rushing 
water  better.  If he would lie down he knew he could doze off in  the  early 
morning warmth of the sun,  listening to the water and the birds.  Sleep  for 
hours in an almost majestic kind of peace and harmony.
 He kneeled down to drink.  The water was bright, catching the light from the 
sun and casting it back in a thousand different directions.  It played tricks 
with those enchanted by its appearance of simple serenity.
 The poet bent over to drink.  The liquid tasted pure, cold as ice. He closed 
his eyes,  feeling the water going down every time he swallowed.  He savoured 
the  sensation  that sent shivers down his spine.  He drank  to  his  heart's 
content. It seemed to refresh his body and spirits.

 When  he  opened his eyes again he noticed the mists  had  somehow  extended 
themselves. They now floated gently at a short distance above the water as if 
they were living entities,  afraid of touching the water but instead probing, 
progressing, moving as if by some preternatural force.
 He suddenly saw a reflection,  barely visible behind the pink and brown blur 
of his own, in the constantly transforming surface of the water.
 When he looked around,  startled, he saw nothing but a piece of a black robe 
vanishing  in  the  mists  that had gathered tremendously  in  the  last  few 
seconds.  He  erected himself,  seeing the mist move across his feet  gently, 
enfolding his legs. Probing. Sensing. Conquering. There were no flowers to be 
seen  here,  but the air nonetheless smelled of roses even more than  it  had 
before.
 He looked up to the sky only to see great,  threateningly black clouds march 
across it as if gathering strength for some kind of momentous occasion.  They 
rumbled, turned, whipped, ocassionally formed shapes of huge bulging monsters 
that dissolved moments later.
 The  sun  had  been covered completely by now;  it  seemed  to  hide  itself 
reluctantly.  The  mists intensified,  moving quicker around the poet as  the 
breeze increased to a light wind, tugging somewhat at his clothes.
 Who  was that person,  that mysterious reflection of which he had  caught  a 
hazy, distorted glimpse in the water? Why did the air suddenly smell of roses 
even though there were none?
 Around  him  the silence grew.  Even the sound of the rivulet seemed  to  be 
dampened by the lingering fog, the birds suddenly no longer seemed to want to 
perform  their  lovely serenades of spring.  Perhaps they were  afraid  -  or 
perhaps  they  were  merely respectfully silent,  awed by  something  as  yet 
unknown.
 A very soft sound could be heard now. It seemed to come towards him like the 
waves of a sea,  sometimes intense, something barely audible. It sounded like 
music.  Whistling,  perhaps.  It came from the direction where he had guessed 
the mysterious person had disappeared to.
 Careful so as not to walk into anything shrouded in the perpetual mists, the 
poet started walking in the direction where he guessed the sound came had  to 
come from. He quickly relaised he was walking in the right direction, for the 
sound  became  clearer,   more  beautiful,   clearer.  Like  he  had  thought 
previously,  it was indeed the sound of someone whistling. The melody seemed, 
if he had to put his finger on it, contain sadness as well as infinite grace.
 The countryside had changed.  Where he had earlier walked through  seemingly 
endless  pastures  and meadows with some occasional trees,  there was  now  a 
dense  forest  that was only interrupted by sharp pieces of  rock  protruding 
from the torn earth towards the grey sky,  reaching out like eager ligaments, 
twice a man's height.  The poet heard the whistled tune ever clearer now.  It 
seemed to be right ahead of him.  An irresistable urge took control,  an urge 
to  find out who the person was that whistled,  what it was that caused  this 
sudden dream,  this sudden change of landscape,  this sudden wind,  the  dark 
sky. The smell of roses.
 Then he saw Her.

 On a fallen tree not far away sat a Lady clad in black, with Her back turned 
to  him.  She  senses  his presence and pulled back the  hood  of  her  robe, 
revealing  long dark hair that fell freely around Her  proud  shoulders.  The 
expression that radiated from Her body was very much like the tune that arose 
from  Her  lips  - infinite sadness and grace,  as if she  were  lamenting  a 
tremendous loss greater than any mortal could ever have endured.
 She  did  not see him yet,  nor did he see anything but Her  back.  But  Her 
silhouette  on the fallen tree made his breath stick in his  chest.  A  great 
sadness took hold of him, he knew not why.
 He  got closer,  trying to make no sound that could startle  the  Lady.  She 
continued her sad tune, as though She was not aware of anyone being around.
 There  was  no mist near Her,  as if the thin film of clouds was  alive  and 
hesitant to touch Her or even come close to Her.  The trees loomed high above 
Her shape;  beyond their tips there was nothing but darkness. The whole world 
seemed to be in darkness but for the bit around her.  The gathering clouds in 
the sky had made night of day, as if nature no longer mattered.
 He  noticed the smell of roses intensifying,  his nostrils perceiving  every 
tiniest of scents as if in some higher state of awareness.
 He  came  yet  closer  and found the mists  parting  at  his  feet,  forming 
something like a path before him - leading to the tree that the Lady sat on.
 Entranced he walked his apparently designated path of life.  Before he  knew 
it,  he  was in the same enclosure as the Lady and her tree.  They  were  now 
surrounded  by  a wall of forest on all sides.  It had the  appearance  of  a 
prison  -  only  this prison had been made to keep  the  world  outside  from 
harming that which was inside.
 He  would have sworn there had not been a tree where he had come  from,  but 
now there was.  The forest seemed alive, throbbing with some ancient sense of 
purpose.  He  looked  around him,  realising he should feel  threatened  but, 
strangely  enough,  didn't.  From somewhere deep inside,  a feeling of  inner 
peace gently spread out to the most remote parts of his body like a  powerful 
and totally beautiful drug.
 When  he suddenly noticed the sound of leaves and branches brushing  against 
each other in the wind he suddenly realised he no longer heard Her whistling.
 He looked at Her, to find Her looking at him.
 Her  face  was  as if carved by a Great  Sculptor's  hands,  a  modern-  day 
Michaelangelo.  Her jugular bones protruding enough to be seen, Her eyes were 
of  deep soulful grey,  like jewels amid her complexion that was  silken  and 
white like purest velvet spun of milk.  Around the stunning splendour of  Her 
face  hung beautiful hair,  curled,  long and as raven and as pure as  a  the 
blackest of starless nights. The kind of hair, loose like the wind, that make 
you  wish  you  were a brush.  The kind of hair you would want  to  let  flow 
through  your  hands lovingly,  hair you would want to brush from  Her  face, 
clear away from Her eyes. Her mouth had delicately formed lips that glistened 
in a light he could not discern the source of.  He was so absorbed gazing  at 
Her  face and incredibly black hair that he began to stutter an  apology  but 
ended halfway,  not being able to produce anything more but a sigh that  sent 
goosebumps across his back and arms.
 He  had written poems about beautiful women draped across priceless  couches 
in  exquisite clothing.  He had composed love songs to the  most  magnificent 
Goddesses  of the heavens above;  he had described their  silken  skins,  the 
softness  of their breasts,  the deep serenity of their  glorious  eyes,  the 
intoxicating taste of their lips,  the tantalizing smell of their breath.  He 
had  conceived poems that brought colour to the cheeks of Queens Supreme  and 
had lamented woeful partings of loved ones. He thought he had seen everything 
that was beautiful on the face of the earth.
 But one glance at this Lady was more than all he had ever felt, more than he 
had ever considered any mortal capable of feeling.
 Emotions  of  death and birth,  joy and sadness of a thousand  lives  surged 
through his being, increasing with every beat of his heart. This was the kind 
of  Woman you'd like to learn French for,  the kind of Woman that could  have 
made a peaceful philosopher of Atilla the Hun.
 He staggered,  not quite knowing how to cope with the overwhelming  emotions 
that took hold of his frail inner self.
 Before  him sat a Woman more beautiful than anything he had  beheld  before. 
Here  sat  an ancient Acropolis,  a magnificent Gothic  Cathedral,  the  most 
proverbially  bewitching of Paradise Birds,  the proudest of  Lionesses,  the 
sweetest of French Wines,  the most delicately tuned of Violins,  a brightest 
of Suns, a most impressive of She-Dragons, a High Queen of High Elves.
 She looked at him, smiling a lovely smile of purest sadness.
 He sank to his knees,  quite incapable of doing anything else.  He gazed  at 
Her with an instant and deeply sincere feeling of adoration and devoted love.
 There  was no escape,  which was good because he didn't want to.  The  earth 
would  crumble  if he would ever have to tear his eyes  away  from  Her,  the 
heavens  would  split and the universe would be reduced to  an  insignificant 
piece of emptiness with no reason for any mortal to live.  He would dwell  in 
darkness  if She would turn him down.  He felt with every fibre in  his  body 
that if he was ever to part with this Lady again,  life would be less than  a 
hollow  shell of nothing.  The singing of birds would hold no  beauty.  Mists 
lingering  across  green  meadows would cause  instant  depression.  Odes  to 
Aphrodite  would be meaningless.  Music or art of any kind would never  again 
hold  any  value for him.  The biggest mountain would not be high  enough  to 
surpass his sorrow,  the deepest sea not deep enough to drown his  grief.  He 
was so full of love for Her that it made tears leap at his eyes.
 She  looked away from him,  as if remembering something that tore  open  old 
wounds that were revealed deep within the centre of Her soul.
 His  entire being cried out mutely to Her,  body language  and  supernatural 
signals  being  the  languages  of  the universe  that  this  Lady  in  Black 
understood like no other.
 He felt peace and rest flow through him when She looked at him again,  quite 
suddenly. It was immediately followed be a feeling as he was being quartered, 
made  love  to,  born and withering away - all sensations combined in  but  a 
fragment  of  a second that he spent in intense agony and  profound  pleasure 
that he could not help but sense in all aspects with every cell in his  body. 
He felt as if steel lances were driven through every muscle in his  body,  as 
if he was being burned in the middle of a supernova, tortured horrendously by 
Evil  lords  - but he also experienced the feeling of  the  accumulated  love 
given  by mankind since Eden,  the first step on another planet,  a  thousand 
orgasms, the intricate scent of thousands of rare and intoxicating flowers.
 She  arose from her tree like like in a dream.  The poet tried to reach  out 
but couldn't.  He wanted to walk but found himself grappling for  words.  She 
was warning him, something he felt very clearly. Being able to love Her would 
have its price, the heaviest price for any mortal to pay.
 She did not speak a word. The trees parted as She walked off.
 The spell had vanished.  He found himself capable of walking again. She  had 
set him free,  free to chose for himself what to do.  Go home and be  without 
this Lady for the rest of his life - or go with Her and pay the price.
 His heart leapt,  his soul cried out,  his cells writhed in agony.  Whatever 
the price was,  he was prepared to pay.  All his life he had dreamed of this, 
wished for this to happen. The price mattered not. She did.

