textfiles/magazines/TWILIGHTWORLD/twilight.world-3.3

= TWILIGHT WORLD - Volume 3 Issue 3 (May 20th 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

 MASTER AND SLAVE
 by Roy Stead

 LOST IN A WORLD OF DREAMS
 by Stefan Posthuma

 OH YEAH - THE SEQUEL
 by Stefan Posthuma and Richard Karsmakers

 RODNEY'S RAYGUN REVENGE
 by David Henniker

 THE MAO-KAO HOLY WARS
 by Roy Stead

 SPEEDBALL II
 by Richard Karsmakers


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


 Another jam-packed issue of "Twilight World" is ready and willing to be read 
by you,  dear reader.  Some absurdity is prevalent in this particular  issue, 
but  I'd  advise you all to hold your hopes high for it looks like  the  next 
issue will be a lot better even.
 Enough  of this worthless ego-boosting.  As per usual,  I hope  you'll  like 
reading it.  Remember to spread the word - and the file! And...er...I do hope 
more  people will write in the near future.  As it is,  I am running  out  of 
"ready to use" material somewhere within the next year...


 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, about 1 out of every 5 direct subscribers.

P.P.S.   This wasn't much of an editorial, was it? Well...all the more reason 
         to continue with the real stuff then.


= MASTER AND SLAVE ==========================================================
 by Roy Stead


 The day was drawing to a close and the light was failing. As the glow of the 
night  lamp receded,  Jenny was filled with a terrible sense of dread as  she 
realised that it would return to plague her again that night,  attacking  her 
with  its  awful visions once more as it attempted to swamp  her  senses  and 
confuse  her  mind  long enough to take it over as it  had  all  those  years 
before, when she was eight years old.
 That  time,  she  had only the words of other people to tell  her  what  had 
happened,  the three days being blanked from her own memory.  Apparently, her 
younger body had killed two people.  Two ordinary,  innocent people had  died 
because Jenny had been unable to resist the advances of the thing which,  she 
now knew without any doubt, was to return to plague her this night.
 Jenny's parents were dead. It had killed them, using her body as its weapon. 
She had no idea what it was,  or where it had come from,  but she somehow had 
the knowledge that it wanted to kill again, this time making use of her older 
form for its purposes. Jenny began to sweat.
 Three hours later, it struck. Jenny was reaching across to her bedside table 
for  another  mug  of coffee to help her remain  awake,  when  she  felt  its 
presence.  The five senses heard,  saw,  felt,  tasted and smelt nothing, but 
some more primitive ability *knew* that it had arrived.  The  coffee.  piping 
hot and still in its flask,  wafted its scent to her nose, but that sense was 
ignored for the moment. She turned her head slowly to the left, away from the 
flask, and it was there that she saw it.
 The  room had faded,  not into blackness but into non-existence.  Her  blind 
spot  had expanded to fill her entire field of view.  To find your own  blind 
spot,  put  two dots close together on a blank sheet of paper and hold it  at 
arms length.  Focus on one dot,  then move the paper slowly toward your  eyes 
and,  at  one point,  the other dot will seem to vanish.  This is your  blind 
spot.  Now try to imagine that blind spot growing until it is all you can see 
- or, rather, not see.
 Jenny  stared at it.  Not because she wanted to,  but because she could  see 
nothing  else.  Her  mind  simply  refused to see  anything  outside  of  the 
creature's  form.  If she moved her head,  it still filled her  entire  view. 
Either  its form was very distorted,  or the blind spot was simply  absorbing 
her vision and stretching what little she could see - the creature - to  fill 
in the blanks which her mind refused to see.  In either case,  what Jenny saw 
was  an  oddly  proportioned cat.  The Cheshire Cat's grin  would  have  been 
positively comforting beside that face.
 "Hello again," it grinned, "Are you ready to play again?" The words were not 
spoken.  Neither did they echo in her mind. Rather, the grin somehow conveyed 
*something* to her.  The thing did not bother with speech, or even telepathy. 
It seemed to think that such activities were beneath it,  preferring to  rely 
on this more direct form of communication instead.
 "No."  The  force  behind this single syllable astonished  Jenny  at  first, 
shocking  her  that her hatred of the cat-like form before her  could  be  so 
vehemently and graphically expressed in a single word.
 The thing (Jenny could not bring herself to call it anything else - to  give 
it a name would be to accept its existence,  and she wanted nothing more than 
for it not to *be*) grinned at her.  No message this time, it simply grinned. 
I hate to abuse an old cliche,  but this grin *was* Evil. With a capital 'E.' 
It  seemed to be unsurprised at the woman's defiance.  Perhaps it  had  known 
that  she  was  expecting it,  and ready and  willing  to  fight.  That  grin 
disquieted Jenny: it seemed to know the future, and burned into her mind as a 
hot  poker  into net curtain.  The message spread like  wildfire  in  Jenny's 
brain: "Give up. You cannot win."
 Jenny stared at it - not that she had a choice - and glared defiance at  its 
mind with all her power.  Did it flinch?  It seemed to. Though perhaps it was 
her  imagination.  There - that was no imagination.  The thing recoiled  from 
her,  as though stung by her mind. Quickly rallying, however, it attempted to 
leap toward her.  Not toward her bed,  which she could not feel or  see,  nor 
toward her body.  But, rather, toward the very *her* of her. That part of her 
which religious people might call her 'soul'.
 Jenny's mind stayed,  unflinching, against the onslaught. The last thing she 
saw  before unconsciousness claimed her was its grin fading  into  disbelief, 
then the entire cat vanishing with a surprised expression on its face...
 "Yes, but does it *work*?"
 "We can't be sure,  nurse, but it certainly appears to. Not a single patient 
given  this treatment has showed any symptoms of mental disorder  again.  You 
are familiar with the theory?" A nod from the nurse, but an encouraging nod - 
perhaps  he  would  ask if she was  doing  anything  that  night.  "Well,  we 
hypnotise the patient,  and encourage him or her to personify their disorder. 
Then,  there is a showdown between the conscious mind and the - in this case, 
paranoid - mentality. The conscious wins, and expels the illness. Simple, but 
effective.  The  patient  sleeps for a day or two,  then returns  to  society 
cured."
 "But, doctor, what happens if the illness *wins*?"
 "I  can't win.  The conscious mind always has more power." A puzzled  frown, 
creeping across his forehead, the doctor turned to the one-way mirror to look 
at  the  sleeping Jenny.  "It *can't* win," he repeated,  as if  to  reassure 
himself, "Yet, there *was* something odd about this one..."
 Jenny woke up,  screaming. Darkness lay about her, and - somewhere Out There 
- she could sense the thing,  gloating.  Its grinning visage swam into  view, 
filling her heart with dread. The grin was saying, "Now who is master and who 
is slave?"

 Written April 18th 1990.


= LOST IN A WORLD OF DREAMS =================================================
 by Stefan Posthuma

 A  story inspired by the heavy fog that surrounded my flat one  lost  Autumn 
weekend. Also, the legendary kingdom of Avalon comes to mind...


 That morning the strange light coming through my bedroom drapes revealed  to 
me the fact that the fog had come at night.  I opened the curtains and beheld 
the  sight  that I love so much;  the fog lying over the land  like  a  thick 
blanket,  lazily swirling in the soft breeze. It was powerful that day, lying 
in thick layers, shutting out the sun that was already bleak in late Autumn.
 Yes,  Autumn.  It was already fading into Winter and the trees had shed  all 
but  a  few  leaves,  forming  thick layers of dead  leaves  on  the  ground, 
preparing it for the coming spring to provide nutrition for life that was  to 
spawn from it after Winter has gone.  The dazzling colours were muted by  the 
mists,  like a faded painting of old.  Some of the leaves that still clung to 
the branches stirred in the breeze, and one by one they would submit and fall 
to the ground, disappearing into the haze, swallowed by the fog.
 I kept the torch next to my door on all day,  its light casting a hazy  glow 
on the trees outside my window, making them look like gnarled giants, looming 
shadows in a world of mystery.
 During  that day,  I would sometimes stand in front of the window  and  gaze 
into the mists,  wondering what lay beyond the veil of shadows and whispering 
sounds  that were carried from far through the fogs.  I went through the  day 
dreaming,  the  furnace  alive with burning logs so I felt  warm  and  secure 
inside my house while the fog rested upon it.
 In the afternoon I felt it for the first time.  I looked up from the book of 
magick  I  was reading and walked over to the window,  the smoke  of  incense 
swirling around my form.  I stared out the window and into the woods that lay 
beyond,  shrouded by the mists. The feeling was strange and eerie, like there 
was something inside the woods,  concealed by the trees and the heavy  mists, 
that was beckoning me to come, almost to join it in its unspoken purpose. For 
a long time I stood there,  motionless,  staring,  waiting.  The cloaked  and 
huddled forms of travellers passed in the distance, mere shadows on the trail 
that   wound  itself  past  my  little  cottage,   hurrying   towards   their 
destinations,  eager to free themselves from the grip that the fog seemed  to 
have on them.
 The day passed unnoticed,  like time slipped away noiselessly into the  fog, 
and  in  the  evening it became even darker.  The air  that  was  laden  with 
moisture  all day finally became satiated and a slow,  lazy drizzle began  to 
fall.  Soon the windows were streaked with water,  blurring the visions  from 
the outside.  I was preparing a beef and vegetable stew when I felt it again, 
stronger this time.  I dropped the wooden spoon in the pot and quickly walked 
over  to the window and looked out,  expectantly,  eager to see what  was  so 
tempting, to discover the source of these strange beckonings. But nothing was 
revealed to me; the trees were the same, black forms standing there in silent 
resignation.  The  little  clearing  in front of  my  house  was  empty,  the 
torchlight glistening off the small table I used to sit at during the  warmer 
times of summer.  But I felt it still and I wheeled around, went for the door 
and ran outside, stopping in the middle of the clearing, looking around.
 Then I saw it, a faint movement just beyond the line of the trees, a hint of 
long,  black  hair  that blended into the darkness,  seemed to float  in  the 
mists.  It was there only for a split second, and then it was gone. I started 
after  it,  but  I  was already beginning to get cold and I  could  feel  the 
dampness starting to creep into my clothes.  So I turned around and went back 
in the house, feeling foolish, as if I had missed something important.
 Back inside the house I sat down in the large stuffed chair next to the fire 
and picked up my book again.  But the words meant nothing to me. I could only 
think of the apparition I just saw,  a presence in the woods around my house. 
Curiosity haunted my mind;  what could it be that lived in these  mists?  Why 
had it come to me and what was I to do with it? The magick had long gone from 
the lands and I quickly dismissed the strange thoughts that welled up in  me. 
It was probably nothing - visions induced by the fascination and perhaps even 
silent  fears  I had for this fog.  I should give it a rest,  and  divert  my 
attention to the things that mattered.
 I had devoted my live to the study of the history of the lands,  a task that 
was both huge and troublesome as much had happened in the past. I would often 
travel  to  one of the large cities and spend time in  the  libraries  there, 
reading the books of old,  the chronicles of the ancient kings,  I wanted  to 
know how the land turned out to be what it was today.  Sometimes my questions 
were  left  unanswered  and I had to go out by myself to  find  them.  I  had 
travelled a lot,  and my knowledge was respected amongst the wise that  ruled 
the courts of the kings.  Sometimes they would come to me and ask my  advise, 
to ask my opinion on things that were not well known amongst them.
 Some  months ago I stumbled upon a small collection of books hidden  in  the 
Shadow Moors a few days south of here. Local legends and stories told of them 
and I finally decided to seek them out and succeeded.  The quest was not easy 
since  the  moors  were  hardly ever travelled.  There  was  only  one  guide 
available  and I had to be extremely persuasive to get him to lead me  across 
the swamps and desolate plains that form the Shadow Moors.
 The  books were books of magick,  whose purpose was not yet known to  me.  I 
always  took great care when it came to this kind of thing,  because  I  knew 
there was a lot of dormant magick hidden in these lands.  True, only very few 
people possessed magick and they used it with great care. They dwelled in the 
old lands far beyond the borders known to most people because they knew  they 
didn't fit in here.  I had visited one of them a long time ago and she taught 
me  how to read books of magick,  how to interpret their meaning and  how  to 
reveal their purpose.  But she also warned me that magick was nothing to play 
with,  it was not there to be used by those that were ignorant and  unworthy, 
for the powers of magick were almost unlimited,  enough to destroy any mortal 
man if not used correctly.
 The  food  and wine I had with my dinner made me drowsy,  and  soon  I  felt 
myself slipping away,  thoughts scattering,  sleep taking over my mind. But I 
wanted  to finish a particularly interesting part of the the book,  so I  did 
not  go to bed yet,  and I defied the sleep that was trying so hard to  claim 
me.
 Then,  suddenly,  I  found myself standing at the  window,  staring  outside 
again. The torch had almost died, its remains faintly glowing, casting a soft 
red  haze  in the mists that coiled endlessly around the  house.  I  felt  it 
again,  this  time  the urge to go outside was uncontrollable and  I  quickly 
fetched  my thick winter cloak and a lantern from the cupboard in the  little 
hallway of my house.
 Wrapped  in  my cloak I went outside,  and started down the trail  that  led 
towards a larger path that wound itself south through the Barren  Hills,  and 
into  the  Shadow  Moors.  A few moments passed and already  I  found  myself 
completely  surrounded by the peristent fog.  My lantern wasn't of much  use. 
Its light, normally enough to light most of the trail before me and the trees 
around,  now  barely enabled me to see the ground.  The light coming from  it 
seemed to be absorbed by the white veil that was draped over the land. When I 
passed the tree line,  my disorientation became complete,  and I concentrated 
on following the path. Where I was going I did not know, nor did I know why I 
was doing it. But I walked with a silent determination; something or somebody 
was guiding me towards my obscure goal.
 Sometimes as I glanced around and saw the ghastly shadows of trees,  I could 
hear the dripping sounds all around me.  The mists condensated on the  leaves 
and  droplets  of water fell down,  pattering on other leaves or  the  ground 
below.  A steady downpour streamed down on my cloaked figure and I was glad I 
was wearing my cloak that the smith at the village had made waterproof just a 
couple of days ago,  using animal fats. The sound was almost hypnotising, and 
combined  with  the  eldritch glow of the lantern on the  wet  branches  that 
loomed  out  of  the  mists in front of me,  it  completed  the  illusion  of 
wandering  through  a  world of dreams,  a shadow-filled  reign  of  haunting 
shadows and twisted images of leaveless trees frozen in the endless fog.
 Then I saw it,  a huddled form a bit further down the path,  probably a man, 
standing there,  watching me. I froze and strained my eyes trying to make out 
what it was exactly.  Cautiously, I approached and a faint smile formed on my 
lips  when  I discovered that it was but a gnarled tree  stump,  its  surface 
slick with green mosses.  It was rotten to its core,  and a large piece  came 
right off as I as I tentatively pulled at it.  My mind, tired by the constant 
stream of hazy images thrown at it, was getting confused and I started seeing 
things.  I  squatted  down next to the stump and rested a  while,  trying  to 
straighten out my thoughts.
 I  nearly  dozed  off when I was startled by the distant  cry  of  a  forest 
animal,  a cry sounding muffled and twisted by the fog. I straightened myself 
and continued down the trail.
 I  don't  know  how long I walked there,  following the  trail  that  coiled 
through the woods.  The familiar trail that I had travelled so much,  I  knew 
every landmark from the Kings Oak (legends have it that one of the old  Kings 
was  slain  there and in the same spot,  a mighty oak had sprouted  from  the 
earth,  it  had  been there as long as people could remember) to  the  Silver 
Spring Falls. But none of these I had noticed yet, I realized with a start. I 
stopped  and  squatted  again,  this time to examine the  trail  I  had  been 
following for the last hour or so.  It was still there, but nothing more than 
a  faint mark on the forest ground.  The trail I knew was broader than  this, 