 He  followed  her to a small wooden cabin that lay partly  hidden  by  dense 
undergrowth.  A  slow  drizzle had started falling but he felt  none  of  it. 
Drifting  on clouds of overwhelming love he followed  Her  shape,  spellbound 
again.  He adored Her footsteps,  beheld with adoration the odd leaf that was 
brushed  aside by Her feet as She strode by.  He worshipped the way in  which 
She  moved  as if motion itself was but a means designed for Her to  be  even 
more  inexplicably ravishing than She already was.  Some way or  another,  he 
felt  as if the entire universe revolved around them,  as if their  movements 
were swinging the earth and the planets in their perpetual orbits around  the 
sun.
 Everything  seemed utterly unimportant all at  once.  Everything,  that  is, 
except for the two of them.
 It seemed as if he heard bells tolling in the distance.
 All  his senses succumbed to the overwhelming sensation he  felt  throughout 
his body,  the feeling of deep desire,  admiration,  affection and  lust.  He 
wanted  to  be one with this perfect creature  mentally  and  physically,  no 
matter what the cost.
 Forever.
 Outside, the gathering power of the rain thundering on the roof of the small 
wooden cabin remained unnoticed while they made passionate love, crying cries 
softened  by  the  mists,  loving like mankind had never been  able  to  love 
before.  They  melted  together,  merging  their minds  and  bodies  together 
indefinitely,  losing  themselves  in the forever  increasing  whirlwinds  of 
passion,  soaring  along the edges of heaven,  ornamenting the gold of  their 
love with gems superlative.
 They  became one with the trees,  the forests,  the lands,  the  world,  the 
seasons,  night and day, deserts and polar caps, ice and steam, all Gods that 
had  ever arisen,  all beauty that had ever existed in the  greatest  empires 
past and future. When their tongues met they kissed the gates of heaven. When 
they held each other they embraced immortality.
 This  was  not  something earthly,  nor even something  heavenly  -  it  was 
something  that  could  only be of equal status  with  the  stars,  with  the 
galaxies.  It was something that could not be surpassed until  eternity,  not 
even until the very end of all, when time and space themselves would collide.
 Their combined desire was as insurmountable as a mountain touching the  sun, 
as  intense as the Krakatau making love to Venus,  as hot as the centre of  a 
thousand  galaxies' supernovas,  as vast as all the earth's oceans  combined. 
Something that could make Death come alive, or die.

 When  the poet woke up,  the first thing he smelled was the scent  of  roses 
lingering through the small wooden hut.  His entire body felt pleased like it 
had never felt before. His head rested on the pillow like it had never rested 
before.  In  a peculiar way he felt tired but wonderfully alive at  the  same 
time.
 The  sun shone brilliantly,  its rays almost touchable as they fell  through 
the  floating dust above the bed on which it shone through a  broken  window. 
Through  the  cracks  came the warm smell of summer,  carrying  with  it  the 
fragrance of thousands of other flowers.
 She looked even more incredibly beautiful in the rays of the rising sun that 
fell  on  the gentle curves of Her naked body.  Her  eyes  were  closed,  Her 
breathing soft and regular.  He brushed aside a strand of her raven hair  and 
kissed Her cheek.  His lips tingled with the sensation of that skin of purest 
velvet.  He had the feeling of death and birth again, the feeling of a planet 
crashing down on him and a Woman giving him the kiss of life. Still.
 He had to lie down.
 They had spent several months together.  His first sunset with Her had  been 
the  dawn  of  a new life altogether different from the  pale  death  he  had 
hitherto had the audacity of calling 'his life'. She had never spoken a word, 
but  Her  eyes had spoken of worlds  unknown,  experiences  unsurpassable  by 
dreams or reality, love unattainable by mere mortals.
 They had seen the sun rise and set many times,  they had seen rain fall  and 
dry.  They had heard the trees grow buds,  the grass become long,  the forest 
animals raise their offspring.  They had felt each other's touch,  each  time 
celebrating it by harvesting each other's love to its fullest. He realised he 
had hitherto been as unacquainted with true love as a man born blind would be 
with colour,  a man born deaf would be with midsummer serenades. The sun rose 
in Her eyes,  Her loins sang songs of love mixed with absolute  sadness.  She 
was  a  Lady  he would need death for to forget,  more  beautiful  than  love 
itself.
 He  wanted to know what lay behind Her.  Who She was,  what the  reason  was 
behind the infinite sadness that seemed to have a firm hold on Her. Was She a 
Goddess? A Fairy Queen? The embodiment of Beauty?
 He  would  try to read the story of Her life from the soulful  grey  of  Her 
eyes, seeing only tales a mortal would never be able to understand. Every day 
he  would  try to find words pertaining beauty and love  that  were  suitable 
enough to describe Her and what they felt for each other.  Every day he would 
wonder at Her sadness more.  He would plea Her to talk,  beg on his knees for 
Her to divulge her secrets,  regardless the cost. Each time he would bring it 
up  She would cry.  Each time he saw the tears in Her eyes it had felt as  if 
Her  love  was flowing away,  unsalvageably seeping into the  cabin's  wooden 
floor.
 In the end She couldn't keep it from him any longer.  And at that Moment  of 
Moments, they both paid their price.

 Original  started  spring 1992,  put on ice for a  while,  and  finished  in 
October 1992. Rehashed June 1994.


= THE PROMISED LANDS ========================================================
 by Richard Karsmakers


 Once  upon a time there was a world.  A world where everybody lived  happily 
and where there was no war;  indeed, a world where people just lived, hunted, 
harvested, ate, slept, and multiplied.
 In this world it was that a man called Zantar lived. He was ruler of a tribe 
several  dozen people in size,  and a very thriving tribe it was  indeed,  in 
spite of its rather small size.  Among them were some excellent huntsmen, and 
they  even  had some primitive means of using the power of running  water  to 
help them with various tasks they would otherwise have to perform solely with 
their own physical power.
 Years  ago,  the peace and fortitude of the tribe had been  confronted  once 
with war:  When the Noruasians had conquered the land,  only to be beaten and 
wiped away by intervention of some kind of utterly divine being.
 Ever since that day, weird things had happened to the village.

 But that morning...

 Zantar  woke  up to sounds he had never heard before.  A  feeling  of  dread 
manifested itself in his stomach and right in the marrow of his old rheumatic 
bones,  and  it was as though he *knew* something was wrong outside  when  he 
stepped out of his bed.
 The  voice of a girl in her late teens could be heard,  muffled to  such  an 
extend  that  it  barely succeeded in coming out from between  the  chaos  of 
pillows and blankets.
 "Come back to bed, Zantar, honey..."
 "Not now, Neja, babe," Zantar said.
 Zantar walked to the window and pulled the curtains aside. He beheld what he 
saw with astounded astonishment in his eyes.
 Right  before  his  window,  something that looked a bit like  a  big  green 
rectangle with regularly shaped silver paths on it stretched itself onto  the 
very horizons,  ornamented with dark grey shapes with many little shiny feet, 
ropes  with coloured parts and big blue shapes standing on what seemed to  be 
two relatively thin columns.
 Zantar noticed that it radiated with malice - and even more particularly,  a 
heat that seemed to arise from one of those grey dark shapes on many feet  on 
which the text 'MOTOROLA' could be read in large, white characters.
 "Oh Ynnor the Divine One," he sighed, "not again..."
 It  was  not the first time something this weird has  happened  to  Zantar's 
tribe;  ever  since  the  Noruasian  attack,  the  entire  village  had  been 
mysteriously though regularly transported to polar regions,  hot deserts, and 
even  more strange places.  Sometimes to all those places within a matter  of 
days.
 Zantar decided to call together the Council of Elders.

 Only  half an hour later,  the entire Council was gathered in Zantar's  hut: 
Sendatsuh  the Scientific One,  Nafets the Earnest One,  Sacul the  Extensive 
One,  Seec the Fortuitous One,  and Drag the Tiny One. Drag had been a member 
of  the  Council ever since the death of Nroejbrot,  who was  killed  by  the 
Noruasians.  He was selected because he looked so insanely witty, and usually 
didn't contribute much to the meeting except by improving its atmosphere.
 "Blackened is the End", Nafets proclaimed, "thus soundeth the Prophecy."
 "Winter it will send," Zantar added, "yes, Earnest One, hard times are bound 
to be nigh."
 "Throwing  all  you see," said Sacul,  his words added  to  this  apparently 
arcane brew of words beknown only to the Elders,  "into Obscurity!" With  the 
last words, he heaved his hands to the sky.
 "Woe! Woe!" Sendatsuh chanted, "the end is nigh!"
 Drag just looked insanely witty.
 "Quiet,  fools!" Zantar cried, "as of yet, Ynnor the Divine One has shown us 
nothing  that would point to such a predicament,  and this strange  happening 
will most likely be another one of those weird things that have happened more 
in recent years..."
 "Aye," Sacul agreed.
 "Quite rightly so," Seec added.
 "Could  very well be," Sendatsuh muttered,  "but I am not sure if it  agrees 
with my Sublimal Relativity Theory..."
 "Ah, keep thy oral cavity shut, Scientific One!" Nafets said.
 Drag just his usual - albeit insanely - witty self.
 They sat silently for several seconds,  each apparently in such deep thought 
that  all  their entire speech apparatuses failed to work  at  all.  Suddenly 
Zantar  moved.  He  shook his head and closed his eyes,  pressing  his  index 
fingers at either side of his skull.
 "What..." Sendatsuh inquired.
 "Zantar! My Lord!" Sacul exclaimed.
 Seec  and  Nafets didn't say anything.  Drag looked around him in  a  rather 
insanely witty fashion.
 "Silent," Zantar whispered hoarsely,  pressing his eyelids even more tightly 
shut, as if something important was about to happen within the small universe 
he called I.
 He saw visions of a Great War,  but he saw that it was no war of their time. 
Millions  died,  but when peace ruled again,  a Great Wall was built to  keep 
people apart although they actually were at peace with each other. Only after 
about forty years, the people found out that the wall was a rather daft thing 
and broke it down again,  selling the little pieces of concrete and stone  at 
ridiculous prices to souvenir seekers.
 When  Zantar  opened his eyes,  he was even more confused than he  had  been 
before.  Surely it had to be impossible that so many people would die in  any 
war?  He had had side visions as well but he could not put a finger on  their 
meaning.  There  were  showers...fire...a railway in the jungle...and  a  gas 
bill.  But  the thing with the wall was really  mindstaggeringly  absurd.  He 
could do nothing but discard his vision as irrelevant.

 "We must start a quest," Zantar said after another couple of  moments,  back 
to the time and things currently at hand, "and find out where our village has 
been moved to now. So be it."
 "Aye," Sacul agreed.
 "Quite rightly so," Seec added.
 "Could very well be," Sendatsuh muttered, "but I am not sure if..."
 Nafets cast a killing glance at the Scientific One, shutting him up deftly.
 Drag, on the other hand, just looked insanely witty.
 At that moment, a knock could be heard on the door of Zantar's abode.
 "Yes?" the Eldest of the Elders inquired.
 A  click  could be heard,  and from behind the thick wooden door  came  some 
heavy music that a post 19th-century inhabitant of earth could no doubt  have 
recognised as the fanfare opening bit of Strauss' "Also Sprach  Zarathustra". 
It  made  Zantar think of a science fiction vision he had once  had.  It  had 
involved apes and artificial sentience and,  like this morning's  vision,  it 
had seemed to him too absurd to seriously contemplate the portent of.
 The  door  was thrown open,  hinges protesting mutely,  to  reveal  a  truly 
gigantic figure.  It was a man on all accounts, but rather squarely built and 
with a strange device hanging in a leather kind of holster on his right  hip. 
He had long sideburns and his fists looked massive,  not the kind you'd  like 
to meet!
 On one of his legs,  a battered and dusty woman clung as if her entire  life 
depended on her hold on the squarely built man's extrement. Dried blood lined 
her  face,  and  her legs and arms were bruised and coloured with  brown  and 
purple spots. She was scarcely dressed, and it was clear for everybody to see 
that  she  had a large belt of leather and metal strapped around  her  waist. 
There was a sturdy, rusty lock hanging between her legs, and two others (also 
quite sturdy and quite rusty) on each side on her hips.  The remains of  what 
had  probably  once been a perfectly functioning hairpin protruded  from  the 
keyhole of one of the locks.  A wailing sound came from her dried out,  burst 
lips.  It disappeared into the stunned silence of the Council,  unheeded.  It 
was  a  wail  indicating similarly unheeded sounds  had  often  been  uttered 
earlier.
 One of the hands of the large man disappeared in his tunic. Another metallic 
click could be heard, at which instant the music ceased.
 "Woe..." Sacul silently muttered, shaking visibly.
 "Good morning," Seec added, equally softly.
 "Well  I'll be..." Sendatsuh muttered,  "I simply *have* to  postulate  that 
all of this is impossible according to my -"
 "Hack off,  wouldst thou?" Nafets said,  more than 'some' irritation obvious 
in his voice.
  "You  took the words *right* out of my mouth,  Nafets," the Eldest  of  the 
Elders said solemnly.
 Drag seemed to feel uncomfortable for a second or so upon seeing the  woman. 
His  kind was not too often favoured by all these enticing square  inches  of 
female skin.  Blood-clotted and dirty or not,  it *was* female skin. His face 
seemed for a moment to transform to an expression not at all witty, but after 
a  very  brief struggle the insanely witty looks settled once more  upon  his 
countenance.
 The Elders looked at him. They strove hard not to be afraid of this man, nor 
to wonder too much which magic had been responsible for the music that seemed 
to have come *right from within his jacket*.  And then,  of course, there was 
the woman. Apart from the fact that she looked dishevelled and threadbare, it 
was highly unusual for women to be admitted within the Elder's Council Room.
 "What  are  you  looking at?" the rather squarely built  man  said  when  he 
noticed all Elders except one staring flummoxedly at the female clutching his 
leg, evidently beyond desperation.
 The  Elders started to study the ceiling and the furniture quite  zealously, 
as  if  they has just discovered some kind of rare shiny metal  in  them,  or 
unexpected  design  beauty  that  had  hitherto  miraculously  slipped  their 
attention.
 Drag just kept looking around him in an insanely witty way, unperturbed.
 The  enormous  figure  looked down at the shape of what  had  once  probably 
been not too bad-looking a female.
 "Loucynda," he said reprovingly, waggling his finger, "I told you to let go, 
didn't I, before leaving Sucatraps?"
 The female called Loucynda muttered something that could have meant anything 
between  (and  including) 'yes' and  'no'.   Zantar  coughed,  regaining  the 
squarely built man's attention.
 "Why, hum, do you honour us with this visit?" Zantar asked.
 The  man looked back at Zantar with a mild expression of obvious  stupidity. 
He  spread his legs a bit,  as if that might make his purpose evident all  at 
once. Just when Zantar again opened his mouth to speak, the big man did.
 "I am told that you are in need of a leader," the gaint man spoke, "a leader 
for a quest. Isn't that so?"
 "Aye," Sacul replied.
 "Quite rightly so," Seec added.
 "Indeed we are," Sendatsuh muttered and,  to Nafets, whispered, "though I am 
not sure if my theory allows for any outside parameters and -"
 "Hack off, Scientific One!" Nafets bellowed in a whisper.
 For  a moment,  it looked as if Drag was about not to look  insanely  witty. 
Noone was really surprised when he did so anyway.
 Zantar proceeded:  "Indeed, we are, noble sir. And, with respect, you indeed 
look like you're the man to do it."
 The  man  muttered in himself,  as if he was  calculating  or  contemplating 
something.  The  silence that was the result of this was only broken when  he 
looked up and said: "What's the pay?"
 "Pay?" Sacul wondered.
 "Pay?" Seec added.
 "I  hadn't though of a 'payment' parameter..." Sendatsuh muttered below  his 
breath. Nobody reacted.
 "P...p..." Zantar stammered.
 "Pay?" Nafets asked.
 "Pay?!" Drag uttered. He noticed everybody looking at him rather startledly, 
so he quickly shut up and continued looking insanely witty.  His mother would 
have seen there were vast current aworking under his skin,  that it cost  the 
Tiny One more than the usual energy to remain his usual self.
 The  bedraggled female looked up as if she recognised  something;  a  voice, 
maybe, or a face. A few seconds later she sagged again, went limp.
 "Yeah, sure," the man continued some moments later, "the pay."
 "Ah,  yes,  I see,  the pay," Zantar said, "of course! How could we not have 
brought this up ourselves?"
 He grinned nervously, an expression the other Elders were totally unfamiliar 
with, at least when worn by him.
 "We  have no practical use for the thing you call 'gold'," Zantar  continued 
eventually,  "so you can take whatever we have of that. But for that you will 
have to get us back in our normal environment again; out of this insane world 
we have ended up in."
 The man thought it over for a while, then said, "Hmm..."
  "So  it's  a deal,  then?" Zantar said,  hopefully,  trying  hard  to  keep 
desperation from tainting his voice.
 "No," the giant man replied,  "I want more.  I want you to open the locks on 
my bride-to-be's chastity belt."
 Zantar glanced at the remains of the female again,  then averted his eyes so 
as not to insult the warrior.
 "That's a deal then," he said.
 The man took Zantar's hand and shook it perhaps a bit too  enthusiastically. 
A tape recorder dropped to the floor.
 "Erm...Warchild," the warrior said, "Cronos Warchild's the name. The payer's 
wish is my game. I will not let you down."
 He picked up the tape recorder with a vaguely embarrassed look.

 The  next morning,  everybody would loved to have seen the sun rising  above 
the  weird  land that the quest was about to  travel  through.  Unfortunately 
there was no sun to be seen anywhere.  Instead,  the sky was a kind of  light 
grey  through which some rays of light protruded half-heartedly where  frills 
in the sky allowed this.
 Cronos - now without Loucynda, who was dropped at the blacksmith's, clogging 
his leg - towered high above the other questers.  These were Enur,  Oblib and 
the  latter's  cousin Odorf.  The only Elder that could be omitted  from  the 
actual  Council of Elders,  Drag,  was also balancing with some gear  stacked 
high on his back. Even during that, he persistedly looked insanely witty.
 When  the party left the village and set foot on the  preternaturally  green 
ground,  shivers ran down their spines.  Even Cronos had to suppress a  small 
shiver. The soil didn't feel like soil at all. It felt like a kind of plastic 
coating;  cold  and uninviting.  When they looked behind them they saw  their 
loved ones standing, crying softly and waving handkerchiefs.
 "We  will  not  forget  you!" they could hear  Zantar  crying  in  the  ever 
increasing distance before the Eldest of Elders was pulled back in his hut by 
a girl in her late teens, the curtains of the hut hastily drawn shut.
 Drag looked even more insanely witty than usual.
 They  lost sight of the village when they changed direction and  disappeared 
behind  a large dark grey object on which INTEL was written in  large,  white 
characters.
 Who  was that old woman,  crying zealously while looking at a small  painted 
picture on which someone looking insanely witty was portrayed,  who left  the 
parting scene long after the others had?