and a silent fear crept into my heart.  A lot of smaller trails branched  off 
the main trail,  some of them leading to the secluded houses of wood workers, 
some  to the various springs and wells to be found in these woods,  and  some 
disappeared  into the woods,  leading to unknown destinations.  I knew I  had 
wandered off onto one of these and that I would have to be very, very careful 
not to get lost now.  These tiny trails were hard to follow at  daytime,  and 
hardly possible to keep to under these circumstances.
 For a while I considered going back,  trying to find the main trail and head 
back home, to the warmth of my house, to find shelter under the soft blankets 
of my bed.  But the feeling was still there,  more a premonition of things to 
happen,  a  whisper  in  my mind that I was still on the  right  track  so  I 
continued.  The trees around me became more dense,  and more often I stumbled 
into low branches,  their wooden fingers grappling at my face, scratching it. 
I drew my cloak tight around me,  my hair wet with the air's dampness, but it 
was thick and warm enough to ward off the chill of that cold, wet night.
 After a while I heard the soft sound of water lapping against a shore, and I 
stopped.  I had to be a lake of some kind,  or maybe one of the many pools to 
be found around here.  I continued towards the source of the sounds, and soon 
I found myself standing at the shore of a lake.  There was no way to tell how 
large  it  was,  since the shores at all sides quickly disappeared  into  the 
haze,  but  the curve of the shore around me told me that it had to be  quite 
large.
 I  searched  my mind for any lakes in the vicinity,  I  tried  to  recollect 
images of the maps that I had collected for so long. But I failed to find any 
reference to this lake; the nearest waters of this size were to be found deep 
in the Shadow Moors. I stood there for a while, trying to think of what to do 
next.  The trail ended here.  I searched the area around me, but it seemed to 
run off right into the lake.  I glanced into the lantern; the stout candle in 
it was burned down halfway, indicating that I had been walking for some three 
hours.  So what next?  Turn back and go home?  I failed to see the purpose of 
all this. Worse still, the feeling was gone. I no longer felt anything, and a 
despair came over me. I sat down heavily and drew my knees up to my chest and 
laid  back  against a tree.  The soft sound of the waters calmed  me  down  a 
little  and  the everlasting fog closed around me,  cushioning  my  thoughts, 
penetrating  my mind.  I breathed deeply the cold,  crisp air and watched  my 
breath blend into the haze as I exhaled.  The waters rippled subtlely in  the 
soft  breeze  and  the everlasting drizzle softly tapped on the  hood  of  my 
cloak.  Sitting there in the soft grass I felt completely at  peace,  utterly 
isolated in the deep woods,  next to this mysterious lake.  I felt good about 
coming  here,  yet  the its purpose still puzzled me.  What did  the  strange 
feeling mean and why was it gone now?  It had guided me all along the strange 
trail and now...  I must have reached my destination!  Somehow, this lake was 
the place where I had been guided to!  But what was to happen here?  I  stood 
up,  feeling excited.  Something was definitely going to happen but what  and 
when? I sat down again, extinguished the candle of the lantern and decided to 
wait.
 I awoke with a start,  the echoes of a strange sound sounding in my head.  I 
listened  intently for a few moments,  and heard it  again.  A  soft,  barely 
audible  creaking  of  wood somewhere around me.  The fog  made  it  hard  to 
pinpoint  the source of the sound and I wondered how a noise this  faint  had 
managed  to wake me up.  I heard it again and this time I was sure  where  it 
came from - the lake.  I stood up,  quickly lit the lantern again and  peered 
into  the mists curling above the lake.  I was prepared but  startled  anyway 
when  the  dark shape appeared out of the mists.  For the first time  I  felt 
frightened  since I wandered out into the ethereal fog,  and I wished  I  had 
brought  some kind of weapon to defend myself against what was coming out  of 
the  mists.  It  came steadily closer and I was amazed to see an  empty  boat 
glide towards the shore,  out of the mists. It drifted towards the shore at a 
slow but steady pace and came to a halt when it slided up the shore.  Slowly, 
I started towards it and had a closer look. It was an ordinary boat, made out 
of wood and painted pitch black.  It had no oars or other means of moving  it 
yet I had seen it move across the silent waters. It was obvious what I had to 
do,  enter  the boat and try to get to wherever it came from.  Maybe there  I 
would find the answers to the questions that haunted my mind. Determined now, 
I entered the boat,  fastened the lantern to its stern and pushed myself from 
the shore.
 Immediately,  I  felt a force tugging at the boat,  like an invisible  hand, 
pushing  it towards its destination.  I should have been alarmed by what  was 
happening,  but I just laid back and stared out into the mists, trying to see 
beyond  the circle of light cast by the lantern.  But I saw nothing but  dark 
waters  looming from the mists.  The shore had long since disappeared when  I 
could  heard the faint tolling of bells,  carried across the surface  of  the 
lake.  But these sounds faded and after a while land appeared out of the  fog 
in  front  of me,  and I knew that I was close to where I was  meant  to  go. 
Moments later, the boat hit the shore and I got off, glancing around me while 
I  unfastened the lantern.  The fog seemed even more intense here and I  felt 
strange, like I had entered a place forbidden, trod on holy grounds.
 The  ground sloped softly upwards,  and after a while I reached the  top  of 
what seemed to be a small hill.  I peered into the mists,  but saw nothing of 
the lands that lay beyond.  They were obscured from sight by the mists, and I 
wondered what to do next.  I did not know these lands and I was afraid to get 
lost,  separated  from the boat,  the only link between the world I knew  and 
this strange,  eerie place. So I sat down again, placing the lantern in front 
of  me and decided to wait once more,  to let whoever brought me here  reveal 
their purpose.
 The darkness and quiet around me soon affected me and I started drifting off 
once more. Strange feelings haunted my mind, my thoughts becoming a frenzy of 
images,  excerpts of things I experienced before,  faces of people I knew.  I 
closed  my eyes and drifted off into a world beyond this one,  the  realm  of 
dreamers.  I  could  feel my spirit detach itself from my body and  I  slowly 
drifted upwards,  the air crystal clear, no sign of the mists. I stared at my 
crouched body in wonder when, quite suddenly, I saw her.
 I awoke,  scrambling back at what I saw in front of me. A shape suspended in 
the air just above me. It was a girl, dressed in long flowing robes that were 
raven black,  fading into the mists like whisps of smoke. Her hair was thick, 
black  and streaming around her head,  blending into the fog.  Her  face  was 
stunningly  beautiful,  pale white like the full moon on a  cloudless  night, 
delicately formed.  She looked at me with deep, dark eyes that seemed to glow 
in the night.  I sat there, spellbound and gasping for breath as I beheld the 
frail  form  of  this wondrous girl sway softly before me  in  the  air.  The 
expression  on her face was kind and loving;  I felt no fear  for  her,  just 
curiosity and a strange fascination for this beautiful creature. I started to 
speak but she brought a finger to her lips before I could utter my questions. 
She beckoned me to follow her and I stood up, following her as she moved away 
from me, into the mists.
 I  do  not know for how long I hurried after her  fleeting  form,  across  a 
landscape that was completely unknown to me, like I was venturing into a maze 
I never was able to get out of.  Trees appeared suddenly from the haze and  I 
had  to be careful not to stumble over the many rocks and boulders  that  lay 
cluttered on the hills I crossed.
 Then I realized she was gone and I stopped,  exhausted, confused. What to do 
now?  I was hopelessly lost,  shadows all around me, the world a place I felt 
alien in,  like I was never meant to tread on these grounds.  I walked around 
aimlessly,  not knowing what to do next,  desperate.  Where had she gone? Why 
was I alone in these mists that numbed the very meaning of my existence?
 A sense of relief came over me when I discovered the entrance to the  temple 
that  lay  partially  hidden behind the long streaming  branches  of  gnarled 
willows.  I prudently ventured through the portal,  awed by the ambience that 
enveloped  me.  I  approached the altar that was in the middle of  the  small 
confinement  of the temple,  partially lit by the eerie  moonlight  filtering 
through the mists and the cracks in the ceiling of the small structure.
 When I saw her again, the recollection of sweet memories of times I once had 
was  almost too strong to handle.  Why I hadn't recognized her earlier I  did 
not know,  but she was there now,  solid,  present,  the girl I had known  so 
well, loved all these years.
 I  had many questions to ask but I could not speak as I gazed into her  eyes 
that  told me the stories of long ago,  and also told me of what  befell  her 
after our parting.  The loss,  the longing,  the loneliness.  The pain I felt 
that moment was agonizing,  my eyes grew hot with tears when I remembered the 
nights alone,  longing for her presence,  the soft breathing beside  me,  the 
pain relieved.
 Then I realized what I had to do.
 A  soft glimmer of metal caught my attention and I looked up,  our eyes  met 
one  more time and it looked like she beckoned me.  I took the dagger  in  my 
hand and all the fear I had once had for Death was taken away from  me.  With 
one swift stroke I sliced my left wrist, the blade changed hands and I cut my 
right wrist also.
 I  staggered,  sank to my knees and looked up into her  brilliant  smile.  I 
realised then I had done the right thing.
 Blood spilled on the floor and I closed my eyes to the onrushing darkness; I 
knew we would be together again, forever...