 At  the  evening of that day - approximately when the  questers  would  have 
liked  to see a sun setting and when they noticed they once again had  to  be 
content  with the meagre light rays coming from shapes like frills that  were 
mysteriously located in the light grey sky,  only partly penetrating the half 
darkness - a deafening cry could be heard echoing through these Bit Plains.
 All the questers looked in turn at each other and then at Warchild.
 Warchild, however, appeared not to have heard anything. He was fumbling with 
a hearing aid.
 "Reficul the Evil One is upon us!" Enur cried, sinking to the floor.
 "May Ynnor the Divine One aid us!" Oblib yelled,  folding his hands together 
in prayer, starting to mumble.
 "May  the Powers of Light be merciful on us!" Odorf  screamed,  prepared  to 
turn around and hurl his poor self back at the village whence they had come.
 "Oh shit," Cronos muttered matter-of-factly.
 Drag just looked insanely witty.
  The deafening cries were upon them once more,  these atrocious  cries  that 
seemed to want to tear down the heavens.
 "It works!" they could hear, roaring, "finally!"
 Even  Cronos  knew  these cries could only have been made by  a  being  much 
larger  even  than himself.  The thought of a race of such  beings  made  him 
cringe inside,  though he kept his composure to the outside world.  It  would 
have  been a bad move to show outward fright to the other  questers.  Without 
his courage - bluntly stupid though it was at times - this whole thing had no 
change of ever succeeding.
 Next,  the  earth - or whatever they were in or on - started  to  shake.  An 
enormous shudder drove them all toppling to the ground,  mysteriously causing 
them all to fall on top of Drag, who found it difficult to maintain his usual 
expression  under the gathered weight of his fellow questers *and*  Warchild. 
The  quake ended as soon as it had started,  but before they had a chance  to 
get  up again it suddenly started to rain through those mysterious frills  in 
the light grey sky.
 It  felt sticky and somehow warm.  Soothing,  perhaps?  It was brownish  and 
scented particularly.  The only thing it actually had in common with rain was 
the  fact that it came from what,  for lack of a better word,  had to be  the 
sky.
 "Reficul's Power Potion!" Enur cried suddenly.
 "Evil Rain!" Oblib yelled, Enur's fear catching on.
 "The Powers of Darkness are upon us!" Odorf screamed.
 "Hmm...sniff...sniff...alcohol?" Cronos wondered.
 Drag displayed distinctly uncanny behaviour.  After sniffing once or  twice, 
he  turned  his face towards the heavens and simply opened  his  mouth.  Some 
people  seem  to have a particular moment in life for which  they  have  been 
preparing  themselves without knowing.  If there was such a moment for  Drag, 
the Tiny One, this was definitely it.
 "Well...well I'll be *damned*!" Cronos cried enthusiastically,  starting  to 
grin like he hadn't done for quite a while, "it's *Plantiac*!"
 His  eyes  quickly scanned the floor for pools and then  uncermoniously  and 
rather uncivilisedly dashed down into one and started to drink.
 "No!" Enur cried, "Fool! You'll be doomed for eternity!"
 "The Evil Rain has taken its toll!" Oblib yelled, "Eternal Damnation will be 
his price to pay!"
 "Woe! Woe!" Odorf woe-ed, "Reficul, damn thee! Why hast thou lead this bunch 
into tempation!?"
 Cronos burped in response.
 Drag was lying on the ground,  emblissed into unconsciousness,  an  insanely 
witty  look  that would have needed a chisel to get rid of plastered  on  his 
face.

 Meanwhile...in the village...

 Though the deafening 'Reficul' cries had also been heard in the  village,  a 
high  and  frantic screaming coming from the  blacksmith's  place,  virtually 
tearing the night in two, caused much more of a stir.
 A nude woman came running from the blacksmith's.  There was a tan line  that 
indicated large part of her had been exposed to the sun over the last  couple 
of  months.  There was a shape around her loins and hips that seemed to  have 
remained almost unnaturally white,  as if not exposed to the light of the sun 
for anything up to years.  On each hip there was the white shape of, damn it, 
yes,  of a large padlock.  Tan,  lack of tan,  tan line, all of it hid itself 
behind some bushes.
 Zantar came out of his hut,  looking weary, wondering what was going on. His 
beard  looked  ruffled and he was wearing some female  underwear  (to  which, 
strangely enough, a bit of blue fur was stuck).
 "Have you succeeded in removing that belt?" he asked the blacksmith when  he 
noticed this man also having appeared on the street, covering up his genitals 
with a callused hand, obviously looking for something.
 The  blacksmith didn't actually reply,  but instead blinked a black eye  and 
just looked unfocused at the Eldest of Elders, looking insanely witty.

 And in the wide vastness of the Bit Plains...

 Cronos  stopped  relishing  the taste of what  his  fellow  questers  called 
"Reficul's Acid" when he felt something.  He didn't know what it was,  or for 
what purpose he felt it, nor even *where* he felt it exactly. All he knew was 
that he did.
 As if struck by lightning,  a thought suddenly entered his mind. His beloved 
Loucynda was in danger. However, he also knew he had wanted to get rid of her 
for a long time, anyway. She must have betrayed him. The blacksmith seemed to 
understand his craft and must have...
 As if reading Cronos' thoughts,  Drag looked at him in a way Warchild  would 
have loved to slap clean off the Tiny One's face.
 Drag  pointed  at a large,  dark grey,  flat shape that was  located  behind 
Cronos. It stood on silver-coloured pillars, or pins. There was relief on the 
Tiny One's face, as if that large object explained everything in one go.
 "Bug inside," he yelled happily, "bug inside! Bug inside!"
 Warchild had always hated insects. Bugs, beetles, cockroaches, catarpillars, 
even ladybirds.  And ants,  of course, ants most of all. He had once seen one 
crawl out of someone's ear.  He hadn't liked the sight.  He wasn't afraid  of 
them, no, not that. He just hated them fervently and preferred to squash them 
under his booted heel whenever an opportune moment availed itself.
 "Bug inside!" Drag yelled again,  pointing fervently to whatever was  behind 
Cronos.
 Warchild  turned around slowly and suddenly understood.  He knew why  things 
had  been  so strange for Zantar and his country,  why  Loucynda  had  turned 
against him,  why he had been feeling so strange inside.  His entire personal 
universe,   so  far  a  muddled-up  jigsaw  puzzle,   fell  meticulously  and 
autonomously in place.
 "Bug inside," Drag said, "yes?"
 Standing  in  front of a huge black thing with "PENTIUM" written  on  it  in 
large white capitals, Cronos nodded.

 Original written September 1989. Rehashed January 1995.


= A MALIGNANTLY CLOSE ENCOUNTER WITH A GREEK GODDESS ========================
 by Stefan Posthuma and Richard Karsmakers

 This  is  a story that needs some small introduction.  Back  in  1988,  both 
authors  visited a local computer show after which they decided to  get  some 
Greek  Food  at a restaurant recommended by a friend.  Or,  as  the  original 
introduction would have it,  "A tale about two innocent (?) computerfreaks on 
their quest for some Great Food after the Hobby Computer Club days  1988,  on 
the  evening of Saturday,  November 26th,  1988.  And the story of what  they 
found together with that Food."
 Think  of it as a self-indulgent exercise in poetic language,  for  that  is 
what  it turned out to be,  making that the second story of the kind in  this 
issue of "Twilight World".


 The  HCC days 1988 were quite interesting but not interesting enough not  to 
be  dull.  Although  they  made  an attempt  to  find  it  interesting  quite 
seriously,  they  could not succeed in finding it anything else  rather  than 
dull. So all they could do was concentrate their attention (and plenty of it) 
on  a certain waitress in a certain Restaurant in the adjacent  town  centre. 
This was in fact pretty simple:  As fate would have it,  She turned out to be 
quite brainnumbingly brilliant.

 For  some  hours now,  but one name lingered  simultaneously  through  their 
minds;  a  name that sounded like air brushing through the leaves  of  silent 
trees  on an autumn afternoon,  a name that embodied everything  Love  stands 
for,  a  name that in fact turned out to be based upon an ancient  language's 
translation for "I love you".
 This is Her story.  A story of Love,  Food,  Sweaty Hands,  Deafening Cries, 
Very Red Faces, Pounding Hearts and a Red Rose.

 It starts here.