 Written somewhere in autumn 1990,  most probably.  Ever so slightly rehashed 
May 1995.


= OH YEAH - THE SEQUEL ======================================================
 by Stefan Posthuma and Richard Karsmakers

 With  thanks to Craig Shaw-Gardner and,  of course,  *Gard*,  for a  lot  of 
inspiration.


 Cronos Warchild stood at the edge of the cliff and looked down.  What he saw 
was  depth.  The kind of depth that could make your head spin,  the  kind  of 
depth  that seemed to call at you,  building up an urge to hurl  down  little 
stones and count the seconds that would pass until they would hit the  ground 
below with a soft, barely audible 'thud'.
 For a moment the sheer depth of the whole thing baffled him.  Of course, not 
much  was needed to baffle the mercenary annex hired gun.  Only earlier  that 
day,  for example,  he had been rather baffled at the changing of the colours 
of a traffic light.
 His  mind  was  filled with a name;  the name  that  represented  everything 
beautiful,  all  the flowers in the world,  gorgeous red roses fragrant  with 
love,  dew-covered spring mornings,  the soft scent of green grass below  her 
dancing feet. That name, of course, was Klarine.
 The name brought an instant feeling of a thousand megaleeches sucking  their 
way through his abdomen. He sighed a profoundly deep sigh.
 Her  name had been written in delicate handwriting on the name tag  that  he 
had managed to glance at in the fraction of a millisecond he had seen her. It 
had been located strategically on top of her left breast, and for two seconds 
afterwards it had utterly taken his breath away.
 Of course, like with so many true loves, he had never seen her again. All he 
had  seen  of  her was a tiniest glimpse when her oncoming  space  craft  had 
flashed by his at half the speed of light.
 At  that  instant  he had forgotten all about Loucynda and  the  rusty  lock 
between  her legs with which she still roamed somewhere in the  universe.  He 
had even forgotten all about Penelope Sunflower, the one woman who had gotten 
him engaged in something else than the obliteration of sentient life forms.
 Klarine Appledoor had been her full name.  Her eyes had been blue,  her hair 
long  and  blonde,  the movement of her hands resting on the  steering  wheel 
exciting and utterly on-turning.  Her lips had been cherry-coloured, her ears 
had had the perfect shapes for nibbling and sucking.
 All  this  had been seen by his highly trained senses  within  that  utterly 
small bit of a fraction of time.
 Once  again,  Cronos  had found himself deeply and wholeheartedly  in  love, 
something he had previously considered a no longer attainable state of mind.
 Now the depth of the abyss gaped at him,  luring, inviting, as if its bottom 
was  filled  with luscious nymphs beckoning for him to join in an  orgy  even 
Hugh Heffner would never even have dared dream of.
 His life had no further cause without her, without the woman he had but seen 
for  a figment of a nanosecond,  without the woman he knew would be the  True 
One  for  him  for  the rest of his  current  life.  During  that  short  but 
meaningful pseudo-encounter,  he seemed to recall, she could conveivably have 
winked  her eye at him,  or blowed him a fleeting kiss.  He  firmly  believed 
this. He believed that she loved him, too. Passionately - just like he needed 
it.  Women  had never as much as *looked* at him,  let alone bother  blinking 
their eyes when passing him by a half the speed of light.
 This was true love; love at first peek.
 He  looked down the chasm again,  not quite knowing whether or not he  could 
actually muster the courage to step forward and *do* it. Life had no contents 
for him any more,  that was obvious.  But why did he find it so difficult  to 
*do* so?

 So  he took one hesitant step towards the egde,  causing a few small  stones 
and  some  dirt to plummet towards the ground below.  Then a  small  movement 
besides his ear caught his attention.  He swung his head to the left and  was 
baffled once more by a small version of himself sitting on his  shoulder.  It 
was dressed in a small white robe, with tiny sandals on its feet. It was idly 
plucking  the  strings  of a minute harp and  its  feathered  wings  quivered 
slightly in the breeze.
 "Hi", it exclaimed when it noticed the gaze that was cast upon it, "I am thy 
guardian angel and I am here to stop thee from making a serious mistake."
 "Huh?", Cronos said.
 "I know what thou art up to,  thou wants to end it all,  right?  I mean thou 
art  planning  to  jump into this fissure in order to end thy life  or  am  I 
wrong?"
 "Errr...", Cronos muttered, displaying more than usual his eloquence.
 "Yes,  admit it,  thy wert actually intending to commit an act of suicide!", 
the little angel smirked.
 "So what?", Cronos said, "what's it to you?"
 "Well,  I am supposed to make sure thou dost not die or anything.  I've been 
pretty busy lately,  I can tell. Anyways, I strongly suggest abandoning these 
silly girl-thoughts and get back to normal, wouldst thou?"
 "Err...but  Klarine  is my true love,  and I will never see  her  again  and 
that's why I want to die.  Life has no meaning without her presence, I mean I 
haven't even ever made foot-love to her!  I love her,  she is  everything,  I 
love her, I love her...I..."
 "Now, now, if thou startst crying I will have to take some drastic measures. 
Please think about this.  Thou hast only caught a glimpse of this child. What 
makes  thee think that thou art in love with her?  And why art thou  so  sure 
that she is in love with thee? This is madness!"
 Cronos swallowed and thought about what the angel just said.  True,  he  had 
only seen her for a very,  very short while.  He wasn't even really sure that 
she had seen him. But her face, her eyes...
 "Yes,  what about her face,  and what about her eyes?", the angel yelled, "I 
dare  say  that they were very,  very ordinary and that you  have  no  reason 
whatsoever to be so hung up on this female."
 Cronos was confused.  Now it is not difficult to confuse good ol' Cronos, we 
all know that, but now he was confused quite astoundingly.
 The  angel  did have a point,  Klarine's face wasn't *that* special  and  he 
really  didn't know her at all.  She might have silicon breasts or she  might 
even be a 92 year-old transvestite with an equal number of face-lifts and the 
breath of a hung-over desert-lizard.  Hell, she might even be a reincarnation 
of Betty Ford.
 Cronos' mind started to clear.
 Suddenly,  the abyss seemed threatening.  He took a step back,  gasping  for 
breath, swaying his arms, trying to regain his balance.
 "What  in  the name of the armpits of Miss Fragilia  Franatica,  the  second 
Princess of the Zantogian Empire,  am I doing here?", he asked himself, "What 
is this strange obsession I have gotten so hung up with?  What strange female 
can make me this hysterical about things?"
 A puff of smoke arose next to his right ear.
 "Yo...hey,  hold it right there,  just wait a minute here.  What's all  this 
jive about not taking the big plunge?"
 Cronos  looked  at his other shoulder and there was yet another  version  of 
himself.  This  time it was wearing a shiny nylon jogging suit with  enormous 
white Nike Airs on its feet.  On top of its red,  horned head it had a Public 
Enemy  cap  and it had an enormous gold chain around its  neck,  to  which  a 
chronometer was attached.
 "Yo Warpchild my main honcho, what's up my brother?", it inquired.
 Cronos was totally unable to speak due to severe bafflement.  Then again, it 
didn't take that much to baffle our dear anti-hero as we know by now.
 "So I hear you've gotten stuck on some bitch you saw while you was  cruisin' 
thru space."
 "Er...yeah, I saw this really nice girl. Her name is Klarine."
 "Cool. So you love the sister right?"
 "Erm..."
 The *good* angel on Cronos' other shoulder was getting noticeably upset.
 "Say,  my  dear  man,"  it interrupted,  "I am in the  middle  of  a  heatly 
discussion with my protege here.  Wouldst thou mind removing thyself from the 
scene?  Get  back to the dark realms of thy wicked master,  the Dark  One.  I 
repell thee, foul spirit!"
 "Yo, get real dude," the little evil thing retorted, "what's with the mumbo-
jumbo here? You tripping or sumthin'? Popped a few pills or *what*?"
 "Cronos,  please do not pay attention to this rude gentleman.  He is nothing 
but a nuisance. Now about Klarine...."
 "Hey Warchasm. Tell me about the bitch. She got good tits?"
 The most delicate of curves drifted back into the somewhat limited space  of 
Cronos' brain.  Slowly,  the camera panned up,  to her more than lucious lips 
that were moist and red like the most voluptuous cherries growing on the soft 
sloping hills of sun-clad California.
 "Cronos? Cronos! Get a hold on thyself my dear man!"
 "Shut up,  yer white-assed shithead.  I'm talking to the dude now. Why don't 
you  take a hike,  huh?",  the devil  interjected.  Addressing  Warchild,  it 
continued,  "Think about it man. She was the finest. Think of her face, think 
of the body below it. Wouldn't you like to share a hot tub with *that*?"
 Cronos  slowly relapsed into a state of love-sickness that made him  take  a 
step  forward towards the gaping chasm that appeared to form the sole  answer 
to all his troubles.  Protruding spikes of rock at the bottom seemed to  call 
him,  offering  salvation and a soothing cradle of comfort in which he  could 
mend  the frayed ends of his sanity that had endured so many  ruptures  after 
that fateful encounter with the Lady Klarine.
 The little angel seemed to get really agitated now.
 "CRONOS!",  it  yelled  with all the force it could muster  in  its  fragile 
throat that normally only uttered soft prayers and muttered hails to the  One 
Above,  his True Master.  Cronos, however, did not harken the small figure on 
his left shoulder. He could only gaze down, towards the bottom of the plummet 
that seemed to lead to the very core of Lucifer's dwelling place itself.
 "Yeah right.  Face it man,  you lost.  Now scram before I kick a mudhole  in 
your venerable ass," the little devil advised the angel.
 "OK,  I can recognise defeat when I see it," the angel mused, beaten, "Well, 
I have other souls to salvage. Better be off then. Cheerio. Amen."
 A small puff of heavenly smoke signalled the departure of the pious angel.
 "Right",  the little devil chuckled,  lovingly stroking his own barbed tail. 
"Let's get down to some serious business here."
 Cronos  had ignored all of this for he was totally occupied with staring  at 
the shimmering apparition of his true love that seemed to be draped across  a 
large boulder at the very end of the drop.
 "Yo,  Charwild my man,  how would you like to meet the ol' reaper himself? I 
heard he is quite a wild dude,  bound to get you some action. Just do it man, 
step  across the razor egde and feel what it's like to be in *my*  hood.  You 
will  get to meet all the people you greased in this life - they're all  down 
there  waiting  to party with you man.  Do it man,  forget about  that  silly 
bitch, she ain't worth shit."
 Cronos  made up his mind.  No more of this.  He would end it right here  and 
now. No more hesitation.
 He  jumped,  faintly hearing the evil angel mentioning something about  them 
all floating down there...