 After the HCC days, they decided they had to visit a Greek restaurant by the 
name  of  "Zorba  the  Greek".  As they  entered  the  restaurant  and  their 
thunderstruck  eyes  fell  on  the girl that was  waiting  to  lead  them  to 
their table, it suddenly happened...
 Small  droplets of salty water started extracting themselves from the  palms 
of  their trembling hands and the muscles of their eyes  underwent  exercises 
never  before  experienced in a desperate attempt to follow  each  and  every 
movement  of  each  and every particle of Her body and the  lucky  air  atoms 
encircling it whilst not daring to move their heads in Her direction.
 It  was as if Venus Herself had chosen to return to this Earth.  They  froze 
and  Her  smile  rendered  them  totally  helpless.  Slightly  drooling  from 
miscellaneous  parts of their oral cavities,  they followed Her to the  table 
she  had  assigned  to  them,  after which She  disappeared  in  a  cloud  of 
loveliness.
 They  looked at each other and noticed eyes that gazed blankly  ahead,  that 
could  no  longer  accomodate themselves to proper distances  and  that  were 
altogether quite dumbfounded with the purest astounding amazement imaginable.
 Moments later She returned holding two little glasses.   As they looked into 
Her  eyes as She put the glasses on the table,  it was if they witnessed  the 
Answer to Everything.  As She again left,  they spent minutes staring at  the 
fingerprints She left behind on the glasses.  Slowly,  with trembling  hands, 
they  took their first careful sips.  It was like the first gasp of oxygen  a 
baby takes after having been gently removed from its mothers' womb and put on 
the mysterious green-and-blue planet we call Earth.
 "Gosh...." was all Stefan could utter at the moment.
 Richard  acted as if stricken by lightning and did not even attempt to  move 
his lips to say anything.
 Whenever She would pass by,  or even become partly visible for a segment  of 
a second, conversation would stop abruptly and words would hang feebly in the 
air  before they would fall helplessly to the ground.  Silence  would  strike 
the table, their minds deafened by thoughts of utmost delight and pleasure.
 When taking their orders some minutes later,  Her eyes once more met theirs. 
The only thing to strike them was the imperceptible similitude between  these 
deep wells of serenity and a Total Perspective Vortex the likes of which  had 
never  earlier been seen ever by them or by anyone in or beyond the  infinite 
reaches of the Multiverse.
 "If  there's a God,  this must be the most perfect specimen of His  creation 
obtainable,"  they both thought as it struck them that She  talked  friendly, 
with no sign of contempt or conceit whatsoever, despite the fact that She was 
addressing  mere mortals like them.  Her voice sounded like bells of  golden, 
tingling  through the humid meadows of some far and distant country  captured 
in some old and nigh-forgotten dream.
 Their heads were so busy processing all their sense's impressions that  they 
forgot  to keep their mouths closed,  sensed their knees weakening  and  felt 
altogether much like a jar of honey with no jar.
 Richard  had  never  known he had that many ribs until  he  felt  his  heart 
pounding against each one of them.
 Watching  Her  walk away from their table to fetch the  ordered  food,  they 
witnessed the Perfect Movement.  Her Body moved to and fro as would a  tender 
butterfly in an April morning breeze,  parading Her physique as the  topotype 
example of harmony in its utmost perfection.  It was as if a sudden void  was 
drawn behind Her;  a vacuum in which everything and everybody seemed to  fade 
away into mere oblivion,  where nothing would be able to survive next to  Her 
beauty as She melted away in her own pink mists of sensuality that seemed  to 
seep out of reality around her.
 It was as though the whole principle of locomotion was just invented for Her 
to be able to walk like She did. She made every other movement, even the slow 
unfolding  of  a  daffodil  in  the  fresh  morning  sun,  seem  utterly  and 
grotesquely rude and turgid.
 All Stefan could do was sigh a profound wish which had something to do  with 
reincarnating as a pair of nylons.
 Again,  Richard acted as if stricken by lightning, not able to say anything, 
hear anything, or see anything other than Her, Her, this Girl of Girls.
 Both  guys' minds were taken up by the thought of the beautiful  country  of 
Greece. Was is perhaps worth migrating to that sunny Mediterranean country if 
that be the Place where girls of such prodigious beauty dwell? Wouldn't it be 
beyond  perfection  to walk together with one like  Her  -  or,  indeed,  Her 
herself - along a beach, a hot sun sinking in the sea at a distant horizon?
 Her  Body  had a shape as though formed by sculptors of old  in  their  most 
supremely  unsurpassed  trial  to reproduce whatever  they  conceived  to  be 
Lovely,  Lackadaisical, Luscious and Lecherous, the likes of which would even 
cast a dark and dismal shadow upon Aphrodite,  Goddess of Love  Herself.  Her 
long  fair hair fell around Her shoulders and back as though it was a  Golden 
ornament  to emphasise her beauty;  Her legs were simply gorgeous and  really 
far too delicately and exquisitely shaped just to function as mere locomotory 
devices.

 The food was eaten with taste,  but their thoughts were with this  beautiful 
female  specimen  of mankind rather than the deliciously prepared  meats  and 
sauces the Greek table offered with modest pride.  When they finally sat back 
after  a while and started to relax a bit,  the wonderfully superb meal  just 
having been devoured, the girl came back.
 She once again put to a grinding halt whatever conversation was taking place 
and  filled  both their minds with thoughts of utmost  delight  and  pleasure 
hinted at earlier already.
 They  felt they had deserved some French Brandy now,  which would also  help 
them to ponder over the next step: What would be Her name? They just *had* to 
find out!  Life without that simple knowledge would not be worth living. They 
therefore  ordered some of the alcoholic fluid,  carefully  contemplating  on 
strategies as to how to ask Her.
 Just  when they were about to leave,  saddened immeasurably because  someone 
else had brought the drinks and She had remained out of sight,  She came into 
their lines of vision again, pulling them in unwittingly.
 She  was cleaning a table behind them as She touched Stefan by  accident;  a 
tremble sped down his spinal chord and sent him shivering with  romance.  His 
eyes  crossed  and a sigh escaped from his lips that only  yearned  to  speak 
those four words he wanted to utter.  In an outburst of feelings,  he managed 
to talk.  It seemed a totally novel experience to him, somehow different and, 
well, magic.
 "What is your name?" he asked with an unstable voice.
 "Agapi" She replied, speaking these mere words with almost divine resonance.
 It was as though words took fantastic shapes when She spoke them;  one could 
almost smell them,  scenting like roses and ripening heather,  and feel  them 
like  a gentle caress or a lovingly kneading hand on a tensed  shoulder.  The 
whole  concept of speech was taken to unsuspected heights as this girl  added 
wholly  new  dimensions  to everything connected with this  simple  means  of 
communication.  She  could  make  Her words drip  like  nectar,  spreading  a 
fragrance of the very essential nature of all that is Beauty.
 "Er...you know, we make a magazine...", Richard interrupted, hesitant.
 And  thus it came to pass that they told Her everything She needed  to  know 
about  their magazine,  "ST News",  and the fact that they were impressed  to 
such an extend by the food, but more particularly Her service, that they felt 
obliged  to dedicate their magazine to Her.  They both blushed  heavily,  and 
each word they spoke was struggling to come out.
 She seemed enormously flattered by their kind gesture, and a smile of smiles 
was seen by the two mere mortals that nearly fainted at the sight of it.
 Some  moments  before,  when  Agapi had merely made herself  noted  by  that 
prolonged  and  terrible  absence,  a  local salesman  had  walked  into  the 
Restaurant carrying Red Roses.  For a moment,  the friends' eyes met, both of 
them knowing what the other thought.  Now, finally, they subjugated all their 
power  of  will  and  courage to offer Her the  Red  Rose  procured  at  that 
instance, the Red Rose that was to them the most divinely wrought likeness of 
Her   beauty,   Her  adorable  fragility  and  Her  epic  vivacity   possibly 
conceivable.  A  God's flower in honour of a Goddess' singular beauty  -  how 
appropriate.  An  even  more lovely smile,  now also laced  with  modest  shy 
embarrassment,  dawned  slowly upon Her slightly moist  lips.  Tiny  diamonds 
could  be  seen glittering brazenly in Her eyes before She  cast  them  down, 
blushing, too.

 When they left the restaurant,  all they could manage to do was simply being 
overwhelmed by joy,  spontaneously crying deafening cries of emotion, jumping 
in the air with incredible vigour,  and generally being highly in love:  Love 
that had suddenly divulged itself from the very depths of their inner  selves 
much in the way like volcanic magma divulged from the Krakatau over a century 
back.

 Nineteen-ninety-five epilogue:

 We  indeed dedicated that issue of "ST News" (the "Twilight  World"  'mother 
magazine') to Agapi and even gave her a copy of this rather unusual  Ode.  We 
had already returned to Earth by the next day after our pubescent infatuation 
had worn off, but we decided to go ahead with the dedication anyway. Why not?
 Agapi was indeed,  as I remember her now,  a girl of quite exemplary beauty. 
Still, I look back at the story of that evening with the slight embarrassment 
of one who has now *really* found True Love.

 Original  written  on  the  night  of  November  26th/27th  1988.   Rehashed 
somewhat January 1995.


= SIMULCRA ==================================================================
 by Jurie Horneman


 Lord Jason felt vaguely uncomfortable.  Everything seemed completely  normal 
in  the quiet inn on the waterfront:  Some sailors who had returned to  shore 
after  months on sea were celebrating their return and the usual drunks  were 
hanging  on  the bar,  trying to forget.  He was lurking in  a  dark  corner, 
drinking some wine,  as was his habit.  The fact that all was as it should be 
made the sense of impending danger even more unnerving.  Just as he was about 
to  take another sip from his wine,  the door opened and a group of  soldiers 
entered.  Lord  Jason  felt the hairs in his neck rise.  The  leader  of  the 
soldiers,  a  tall,  lumbering  sergeant with a  red  moustache,  asked  some 
questions  of  the  landlord,  who reluctantly answered and  pointed  in  the 
direction  of Lord Jason.  As the men made their way across  the  room,  Lord 
Jason  tensed and prepared for violence.  The sergeant stopped at his  table, 
coughed, and asked,
 "My  humble  apologies,  my  Lord,  but would you happen to  be  Lord  Jason 
Souleater?"
 "So I am," replied Lord Jason in a sardonic tone.
 "Ah. Well," said the sergeant, "I'm afraid I must ask you to accompany us to 
our superiors. It has to do with a certain document."
 "Do as you please," said Lord Jason,  and thrust the table forward with  all 
his  might,  thereby  causing a great deal of chaos  and  incapacitating  the 
sergeant and his men.  Quickly,  Lord Jason jumped over the crawling soldiers 
and rushed out the door.
 Outside, he mounted his steed, Azatoth, and rode off in the direction of the 
city  gates.  Behind him he could hear the loud curses of the  sergeant,  and 
soon  after that the sound of pursuing horses.  As he neared  the  gates,  he 
looked  back.  Twelve  riders.  That  wasn't good.  He whispered  a  word  in 
Azatoth's ear and felt the dark grey stallion increase its speed.  Now  those 
fools would see why the horses of his homeland,  the hills of  Morelay,  were 
called demon steeds.  Lord Jason smiled grimly.  Behind him,  the city became 
ever smaller.