 The  feeling of the air rushing past his body as he plummeted downward  made 
him  feel giddy for a moment.  The freshness cooled him down.  He felt  young 
again, and virile. He was willing to accept death.
 The  bottom closed in on him.  It looked strangely beautiful;  soil  with  a 
faint picture of his greatest of loves projected across it.
 "Yo!" he yelled, his powerful voice echoing off the crevice.
 He  fainted before he hit the ground with a 'thud' that made  someone  else, 
far away,  look up with a befuddled expression on his face.  This  particular 
someone adjusted a cap with a ridiculously erect thingy on top of it,  lifted 
off the ground the loaf of bread that he had dropped, and plodded on.

 Everything turned around Warchild.  Colours he had never known existed  came 
at  him,  as  did scents he had never hoped  ever  to  smell.  Unrecognizable 
figures reached out at him,  offering drinks and food.  Music drifted through 
the  air,  but it did not have the power to please him.  Beats shuddered  his 
being.
 And then everything he saw was her, HER.
 This was not what he had wanted.  He had wanted to die and disappear. He had 
not  wanted to go to some place where her vision would be burned on the  back 
of his eyes perpetually,  haunting him like a rabid tax collector. He did not 
want  to be where he was.  He gazed into the image of her eyes,  drowning  in 
their  depths  like  he had drowned in the depth of  the  chasm  but  moments 
before.
 Or had they been minutes? Or hours? This was all getting really crazy and he 
wanted  to get out.  He cried for help but his voice produced  no  sound.  He 
tried to swim away,  or fly away,  or whatever.  He succeeded in neither.  He 
wanted  to  turn around - but whatever he did the world seemed to  turn  with 
him. All he could see was the portrait of Klarine, and it was getting bigger. 
Bigger and immensely more beautiful. Lovely. Sensual. Just, well...*Klarine*.
 This obsession had to stop.  He already felt little crawly things  ascending 
his legs.  Ants. He smelled something familiar. A large glass thing, a jar or 
something,  was  taking  up the place of his Great Love's  portrait.  He  had 
thought it would make him feel better when it happen. But now it happened and 
it didn't make him feel better at all.  It made him feel  miserable,  lonely, 
battered.
 Then he disappeared completely into a thick,  yellow,  sticky fluid together 
with about five hundred ants that,  oddly, all considered it necessary to say 
"eep".

 "Gross!"
 The voice that had uttered these words echoed through his brain.  He  opened 
his  eyes  and saw nothing but yellow.  He rubbed  his  eyes,  succeeding  in 
removing most of it.  As soon as he looked again,  he decided he had probably 
been better off with the goo still in his eyes.
 He  looked into two terrifically huge facet eyes that must have belonged  to 
an  insect the size of a somewhat sizable freighter.  They did *not*  radiate 
hospitality.  Cronos' brain cell instantly knew this mean beastie was not one 
that would like to be friends.
 "There's a human in my meal!" the gigantic ant thundered.
 Indeed,  it  did  not take long for Warchild to realise that the  human  the 
large ant talked about with disgust was,  as a matter of fact,  himself. This 
thought discomforted him somewhat.
 An enormous,  extremely hairy paw stretched out to him.  The end of the  paw 
was  occupied  by things that looked like  toilet  plungers.  They  connected 
themselves to his head and chest, lifting him out of the swampy, yellow stuff 
rather inconsiderately.
 "Would  you  mind  getting rid of this,  woman," the  large  ant  thundered, 
apparantly  addressing  another of his kind,  "and give me  another  bowl  of 
honey?"
 Next  thing he knew,  Warchild was being submitted to gravity above a  large 
cylindre that was filled with trash. It could very well be a trashcan.
 As our friend was paid to fight instead of to think,  he did not see the two 
red eyes that gazed at him from aside the large cylinder - nor did he see the 
several dozen of shiny white, pointed fangs that surrounded its black depth.
 For  a  fraction of a split of a picosecond he saw a female smiling  at  him 
from the depth - or at least he thought he did. Was that a wink of an eye?
 The vision,  however,  ceased almost as quickly as it had manifested itself, 
much to Cronos' sorrow.
 All he now saw was a terrifyingly huge uvula that was dangling in what  prey 
generally considers to be quite a threatening way.  The fangs radiated  white 
light,  the pulsating red tongue licked in what its owner probably considered 
to be an inviting fashion.
 With a bit of a gulp,  the mercenary annex hired gun disappeared down a long 
and winding tunnel that was quite slippery to the touch.  He didn't *want* to 
touch  it but the thing seemed to want to touch *him*.  Powerful  peristaltic 
muscles  squeezed him further and further down to a place of which  the  foul 
stench was incomprehensible to any mortal being - even to Cronos himself, who 
had  once  been the toilet cleaner of the Ambulor Eight Thai  Boxing  school! 
Distinctly,  it  made him think of the many hangovers he had  had,  that  had 
resulted in laughing at carpets a lot.
 With  a splash,  he suddenly lay still in a shallow pool of *some*  sort  of 
repulsive liquid.  Some hard bits ran into him as if directed by an invisible 
force.
 Then everything was utterly silent once more, though not for long.
 Green  light  started to be emitted from the wall of the cavity he  was  in. 
Large  green  drops  of  some  substance  were  being  excreted  and  started 
submitting themselves to Newton's will.
 Some  of  them attached themselves to Cronos' body.  They clung  to  it  and 
seemed  to start eating inwards.  His skin started burning all over.  He  was 
getting slightly aggravated now.  His heart started to beat slightly quicker, 
pumping  blood  to the muscles that needed it most.  He did  not  like  being 
submitted  to the decaying powers of gastric acids.  He started to pound  the 
wall. It budged with each bang of his fist, but just retracted to its initial 
position  as soon as he would hit another spot.  He started kicking as  well. 
His  Industry Quality Army boots started to corrode whenever they  came  into 
contact with the foul fluid.
 He  would  not survive long if he didn't resort to  some  drastic  measures. 
However,  he  hadn't any killer gadgets on him and his killer fingernail  had 
been broken somewhere when the plungers had come into the story.
 Damn! There was something touching him without prior written permission!
 He looked around instinctively, seeing a bony hand resting on his schoulder. 
He  followed  the bony hand and saw that it was connected to  a  corpse  that 
looked  at  him balefully.  The lipless mouth seemed to  form  words  mutely, 
crying in agony about an untimely death.
 He felt himself being drawn towards the skull. Some way or another he felt a 
strange  obsession for the left eye socket.  It was oddly dark and  inviting, 
like an abyss.
 For a moment he saw her again in the darkness of the socket.  He forgot  the 
general  severeness  of the situation he was in and  studied  her  face,  the 
cherry lips,  the beautiful eyes,  the long blonde hair that fell  graciously 
around her milky white face.
 Then the light went out.
 The green fluid seemed to disappear to somewhere and the walls of the cavity 
he  was in stopped pulsating for a moment.  The next  moment,  havoc  struck. 
Warchild,  the  corpse  and assorted other hard bits were being  sucked  down 
rapidly,  disappearing  in  what probably was  the  monster's  gut.  Darkness 
enveloped him,  now truly something palpable.  He could *feel* the gut  cover 
crawl around him, pulsating, *probing*.
 He landed in an enormous load of thin stuff that smelled quite  awfully.  He 
had  smelt  that  smell several times before,  years ago,  and  it  was  this 
particular  smell that had caused him to resign at the aforementioned job  at 
the Thai Boxing school.
 He  was  trapped  inside the digestive system of a giant  Mutant  Maxi  Mega 
Monster of Multifizzic Omega!
 He  felt  tugging  at his legs.  He was being pulled  down  even  more,  and 
simultaneously the muscles above him started pushing. The monster's guts were 
trying  to  get rid of him.  He passed through various  layers  of  foodstuff 
untill  finally he thought he could see light in the distance.  There  was  a 
small  round  thing there,  like the diafragma of a camera.  It  was  getting 
closer quite quickly. He was sent towards it head first.
 "Pop".
 Fresh air enveloped his head.

 Once upon a time there was a rather stupid mercenary annex hired gun who had 
the  misfortune of having landed in the feeding bowl of a  giant  ant,  which 
resulted in him consequently being fed to the ant's pet that turned out to be 
a  monster  notorious for the intensity of the foul smells arising  from  its 
anal excreta.
 His name,  of course,  was Cronos Warchild.  He knew that himself.  What  he 
didn't know,  however, was that he had ended up in the Eastern Forest and was 
now  the subject to the ruthless will of Mother Duck,  real-time  fairy  tale 
concoctress extraordinaire.
 He found himself walking down towards a river.  The river could not be waded 
through,  but someone had obviously found out about this fact and had decided 
it  wise  to erect a bridge across it.  That same someone had  probably  also 
realised  that  people  who wanted to stroll across  that  bridge  might  not 
totally be against paying a modest fee.
 That particular bridge erector had selected a somewhat broad looking warrior 
to enforce the paying of said fee.
 "Doom," the somewhat broad warrior intoned as Cronos drew closer.
 The warrior was really awfully huge.  Cronos was quite big, but he found the 
toll enforcer towering above him as if he was but an infant held by the  pope 
himself,  being  frowned upon by said Holy Father after having farted  during 
baptism.
 To  add  to  the general threat of the whole  situation,  the  huge  warrior 
carried an enchanted warclub.  An idea leapt at Cronos' head that conveyed to 
him that this was the dreaded Headbasher, reaper of memories. It bounced off.
 "Doom," the warrior droned in a flat voice.
 At that very moment a purple demon in chequered pants arrived on the  scene, 
momentarily surrounded by the proverbial puff of smoke.
 "Doom,"  the  warrior said,  apparently surprised.  He  started  moving  the 
dreaded Headbasher with a hint of nervousness, suspiciously eyeing the purple 
demon.
 "Might I interest you in a used weapon?" the purple salesdemon asked Cronos. 
Our lovely anti-hero looked at him befuddled. Not much was needed to befuddle 
Cronos,  we know that.  That very morning,  as a matter of fact,  he had been 
zealously befuddled when a traffic light...but you know that already.
 The  salesdemon,  trained  to  recognise hopeless cases  of  doing  business 
averted his attention to the toll enforcer now.
 "Doom," the toll enforcer interjected.
 Obviously,  neither  of  the  two potential  customers  were  interested  in 
anything he had to offer. The purple salesdemon in the ridiculously chequered 
outfit disappeared in another one of those proverbial puffs of smoke.
 When  the  smoke had lifted,  both people present were  somewhat  amazed  at 
beholding a large shoe that muttered "Indeed".  Behind the large shoe stood a 
girl with long hair who constantly attempted to kiss another fellow who stood 
next to her. Behind them, a green being completely surrounded by robes seemed 
to discuss something with a tiny person in brown clothes.
 Cronos  was losing control over the situation.  Never before had his  senses 
been overkilled this much.
 "I wish I was out of here," he sighed,  more to himself than to someone else 
in particular.
 "Granted!" a little voice coming from the small person in brown piped.
 Just  before he completely disappeared from the scene,  he thought he saw  a 
huge, green, ugly, dancing dragon with a top hat.

 Next thing he knew,  Cronos has a somewhat large microphone shoved under his 
nose.
 "Soooo...  Mr.  Warchild.  What do you think of our new and improved 'Bubl'? 
Did  it manage to remove the stains that other detergents didn't get  out  of 
your underwear at only 40 degrees?"
 "And  what  do  you  think of our new  formulae,  ozone  friendly  and  with 
biologically decomposable thingies?"
 Cronos,  a  bit unsteady on his feet,  glared at  the  smooth,  well-dressed 
interviewer. He wondered how someone could look so silly.
 "Now we all know you traded mark X against our brilliant product,  just  for 
you to try for a week," the ad man continued,  "please tell us all about  the 
results you have undoubtedly achieved. Tell me about the pizza stains on your 
children's shirts that have so miraculously disappeared."
 Cronos was once again totally baffled - and stupefied too,  by the  way.  He 
had  fleeting visions of clowns dressed in bright  colours,  people  floating 
around in hot air balloons and little children spilling insane amounts of hot 
cocoa and strawberry jam on their ludicrously white garments. He had smashing 
figments of nature-loving phosphates.
 Cronos,  remembering all the times he had been very pissed off with his  TV, 
usually causing utter annihilation of the aforementioned household appliance, 
sighed deeply and stared at his broken fingernail with sad eyes.
 "Geez, I wish this guy would drop dead," he muttered.
 "Granted!!!" squeaked a tiny voice from somewhere.
 The  air  crackled  in a sizzling way and a bolt  of  lightning  struck  the 
interviewer  in  a rather non too subtle fashion,  leaving only  two  smoking 
shoes with bits of bone protruding from them.
 "Holy shit," Cronos enthused.
 This time the bafflement became too much for our poor,  blundering hero. His 
minute brain gave up reasoning and he fainted rather dramatically.

 He  had  dreams of pillows,  of the soft sloping hills of Wales,  and  of  a 
certain pizza-covered planet.
 The next thing he knew he had an erect nipple thrust in his face.
 "I  like deep conversations with intelligent men," a female sighed down  his 
ear, "In fact, I have a degree in literature and have won several prestigious 
literary prizes.  I also play blind chess against several people at once when 
I feel like it."
 The  girl  removed  another  piece of cloth that  seemed  to  cling  to  her 
voluptous body.
 She was posed on a couch, wearing very tiny pieces of clothing, squirming in 
a  way  that seemed to him like she was in intense agony - or as if  she  was 
being mind-fusioned by the Sagratean Zen-Dude of Phalletica VI of course.
 Cronos,  still being totally dumbfounded, stared at the writhing female, not 
knowing he had materialized in the middle of a Playhouse photo-session of the 
utmost erotic meaning.
 A tall,  thin man armed with an enormous photo camera was dancing around the 
couch,  making suggestive comments to the girl,  uttering the odd little  cry 
now and then.
 Cronos did not know what to think of this.  The pinkness of the girl aroused 
certain hormones in his body that he didn't really know of,  he felt like  an 
American tourist in the Amsterdam red light district,  seeing so many  things 
he  hadn't  even  dreamt  of  in those dreams  that  made  his  sheets  quite 
uncomfortably moist.
 Believe it or not,  but in the highlight of his ecstasy,  the girl assumed a 
rather metallish color and slowly transformed herself into a blob of mercury-
like stuff that oozed off the couch like a T-1000 would squirm itself  trough 
a shotgun-blast-sized hole in an elevator ceiling.
 The  substance  moved  itself  across  the  floor,   clearly  exciting   the 
photographer  who dropped to his knees,  wielding the camera like it was  the 
one  item keeping his soul together.  It moved towards Cronos,  and  when  it 
arrived  at his feet,  slowly started to upheave  itself,  assuming  humanoid 
shape.  When it reached full height, it formed a rather eerie face and stared 
at him in a sort of silent lucididty that Queensryche would be jealous of.
 Cronos sighed deeply and considered the stupefaction that had taken over his 
reasoning at that point. The urge to faint crossed his battered consiousness, 
but  he  quickly  set aside the idea as being a way of  letting  the  authors 
getting  away with things too easily.  The photographer had fainted  already, 
and  the way this guy lay prostrate across the floor made  Cronos  feverishly 
reject the idea of any fainting or whatever.
 As  his  mind had no power over his body  whatsoever,  however,  he  fainted 
anyway. Whatever.

 After the usual twirling colors and strange sounds and smells and all  other 
sensations  that accompany inter-dream travel,  he suddenly  materialised  in 
mid-air.
 Normally,  materialising  in mid-air would mean the start of a very  painful 
sequence  of  events leading to a 'thud' of varying  intensity,  and  painful 
feelings directly proportional to the intensity of the aforementioned sound.
 This time, it didn't and he was once more slightly baffled (...).
 Then  he  noticed the fact that all his limbs were gone,  and  he  felt  not 
entirely  like he used to feel whenever he wasn't suspended  in  mid-air.  He 
then  felt  a  slight tugging sensation just above his head,  as  if  he  was 
dangling from something short and thin.
 He  looked  around  himself and noticed the large amount  of  enormous  tree 
leaves  surrounding him.  He also noticed the beautiful blue  air,  the  soft 
smells  that usually permeate the air of scenic orchards,  the gentle  breeze 
and his own, lovely, reddish color.
 He also felt that his time had come.  He felt like he was old enough for the 
big fall,  old enough to spread the seeds so to speak. Why he felt like this, 
he couldn't explain. It wasn't a thought humans were supposed to have.
 "Snap".
 Also, he had severe trouble coping with the fact that he no longer seemed to 
be  suspended  in  air,  but was actually travelling  downwards  at  an  ever 
increasing and highly alarming speed.
 He  looked down at the rapidly approaching earth and saw a head of  a  young 
man that had nice,  curly hair covering it.  He also found that this head was 
approaching him at what he suddenly considered to be lethal speed.
 "Thud."
 To  his  surprise,  he bounced off the head and landed in the grass  at  the 
man's feet. A bit bruised in places, but still quite alive.
 "Ouch!" a voice yelled.
 "How  most unpleasant,  apples falling on your head like  that",  the  voice 
continued.
 Cronos  saw a very,  very large young man rub the top of his  head,  looking 
thoughtfully as if pondering over something very...er...serious.
 The young man assumed various facial expressions indicating a complex  train 
of thoughts making its way through his conciousness.
 Suddenly,  this man jumped to his feet and looked very aroused, as if he had 
just found the answer to all his problems.
 "YES!" he exclaimed.
 "YES! YES! YES!" he added.
 "E=MC square," he completed.
 The young man sat down again with a very content expression on his face.
 A puff of smoke next to the young man failed to baffle Cronos this time  for 
he  was  already in such a state of befuddlement that any extra  impulses  of 
confusion did not matter much.
 A rather bewildered young man now appeared;  he had unkempt gray hair, and a 
rather intelligent look about him.
 "Say,  dear chap.  I am afraid that you have discovered the wrong  formulae. 
The  Relativity Theory will be invented by me - you are supposed to find  out 
about gravity."
 The first young man looked at the second one just like Cronos would stare at 
a traffic light that had just changed colour.
 "I just thought it appropriate to point this out to you," the apparition  of 
the  second young man added,  "I mean it would severely upset the  course  of 
science to come. So remember about gravity, it's very important."
 Then  it disappeared again in another puff of smoke,  the likes of which  we 
know so well.
 "Right", the young man said to himself, "gravity it is then."
 After this, he reached for Cronos and studied him a bit.
 "Hhhm..,  looks OK to me," the young man mused,  licking his lips,  "I quite 
fancy a refreshing apple, just from the tree."
 Before Cronos had time to process these words, he was unceremoniously rubbed 
against a sleeve of rather rough material.  He was getting a bit worried now. 
This wasn't supposed to happen.
 Then he felt a distinct motion again,  and when he looked up he came to  the 
conclusion that he was about to be eaten by the young man.
 The mouth opened,  revealing a row of healthy,  shiny white teeth that would 
undoubtedly chew off a nice piece of his body. He was almost inside the mouth 
now, and the sight of the glistening, saliva-covered tongue once again almost 
succeeded in making our unfortunate hero panic.
 Then the pain came. It was excruciating, as if someone was tearing him apart 
with  blunt  equipment.  The pain concentrated around his  rear  area.  "Most 
famous  scientist  eats  rear end of mercenary annex hired gun  in  one  fell 
swoop." Now *that* would look odd on the young man's track record.
 Cronos  considered the time appropriate to give in to his brain  cell,  that 
gently advised him to lose consciousness.