 After an hour of frantic riding, Lord Jason had lost the soldiers. He slowed 
down to a canter on a dark forest road and contemplated on why they had tried 
to  capture  him.  He  had  hoped the incident with  the  document  had  been 
forgotten, but obviously this was not the case. Lord Jason gnashed his teeth. 
They  would  never get it,  as long as he lived.  Suddenly he  heard  riders, 
approaching fast. They were coming towards him. Friend or foe? He decided not 
to risk it,  and turned around. There had been a crossroads not too far back. 
He  increased  his speed and took the left road,  which was no  more  than  a 
narrow  path.  Recklessly,  he gave Azatoth free rein and thundered down  the 
trail, branches lashing his face and snapping off. He heard the riders behind 
him. They were after him! Azatoth was too tired to run at top speed. He would 
have to hope they would get lost in the forest.
 They didn't.  Lord Jason had left the woods behind him a long time ago,  but 
the  riders were still after him.  Azatoth was getting exhausted,  flecks  of 
foam covered his body.  When Lord Jason took a quick look over his  shoulder, 
he could make out the blue uniforms of the riders in the pale moonlight. This 
spelled trouble.  He was riding over a long,  flowing plain now, covered with 
rough grass and patches of heather.  Only as he saw the yawning chasm  coming 
up  and heard the surf far below did he realise he had been  heading  towards 
a  cliff.  There was a canyon stretching out before and *far* below  him.  He 
pulled on the reins, trying to turn and get away in another direction, but it 
was too late. The riders had caught up with him. He was surrounded.

 One  rider moved his horse forward.  It was a young captain,  who was  still 
breathing  heavily  from the long ride.  He managed to catch his  breath  and 
began to speak.
 "So,  Lord Souleater," he said triumphantly, grinning, "will you give us the 
manuscript? Or will we have to take it by force?"
 Lord  Jason  didn't  move.  He considered  the  alternatives,  examined  his 
situation. His lightning mind saw the only possible way out.
 "Never!  You will never get the 'Simulcra' story I promised!" he cried,  and 
steered Azatoth over the edge of the cliff.

 Original written January 1992. Not rehashed much at all, actually.


= GHOST BATTLE ==============================================================
 by Richard Karsmakers


 Two eyes peered at the mercenary annex hired barbarian.  They were red in  a 
frightening kind of way,  and he had no reason whatsoever to like  that. Nor, 
as a matter of fact, did he have any reason at all to like the entire setting 
he was in.
 It  was  depressingly dark and he was in the middle of an enormous  kind  of 
wood.  Eerie  sounds found ways of echoeing through this wood,  and  now  and 
again  red  or green or purple eyes would stare at him  conspiciously  as  if 
waiting for an opportunity to strike.
 The worst thing of all was that he had left all his killer gadgets at  home. 
So he didn't have his trustworthy longsword with him,  nor his double  bladed 
battle axe. Hell, he didn't even have a common knife of some sort on him.
 All  he had was a book.  It was called "Novice Sorcery" by Egidius  Leonardo 
Vira,  and  on its cover it had a picture of a scarsely dressed  female  that 
somehow looked disproportionate to him.
 "This book", so its previous owner had confided in him before he had shelled 
out a large amount of gold,  "is all one needs to get through any  precarious 
situation relatively unscathed".
 He  had been totally thrilled.  He had been extremely excited.  He had  also 
wondered what 'sorcery' actually meant.
 While walking through this wood,  he had deemed the time fit to leaf through 
this miraculous new acquisition of his.  In the end,  he reckoned this  might 
leave  him with something to defend himself should any of the ominous  owners 
of  those conspiciously staring red or green or purple eyes should decide  to 
strike.
 He quickly leafed through to a chapter that sounded interesting to him.
 "CHAPTER XVIII," he read aloud to himself, "Enchantment of Forest Beings."
 This was the part where,  should this have been in a movie,  the  soundtrack 
suddenly starts to go weird,  trying to indicate the beholder that  something 
is about to happen that may succeed in getting his pants wet.
 As the mercenary annex hired barbarian walked on while laboriously  studying 
the  book,  one  of  the many pairs of red eyes that had  in  the  mean  time 
appeared got quite awfully much closer, looming up as it were behind him in a 
positively menacing fashion.
 It  was not before a deep and meaningful growl was uttered by the  owner  of 
this  particular  pair of conspiciously staring eyes that  our  hero  noticed 
anything.
 "GROWL."
 He looked around and stood face to face with what can not be described to be 
anything  else  rather than a particularly nasty kind of  monster,  that  had 
probably also been the ugly duck of its family.
 A  very big duck,  that is,  for it towered above him to at least twice  his 
height.
 "Hmm,  interesting," was the first thing to enter the mind of the  mercenary 
annex hired barbarian, thereby taking up all place for itself. It was quickly 
fighting  for cranial dominance,  however,  with thoughts along the lines  of 
"Oh", "Oh dear", "Ooh crikey" and "Is that my mother calling?"
 Eventually,  one  thought  managed  to  remain  locked  in  the  barbarian's 
miserable excuse for brain cells: "Hmmm.  Maybe the book explains how to deal 
with 'Big, Strikingly Ugly Ducks That Unexpectedly Loom Up Behind You'."
 He quickly turned to the next page.  He was significantly relieved to notice 
that it beamed towards him with 'Dealing with Big, Strikingly Ugly Ducks That 
Unexpectedly Loom Up Behind You' written at its top in  big,  bold,  capital, 
underlined letters.
 This discovery cheered him up for a short while - in fact it cheered him  up 
until  the  precise instant on which the monstrous duck  started  to  breathe 
directly in his face, instantly drawing his attention back to the severity of 
the situation at hand.
 A satisfied grin formed itself around the bill of the big duck.
 Finally.
 It  feels nice to be appreciated,  even when you're fourteen foot  tall  and 
very, very ugly.
 It growled again, just to make its point.
 "GROWL."
 The barbarian quickly scanned through the page.  It was conveniently divided 
in paragraphs,  each written with another specific kind of weapon in thought. 
He skipped the ones headed 'Longsword',  'Double bladed axe',  '"Lord of  the 
Rings" Single-Volume Edition' and some others, quickly reading the one headed 
'None of any kind whatsoever'.
 "In  case thou dost not haveth any weapon at thy disposal," that  particular 
paragraph considered proper to mention, "resorteth to Magic."
 Swell. That was just great. Just great.
 And the monster was getting impatient, too.
 It growled again, somewhat louder this time.
 "GROWL!"
 Resort  to magic?  That would pose a serious lack of ability to get  out  of 
this situation relatively unscathed,  for he had utterly and totally  flunked 
all subjects in school that had the tendency of even being distantly  related 
to magic.
 The  monster licked its huge,  frightfully yellow bill in quite a  revolting 
way.  It was going to end the life of this pitiable human.  Even according to 
the  Monster  & Violence Convention,  it had given its victim more  than  the 
lawfully required time that was considered to be sufficient for the victim to 
employ some serious reaction - be it aggressive or defensive.
 The  barbarian thought hard.  Something of all those lessons in  magic  must 
still  be present somewhere.  Scattered bits of memories flung themselves  at 
him, until finally he had been able to retrieve a long forgotten spell from a 
dusty drawer somewhere in his brain.
 "En  nu ben je dood!" he yelled with all the power he could  manage,  nearly 
finishing off his vocal chords.
 A strange kind of light was emitted from the barbarian's being.  This gently 
transformed  itself  into  something like  fireworks,  but  bigger  and  more 
powerful, of which the flames mercilessly sped towards the vile creature.
 Before it had time to protest against the fact that magic was not allowed in 
a fair fight according to the Monsters & Violence Convention,  it was totally 
incinerated.
 "It's  a  kind  of  magic," the barbarian whispered softly  in  a  way  that 
betrayed his Scottish ancestry.
 Having  completely regained his self-confidence now he had  remembered  this 
powerful spell,  he briskly walked on through the forest,  merrily singing  a 
tune about a poor lonesome barbarian far away from home.

 Original  written February 13th 1991.  Originally a background story  for  a 
platform game called "Ghost Battle", but probably never used.


= THE KILLING GAME SHOW =====================================================
 by Richard Karsmakers


 The dullest planet of the universe,  any galactic traveller will gladly  and 
unreservedly be happy to tell you,  is Klaxos 9.  It is a plain round  planet 
filled with dreary people doing their little boring things in a  particularly 
tedious way, every irksome hour of every bothersome day of every...
 You get the message.
 Nothing  ever  changes  its  old,   slow,  monotonous  routine.  The  people 
inhabiting  it had forgotten to speak with each other as it wasn't worth  the 
trouble.  They didn't bother getting into contact with the blessings of music 
or literature, nor abstract art and other forms of waste disposal, either.
 For  the  sake  of visitors from other planets they  had  gone  through  the 
considerable trouble of giving a name to their uneventful little planet, some 
of  the  uninspired towns on its plain surface,  and even some of  the  long, 
exceedingly  annoying streets that happened to harbour certain  places  these 
aliens at times tended to visit.
 The  people of Klaxos 9 would probably not even be bothered to  breathe,  or 
even eat,  had they not been violently opposed against having to go to one of 
their excessively burdensome hospitals. Not breathing or eating was also know 
to lead to something even extremely boring by Klaxos 9 standards: A funeral - 
to be avoided at all cost.
 Rumours have it that they don't even take care of their own  multiplication. 
As their scientists don't bother to do something artificial about it  either, 
the  fact that the people from Klaxos 9 have still not become extinct is  one 
of the biggest mysteries in the documented universe.