 "KRAA!"
 For  a while,  the uttering of this sound within the immediate proximity  of 
his right ear caused his entire aural apparatus to malfunction,  resulting in 
the  sending of assorted pulses of white noise to his brain for some  seconds 
in sequence.
 When  he  succeeded  in turning around his head to face the  source  of  the 
temporal   cacophonic  mayhem,   he  found  a  male  double-eyed   fig-parrot 
(Psittaculirostris diophthalma) sitting on his shoulder.  Of course,  he  was 
not  aware  of  this  precisely,  and just  reckoned  it  was  a  disgruntled 
blackbird.
 "KRAA!"
 He had to do something about his reflexes.  He had seen the bird opening its 
bill but had neglected to avert his ear or cover it with something. This lack 
of prophilactic measures resulted in assorted impulses of random noise  being 
sent to his brain for a prolonged time.
 The bird looked around,  as if gloating. It nodded its head up and down like 
birds generally tend to do often.

 Note:

 The reason behind birds doing this has been cause for pangalactic scientific 
debate.  It is still quite unresolved,  but there have been some  interesting 
theories.  The one documented by Charles Loaca,  himself a bird/lion halfling 
residing at the second planet from the left in the Dinophthalma Milky Way, is 
now  commonly  believed  to be true - though not because  of  its  logic  but 
because of Mr. Loaca's descent which gives him some authority.
 His  theory  is  based  upon  birds  trying  to  listen  to  longwave  radio 
broadcasts, which requires them to bob their head up and down with the waves. 
It  is believed that this is the way birds learn to sing.  Pigeons  are  even 
thought  to  tune in to their favourite radio station to find the  way  home. 
Most non-hibernating birds are believed to listen to Radio Free South  Africa 
on the way.

 End of note (in case you wanted to know).

 "Don't you *ever* do that again," he warned the parrot. He wielded his index 
finger threateningly in front of the animal.
 "Snap."
 It  took  a  while before Cronos had discovered the sudden  absense  of  the 
double-eyed bird from his shoulder.  For a moment he was relieved. The animal 
was gone from the zone near his ear.  He listened to the random noise in  his 
ears gently wearing off. Finally.
 When he tried to poke in his nose,  which resulted in a bird being  inserted 
in  it,  he had second thoughts about relief and other sensations along  that 
line.
 Now Warchild's nostrils are quite big. As a matter of fact, his wide flaring 
nostrils  with the odd black hair sprouting forth from them had  quite  often 
effectively reduced potential soulmates to get an interest in him.
 The  parrot,  however,  was large enough not quite to  fit  comfortably.  It 
started to try and get out.  This resulted in most of our hero's senses being 
switched  off  in favour for full priority to one particular nerve  that  ran 
from  his right nostril to a lesser brain cell labelled  "sneezing,  farting, 
crapping,  sweating,  urinating,  ejaculating,  spitting, bleeding, coughing, 
burping, crying, drooling and vomiting (i.e. excreting)".
 Through  an intricate process of ions and assorted little things  that  make 
sure synapses work,  a number of pulses from the right nasal cavity ended  up 
in  the lesser brain cell.  It started screaming hell and  blood,  not  quite 
being  used  to  such signal intensity.  It gathered  all  power  its  host's 
metabolism would care to supply and used it to block the signals out.
 It was a battle to which, on a synapsic scale, there had never been an equal 
to  - nor would there ever be.  Minute particles with positive  and  negative 
loads  crashed into each other like a true clash of the  Titans.  Tissue  was 
torn,  nerves  were  severed,  and  generally a lot went on  that  was  quite 
irregular.
 Then  the  anti-particles  started winning.  They gradually  began  to  gain 
ground, pushing back the itch ions.
 Warchild was relieved for a moment again,  when not sensing anything in  his 
nose. Had the bird disappeared?
 Then  the  anti-particles  *really* started to  gain  ground.  They  coarsed 
through the nerve,  all but flying off at corners.  With a speed close to the 
speed of light, they ran and flew and scrambled, aimed directly at a powerful 
muscle somewhere in the mercenary annex hired gun's body.
 The  muscle  had  been having a relaxed week.  It was sitting  in  the  sun, 
smoking a cigarette and drinking Jack Daniels.  It was about to have  another 
nicely soothing swig when it heard a bit of turmoil around the corner of  the 
left lung.  It had heard this before,  but couldn't quite recall when it  had 
been or what it had been for.
 It quickly recalled when,  for but a moment,  it saw the rabid expression in 
the glowing red eyes and the wrinkled mouths of the ions. They spelled horror 
and death, for they spelled A.C.T.I.V.I.T.Y.
 Before  he  could put down his Jack Daniels he had to  contract.  It  was  a 
contraction  any muscle would have been proud of;  a contraction that  Arnold 
would  have wanted to buy the licence to,  a contraction that tore  ligaments 
and had the label "world record" attached to it.
 Cronos  felt  the sensation of feeling returning to his  nose,  but  it  was 
entirely different now.  As a matter of fact,  it seemed to move to his chest 
at a speed that was, even to Warchild, close to frightening.
 He breathed in.
 It was a breath that would have made any pair of lungs proud;  a breath that 
would  have  caused  them to get a ludicrously lucrative  contract  with  the 
makers of tropical cyclones, a breath that could split ribs.
 For  a  moment an enormous amount of wind churled in  his  longs,  rotating, 
growing;  the kind of wind that would have swept leaves,  bent  trees,  moved 
mountains  and  shipped  continents  if only any  of  these  would  have  the 
displeasure  of  being  present  in a certain  mercenary  annex  hired  gun's 
breathing apparatus.
 Then  all muscles connected to his breathing-out mechanism started  to  work 
overtime,  red  lights flashing,  sirenes wailing,  Civil Defence  committees 
gathering. Draining every milli-unit of nourishment, from the tips of fingers 
to the utmost extremeties of toes, they contracted.
 It  was  the kind of contraction that would cause  all  other  contractions' 
licences  to  be  revoked;  a contraction that could tear  asunder  the  most 
powerful bones,  a contraction that could practically be certain of getting a 
Nobel Prize and getting invited to Dame Edna's.
 Air started flowing out of Cronos' wind pipe,  exponentially gathering power 
within a time that would have made the Super-Inter-Galactic Ferrari  Sub-Etha 
Turbo-Booster  built in the  below-the-nanosecond-across-the-universe-car-of-
the-future designers jealous.
 Some lesser muscles opened Warchild mouth. There was no stopping it now. The 
terrifying  amount  of  compressed  air could  no  longer  be  thwarted  from 
fulfilling its vile goal.
 Cronos sneezed the Mother of all Sneezes.
 His  entire  poor  body was hurled back until it  collided  with  the  first 
mountain  it  encountered,  dozens of miles in the  opposite  direction.  The 
parrot,  that happened to have been the last male of its  kind,  miraculously 
survived  but was deafened and consequently turned impotent for the  arousing 
mating calls of the females - resulting in the extinction of the species.
 A hole 986.54 square miles in size appeared,  barren eternally. The drifting 
of the continents on this particular planet was set in motion.  The dust that 
arose  from this whole thing sufficed to block out the sun for  a  decennium, 
causing the global extinction of the dinosaur race.
 Somewhere  between  the third and fourth mountain between which  Cronos  was 
bounced, he once more gave in to his rather distressed main brain cell.