 "Hey, Jake."
 "Huh?"
 The  words  whispered through the darkness like autumn  leaves  unexpectedly 
being brushed away by a silent breeze through a silent street.
 Two dark silhouettes stood crouched in the darkness of an alley in  Flodhul, 
one  of the cities the people of Klaxos 9 had bothered to name and that  had, 
coincidentally, also been appointed to be the capital.
 "What do you think of that?"
 A long object,  probably an arm, extended itself from the biggest of the two 
silhouettes,  pointing  at a dark figure that was busy entering an  inn  just 
down the road.
 "Looks impressive, boss," the other silhouette said, "broad and strong as is 
required."
 "For a moment I even thought I recognised it," the largest silhouette  said, 
"but I suppose that can't be."
 "What? Who?" the other said.
 "Forget  it,"  the leader said,  "it's not  important.  Besides,  even  *he* 
wouldn't be so stupid to get his ass over here on this Godforsaken planet."
 "*We* have," the other retorted.
 "Um,  yes,  we seem to, haven't we?" the leader answered after some thought, 
"But now be a good boy and shut your face."
 "Sure thing boss."

 The alien had caused quite a stir when it had entered.
 The inn had been completely silent,  and everybody had sat around not  doing 
much or nothing at all, or simply staring at a rather plain drink with a look 
of ultimate boredom in their eyes.
 A  terrestrial  soap opera was on TV,  which many of the people in  the  inn 
watched with some hint of interest.
 Some of them visibly wondered why they sat in this particular inn,  as there 
wasn't much use for them to be here.  But,  then again, it wasn't much use to 
be at home with their wives, either.
 Life was boring no matter where you were,  and at least here you could drink 
something without the wife starting to complain.
 At  least  in the inn things tended to happen.  Once in a  while,  a  little 
bubble  would  drift to the surface in someone's drink,  accompanied  by  its 
owner's silent gasp of suspense.
 As the alien walked into the inn towards the bar,  all heads turned  slowly. 
It found many eyes gazing at it.
 Each and every of those eyes,  including the ones on stalks and the odd  one 
hovering over the bar,  did not seem to be a device of sight.  Instead,  they 
merely  seemed  devices of expression,  radiating what seemed  like  infinite 
boredom.
 "Beer," the alien said.
 Some  of the oldest of elders sitting at the bar startled,  slowly  blinking 
their eyes in horror. They were amazed to see someone who seemed so young yet 
was  able  to actually *speak* - something that was since long  considered  a 
useless nuisance and thus forgotten on Klaxos 9.
 Lucky for the alien,  the bartender also had some basic knowledge of Ye Olde 
Tongues,  who  therefore principally knew what the alien wanted.  After  some 
thinking,  scratching  one  of his heads with a furry hand,  he  slowly  drew 
something that looked vaguely like beer from his rusty old tap,  placing  the 
filled mug in front of the alien.
 "Thanks,"  the alien said with a look in its eyes as if it was looking at  a 
pool of horse piss after a three month stroll through the dryer parts of  the 
Mongolian Gobi desert.
 However, it drained the entire mug in one go.
 This  was more than enough for all the people in the  bar.  They  considered 
action getting too intense here,  and unanimously decided to go home to  walk 
their snails.
 They  slowly  rose  from their chairs and stools which  they  slowly  shoved 
aside,  then dragged themselves towards the door in a very tiresome  way,  so 
that they could slowly spread through the streets of Flodhul.
 The alien looked around itself,  not quite knowing why everybody left all of 
a  sudden.  Its eyes fell on the TV set,  and didn't leave it until the  soap 
opera ended.
 Signalling the end of this night's broadcast, the Klaxos 9 national hymn was 
played.
 The  alien decided it had seen enough of this joint.  It tossed a couple  of 
coins  on the counter - all the money it had,  except for a load of  Monopoly 
money it had accepted after having finished an assignment some weeks ago.
 It left.
 The  bartender  gasped for breath upon having witnessed so  much  terrifying 
events  this  evening.  He  was  going to  take  up  real-time  grass  growth 
photography.  He made a mental note to try not to forget to communicate  this 
decision to his wife some day.

 "Hey, Jake," a harsh voice spoke, irritated.
 "Huh?"
 "Wake  up,"  the voice of the larger of the two silhouettes we  met  earlier 
spoke, "our MUG is leaving that wretched inn."
 "'Twas about time."
 "Yeah. Close your face. Follow."

 The  beer had gone down smoothly,  but in his innards it had turned  out  to 
make quite a nuisance of itself.
 Cronos Warchild, mercenary annex hired gun, felt as if something was turning 
his stomach around,  as if someone was trying to make spaghetti of his  guts. 
Curiously,  he thought of what they would look like when splattered all  over 
the floor after a gut-cut.
 He  was just about to vomit when a net was dropped over  him,  catching  him 
totally  off-guard.  Before he had time to use one of his killer  gadgets  he 
noticed  that  something  heavy  had collided with  the  back  of  his  head. 
Instinctively, he knew he had to lose consciousness now.
 He did.
 This was,  of course,  a pity.  It had been the first time in months that he 
hadn't accidentally left any of his killer gadgets at home.
 He  had  even  had  his hearing aid  insertedm,  though  the  "battery  low" 
indicator had been lit for a while now.

                                    *****

 The  lights were blinding him,  his head felt like a pierced orange  and  he 
wondered why a basketball found it necessary to continually bounce itself  up 
and down and left and right in the painful void of his brain. His joints felt 
like rusty iron hinges.
 Why was he wearing metal gloves?

 "...and, indeed, it seems our new contestant is awake now!"

 The words echoed through Cronos' skull mercilessly,  making him cringe  with 
pain he couldn't do anything about.  Although he had been exquisitely trained 
to block out any physical pain, he had never been taught how to block out the 
basketball feeling in his head.
 It must have been that damn stuff he drank a couple of hours ago.  Or was it 
weeks? He couldn't tell.
 Why was he carrying a metal harness?

 "...we  are  proud to be able to offer you,  dear zillions  of  our  viewing 
audience, what looks like one of the fittest MUG contenders since aeons..."

 The  presenter  smiled  at  his  viewers.  Golden  teeth  glittered  in  the 
spotlights.
 Warchild tried to shake the throbbing ache out of his head, only effectively 
increasing it.
 He snarled a curse to himself.
 As he looked down at the rest of his body,  he was startled to see that  his 
entire body was covered by some kind of metal armour.  It made him think of a 
film  about  some  kind of cop that got shot to pieces and  had  been  partly 
turned into a robot.
 He had liked the movie, but he didn't like this. Not even a bit.
 Warchild looked around him to take up his surroundings.
 He was in a disproportionately large hall,  in which was built an  intricate 
and huge complex of platforms on which he stood.  A kind of huge elevator was 
located at the nearest wall, in which a game show host sat together with some 
camera men.

 "...so all left for us to do is wish our contender a nice day!"

 The presenter smiled again (or still).
 Warchild didn't like the man's face and was about to think about having a go 
at the man's throat when he saw that the entire elevator, though close enough 
to  cover  the distance by a huge leap,  was surrounded by a  wall  of  thick 
glass.
 Looking down through the metal raster of the platform on which he stood,  he 
also saw a bubbling liquid under him - slowly rising towards him.

 "...and  it looks like he's going to meet the Death to Organic  Life  Liquid 
soon!"

 The  smile  on the presenter's face almost seemed to change into a  look  of 
sadness.

 "...looks  like  our  latest MUG doesn't know what DOLL can  do  to  Organic 
Life...worra pity..."

 Just in time,  Warchild leapt up to a platform above him.  Not a second  too 
soon.  The platform on which he had stood was now reached by the liquid  that 
turned out to be an extremely powerful acid.  Its metal seemed to deform  and 
bubble, then melted away until nothing of it remained visible.
 The acrid smell of corroding metal pierced his nose.
 Cronos  noticed that the elevator had moved up with him,  allowing the  game 
show host - and the cameras - to continue to have a clear view of him.
 Fragments of his memory came back.  He remembered the beer - or whatever  it 
had  been.  He remembered leaving the inn.  He remembered the  net.  And  the 
sudden pain when he had been clubbed on the head.
 Angry fires flared wildly in his eyes.
 His  muggers  were now probably getting pissed on the money  they  got  when 
delivering  him.  He  fervently  hoped  they  would  get  mugged  and  robbed 
themselves, the bastards!
 But for now all thoughts of his muggers and a possible revenge had to be put 
on hold. First, he had to conceive a way to get out of this rather precarious 
situation - and, of course, he had to keep avoiding this liquid, this *DOLL*.
 He  ventured a wry smile of self-confidence at the people in  the  elevator. 
As if by means of reply,  one of them pressed a button on a panel,  returning 
an even broader variety of Cronos' smile. Warchild reckoned there'd be enough 
gold in that mouth to plate your average Buddhist temple.
 Unfortunately, there was scant time for Cronos to contemplate about Buddhism 
and precious metals, for a hatch opened at the far side of the hall.
 Out of it came a creature.
 The bastard!
 The  creature looked fairly harmless except for the malice in its  eyes  and 
the laser it casually toted in a way one handles a harmless pocket knife.
 It didn't waste time. It started firing rapidly at Cronos.

 "It  looks like our MUG is going to meet the first of the Game  Show  Hosts, 
har har!"

 Instinctively,  Warchild ducked.  He felt the heat of the shots tear through 
the air, too close to him. He grabbed for his hip, realising an instant later 
that his gun couldn't possibly be there any more.
 His  surprise at discovering a powerful blaster there was quite  tremendous. 
Craftfully  evading the creature's fire,  Cronos drew the blaster  and  fired 
once.
 The  creature's head was completely knocked off its shoulders,  sending  the 
body  reeling off the platform into the *DOLL* below.  The liquid  seemed  to 
come  alive as the creature hit the surface,  instantly filling the air  with 
acrid clouds filled with the stench of melting metal and burning flesh.

 "1-0 for the MUG!"

 Warchild  looked  at  the game show host threateningly,  yet  the  man  only 
smiled, unperturbed. One of his fingers pressed another button on the panel.
 The bastard!
 His  warrior's senses made him turn around to the sound of a  hatch  opening 
behind  him,  just in time for him to see more creatures being released  onto 
the platform complex.
 They were all toting lasers in that typical, absent-mindedly casual way.
 None of them wasted any time. Warchild was like a sitting duck.
 A searing pain crashed into his shoulder as a shot hit him that should  have 
completely severed his arm from his torso.  It flung his temporarily helpless 
body against the platform's metal grating.  It felt as if a train had hit him 
against  an indestructible concrete wall,  with all the pain concentrated  on 
his shoulder.  Yet,  miraculously, the arm was still there. The armour he was 
wearing  surely worked,  but it was heavily damaged now and  surely  wouldn't 
survive another direct hit there.

 "1-1!"

 Warchild was slowly getting angry. He bit his teeth and concentrated himself 
on not feeling the pain.  He was trained to block out every physical pain. He 
could do it.
 He concentrated and got up.
 The  monsters seemed abashed,  surprised at the fact that their  victim  was 
still quite alive - even quite intact.
 Warchild was getting *very* angry. His eyes lashed insults at the creatures, 
radiating  a  hate he had only felt before when having been shit  upon  by  a 
Mutant Maxi Mega Monster of Multifizzic Omega. That monster, needless to say, 
hadn't lived to tell.
 Quickly,  Cronos tried to think.  Of course,  this was very hard to do as he 
had been trained to fight rather than to think.  Besides, a large part of his 
active brain was already occupied by the sheer effort of severe concentration 
on  not feeling the tremendous pain that tore through every synapse that  had 
the misfortune to be located in his shoulder.
 He glanced at the glass elevator.  He considered the sturdiness of the glass 
as opposed to that of his armour. If he were to jump at the elevator, all the 
creatures  would start shooting at him - partly hitting the  elevator  glass. 
Maybe  it would budge.  Maybe it wouldn't.  But Cronos reckoned it  would  be 
worth  the gamble.  With the *DOLL* rising steadily and the nasty  creatures' 
lasers getting aimed at him again, it seemed all other bets were off.
 Flexing  every  muscle in his body,  he crouched like a cat and  then  leapt 
towards  the  elevator structure.  Like he  had  anticipated,  the  creatures 
started shooting at him like a bunch of rabid lunatics.
 Of  course,  as  he had never ever heard of  differential  calculus,  Cronos 
completely  failed in aiming his body correctly at the elevator.  The  liquid 
loomed up below him, threatening and smelly.
 "Oh shit," he muttered as Newton started to work its ways.
 Then, everything happened very quickly.
 The creatures' shots started hitting him.  Several of them were direct  hits 
on his chest, hurling him mercilessly through the air like a lifeless lump of 
meat,  metal and bones. Because of the terrific impact of the shots, however, 
his  momentum both increased and changed direction - towards the thick  glass 
wall of the elevator.

 "Whattaf..."

 With a mindevaporating noise of glass breaking,  curses being spat and laser 
shots being fired,  Warchild crashed through the elevator wall.  The pain was 
excruciating,  but  he  succeeded  in effectively blocking it  out  by  sheer 
willpower.
 The creatures were still shooting at him,  but as he was lying numbly on the 
ground they shot others instead. The game show host only had half a second to 
cry  out in terror before he was reduced to a pile of ashes and molten  gold. 
Camera equipment burned.
 Aiming  his laser,  Warchild erected himself and started to shoot.  Only  he 
didn't  get  much  time.  Somewhere along the line of  the  things  that  had 
happened  in  the  last couple of seconds,  someone had pressed  a  *lot*  of 
buttons on that panel.
 Before  him he saw about four dozen monsters.  Big ones.  Small  ones.  Ugly 
ones.  Even uglier ones.  Flying ones.  Apart from the fact that they smelled 
horribly,  they  were  all armed with lasers that they  held  rather  absent-
mindedly  aimed  at  his  head - the only part of  his  anatomy  that  wasn't 
armoured.
 Within  the instant that separated him from his execution,  he  realised  no 
laser  would  be  of help here.  Not  even  his  artificial  tungsten-carbide 
killer fingernail would be of avail here. Nothing. He was a dead man.
 He decided it might be just as well to faint, and did so.
 A black shape with a scythe beckoned.

 An  endless  void loomed threateningly below him.  He could  not  keep  from 
spinning  around  as he disappeared in it.  Deeper  and  deeper.  Faster  and 
faster.
 He  saw  ants and blue furry creatures and honey  jars.  Vague  memories  of 
recollection troubled his mind, but he decided not to heed them.
 "COME...COME..."
 A  dark voice echoed below,  deep in the vortex in which he seemed  to  fall 
forever. Forever...

 It was completely dark around him.  His head felt like a pierced orange  and 
he wondered why a basketball found it necessary to continually bounce  itself 
up and down and left and right in the painful void others call a brain.
 Who was that, looming above him?
 "Watch it Jake, he's coming by. Let's split!"
 The words echoed through Cronos' skull mercilessly,  making him cringe  with 
pain he couldn't do anything about.  Although he had been exquisitely trained 
to block out any physical pain, he had never been taught how to block out the 
basketball feeling in his head.
 It must have been that damn stuff he drank a couple of hours ago.  Or was it 
weeks? He couldn't tell.
 He shook his head as he heard faint footsteps die away in the  distance.  As 
he instinctively searched his own pockets,  finding them empty,  a synonym of 
animal excrement passed his dried-out lips.
 His only - and, he had to agree, poor - consolidation was that someone would 
soon be finding out how difficult it is to pay with Monopoly money.

 Original written April and June 1991.


= SOON COMING ===============================================================


 The next issue of "Twilight World",  Volume 3 Issue 2, is to be released mid 
March 1995. Please refer to the 'subscription' section, below, for details on 
getting it automatically, in case you're interested.
 Please  refer to the section on 'submissions',  below,  for more details  on 
submitting your own material.
 The next issue will probably contain the following items...

 THE JAWMAN
 by Bryan H. Joyce

 POWERMONGER
 by Alex Crouzen

 MAGIC POCKETS
 by Richard Karsmakers

 AND MORE


= SOME GENERAL REMARKS ======================================================


 DESCRIPTION

 "Twilight World" is an on-line magazine aimed at everybody who is interested 
in any sort of fiction - although it usually tends to concentrate on fantasy-
and science-fiction, often with a bit of humour thrown in.
 Its  main source is an Atari ST/TT/Falcon disk magazine by the name  of  "ST 
NEWS" which publishes computer-related articles as well as fiction. "Twilight 
World"  mostly consists of fiction featured in "ST NEWS" so far,  with  added 
stories submitted by "Twilight World" readers.

 SUBMISSIONS

 If you've written some good fiction and you wouldn't mind it being published 
world-wide,  you can mail it to me either electronically or by standard mail. 
At all times do I reserve the right not to publish submissions.  Do note that 
submissions  on disk will have to use the MS-DOS or Atari  ST/TT/Falcon  disk 
format on 3.5" Double-or High-Density floppy disk.  Provided sufficient  IRCs 
are  supplied  (see below),  you will get your disk back with  the  issue  of 
"Twilight World" on it that features your fiction. Electronic submittees will 
get an electronic subscription if so requested.
 At all times, please submit straight ASCII texts without any special control 
codes whatsoever, nor right justify or ASCII characters above 128. Please use 
*asterisks* to emphasise text if needed, start each paragraph with one space, 
don't include empty lines between each paragraph and use "-" instead of "--". 
Also remember the difference between possessives and contractions,  only  use 
multiple  question marks when absolutely necessary (!!) and never  use  other 
than one (.) or three (...) periods in sequence.

 COPYRIGHT

 Unless  specified along with the individual stories,  all  "Twilight  World" 
stories are copyrighted by the individual authors but may be spread wholly or 
separately  to  any  place - and indeed into any other  magazine  -  provided 
credit is given both to the original author and "Twilight World".

 CORRESPONDENCE ADDRESS

 I prefer electronic correspondence,  but regular stuff (such as  postcards!) 
can  be sent to my regular address.  If you expect a reply please supply  one 
International Reply Coupon (available at your post office), *two* if you live 
outside Europe.  If you want your disk(s) returned, add 2 International Reply 
Coupons per disk (and one extra if you live outside  Europe).  Correspondence 
failing these guidelines will be read (and perused) but not replied to.
 The address:

 Richard Karsmakers
 P.O. Box 67
 NL-3500 AB Utrecht
 The Netherlands

 Email r.c.karsmakers@stud.let.ruu.nl
 (This should be valid up to the summer of 1996)

 SUBSCRIPTIONS

 Subscriptions  (electronic ones only!) can be requested by sending email  to 
the  address mentioned above.  "Twilight World" is only available  as  ASCII. 
Subscription terminations should be directed to the same address.
 About  one  week prior to each current issue being sent out you will  get  a 
message to check if your email address is still valid.  If a message bounces, 
your subscription terminates.
 Back  issues of "Twilight World" may be FTP'd  from  atari.archive.umich.edu 
and etext.archive.umich.edu.  It is also posted to rec.arts.prose,  alt.zines 
and  alt.prose  and is on Gopher somewhere as well.  Thanks to Gard  for  all 
this!

 PHILANTROPY

 If  you like "Twilight World",  a spontaneous burst of philantropy aimed  at 
the  postal address mentioned above would be very  much  appreciated!  Please 
send cash only;  any regular currency will do.  Apart from keeping  "Twilight 
World" happily afloat,  it will also help me to keep my head above water as a 
student  of  English at Utrecht University.  If  donations  reach  sufficient 
height  they will secure the existence of "Twilight World" after  my  studies 
have been concluded. If not...then all I can do is hope for the best.
 Thanks!

 DISCLAIMER

 All authors are responsible for the views they express. Also, The individual 
authors are the ones you should sue in case of copyright infringements!

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