 When he opened his eyes again he found a nurse making rhythmic movements  on 
top of him.
 "Oh,  er....." the nurse stuttered when noticing she was discovered, quickly 
hopping  off him and pulling up her panties,  "er...excuse  me,  sir...er...I 
though you was being unconscious or something.  You know,  coma and all.  Not 
waking up any more, vegetable, that sort of thing."
 Cronos had a distinctly odd feeling around his lower abdomen.
 "If you don't mind, sir," she added, uncomfortably, "I will go and attend to 
another patient. Thank you."
 She  disappeared  through the door that she closed carefully so  as  not  to 
discomfort the patient.

 Nine months later,  nurse Laverne Todd of the Ambulor Eight Hospital for the 
Very Very Splattered was granted maternity leave. She gave birth to a healthy 
son, whom she called Garp.

 Original written February 8th-9th 1992.  Slightly rehashed and frowned  upon 
May 12th 1995.


= RODNEY'S RAYGUN REVENGE ===================================================
 A Technological Tale by David Henniker


 It was over a month since Rodney had started his new job on the outskirts of 
town.  For years he'd worked as a Technical Salesman,  driving anything up to 
200  miles  a  day as he travelled from town to  town.  His  employer  was  a 
manufacturer  of  medical electronics equipment and Rodney had had  a  fairly 
cushy number - as his company was virtually the only supplier to the  various 
Health Boards.
 Over  the  years  Rodney had made quite a few business friends  but  it  was 
unlikely he'd see them again.  The job had become increasingly difficult  due 
to competition from the far east.  'Why is everything made in Taiwan?' he had 
often  wondered.  His  boss  put more and more pressure on him  to  sell  the 
equipment, but although Rodney was a Technical Salesman he wasn't really very 
technical.  Also  he  was too honest to be a very good  travelling  salesman.  
When the firm announced it wanted redundancy volunteers,  Rodney decided he'd 
had enough and put his name forward.

 His  new  job  was at an out-of-town garden  centre,  one  of  those  'mega' 
complexes  where  they  have  everything  from a  kiddies'  play  area  to  a 
computerised Landscape Design Centre.  It was here that Rodney worked, mostly 
behind a counter,  selling expensive garden machinery such as lawnmowers that 
you  sit on and drive.  He also operated the Apple Mac and Roland Plotter  to 
try and sell 'Complete Landscape Solutions' to the wealthier customers.
 He didn't miss the driving at all, really. Once in a while he was allowed to 
demonstrate  the 'ride-on' lawnmowers.  His new job paid less and no  company 
car was provided. He didn't mind as he was very contented here - and lucky to 
find  employment  in  his  late thirties.  He no longer  had  the  hassle  of 
searching  for a parking space near his flat in town.  These days he got  the 
bus  to work and now he'd had a week or two to get used to public  transport, 
it was OK,  mostly.  After an embarrassing first morning when he offered  the 
bus driver a ten pound note,  holding up other passengers (and the  following 
traffic),  he  bought himself a season ticket.  He caught the same bus  every 
morning  and  after  a while began to recognise quite a  few  of  his  fellow 
passengers.
 The bus he got on was always mobbed with hordes of  schoolkids.  'Precocious 
young  brats'  Rodney  would  think to himself as  they  chatted  loudly  and 
squirmed  about in their seats.  Thankfully they all got off two stops  after 
the one Rodney got on at. Rodney had reached that time in his life  where  he 
felt threatened and insecure near  young  people,  particularly  adolescents.  
He  observed  that all the schoolkids had designer-label  clothes,  bags  and 
trainers. 'Must cost their parents a fortune...' he mused. 'Probably all made 
in Taiwan anyway...'
 He never spoke to the other regulars on the bus, but he observed them slyly. 
There was the businessman who always read the Telegraph and opened the  paper 
out  wide,  presumably to discourage fellow passengers from sitting  next  to 
him.  There  were some rather attractive female office workers  of  different 
ages,  but they never sat next to Rodney, even if the bus was crowded. People 
mostly  kept  themselves  to  themselves,   looking  glum  and   preoccupied. 
Occasionally  he was disturbed by someone with an 'impersonal stereo'  as  he 
called them.

 This morning,   as Rodney's bus approached the stop where the schoolkids got 
off,  Darren was waiting to board the bus.  Darren, like Rodney, had a job on 
the  edge of town.  He was 19 years old,  wore a black leather jacket with  a 
crudely  painted  logo across the back,   and had one of  those  aggressively 
short haircuts which Rodney used to associate with old cloth-capped men - the 
'short back and sides' look as imposed by Rodney's parents when he was young. 
Darren  sported a personal stereo and played it at a level which blotted  out 
any risk of having to communicate with his fellow human beings.
 As  Darren  came upstairs on the bus Rodney heard  the  dischordant  'TSSSH, 
TSSSH' noise and glared pointedly at the perpetrator. Darren seemed oblivious 
to  the accusing stare and sat down two or three rows in front of  Rodney.  A 
few  stops  further on,  the bus became quite crowded  but  amazingly  nobody 
complained  about the insistent 'TSSSH,  TSSSH,  TSSSSH!' emanating from  the 
earphones plugged into Darren's ears. The business types stared blankly ahead 
into space and one or two others halfheartedly rubbed at the condensation  on 
the  windows.  'How  the  hell can people put up  with  this?'  Rodney  asked 
himself.  He'd had rather a late night the previous night and wasn't  feeling 
very tolerant. He wished he was a more physically threatening figure, or knew 
martial arts.  He lacked the confidence to tap Darren on the shoulder and say 
something  like  'I say,  would you mind awfully turning down  your  personal 
stereo...?', or perhaps just plain 'Shut the fuck up!'.
 By  the time Rodney got to his stop,  he was seething with rage but  feeling 
helpless.  His  journey  to  work had been  ruined  by  this  cretin.  'Noise 
pollution is the worst form of pollution...' he muttered to himself as he got 
off  the bus at Q & B's Mega Garden World.  'You can shut your eyes  or  look 
away,  but  you  can't shut your ears!' He said out loud as  he  crossed  the 
footbridge over the bypass.  By the time he'd had his second cup of coffee he 
felt  better.  In  the  mail  there was a letter  of  acceptance  from  Major 
Ponsonby-Smythe with regard to the computerised landscape design tendered  by 
Rodney.  Rodney stood to receive 1% commission on the sale - which meant !300 
bonus on his next salary cheque.
 Rodney smiled peacefully as he lunched in the staff canteen. The muzak which 
played  softly in the background actually soothed him as he ate.  He  had  no 
dessert  but had a cup of tea,  declining the alleged coffee and Diet  Pepsi. 
The  muzak  changed to Herb Alpert And His Tijuana Brass.  Rodney  hated  the 
tinny trumpet noise,  made worse by the fact that the sound was distorted. It 
was at times like this he wished he hadn't given up smoking. He couldn't half 
do  with a fag.  He gulped his tea,  burning his tongue in the  process,  and 
left.
 The  afternoon  at  work was very quiet and Rodney had  plenty  of  time  to 
daydream.  He was fascinated by technical things but didn't have more than  a 
passing  interest in how they worked.  What they could achieve was much  more 
interesting.  He liked to impress the customers with the Apple Mac and Roland 
Plotter. For a while he'd bought electronics magazines and tried to build one 
or  two gadgets.  After the incident with the soldering iron and the  Persian 
carpet he lost interest. He began to wonder if it would be possible to design 
a 'personal stereo zapper'.

 In the evening, after his meal, he dragged a cardboard box out from the back 
of  a  cupboard and looked through the old electronics magazines  he'd  never 
been able to bring himself to throw out.  He paused briefly at an article  in 
Elektor  which gave constructional details of an anti-parking ticket  device. 
This  involved  fitting  magnetic sensors to the  hinges  of  the  windscreen 
wipers.  The  idea  was that when a traffic warden lifted a  wiper  blade  to 
attach a parking ticket,  the sensor would detect this and trigger a  circuit 
to  switch  on  the wipers at maximum speed in an attempt  to  frustrate  the 
forces of Law And Order.
 Rodney  then found a copy of Alternative Electronics,   a   USA  publication 
which had been banned for giving circuit designs for stun guns.  These gave a 
severe  electric shock to the victim,  powerful enough to paralyse  the  poor 
unfortunate  for minutes.  He flipped over a page and found an article  about 
Kirlian photography whereby,  it was claimed,  it was possible to  photograph 
the 'aura' or electrostatic field round a person.  He turned a few more pages 
over  and  found an article entitled 'Focussed Electro-Magnetic Pulse  -  CIA 
Secret  Experiments (part two)'.  He read on with interest.  There  had  been 
various  magazine  articles about 'EMP' a few years  ago,  Rodney  remembered 
vaguely.  According to this it was possible to induce sound (undetectably) in 
a  loudspeaker  from  a distance of up to  five  yards,  without  any  wiring 
whatsoever,  if you had the right equipment.  'Hmmm..' he pondered,  'maybe I 
could zap personal stereos with this!'
 Unfortunately  Rodney didn't have part one of the two-part article.  He  was 
rather  sceptical  of  the  reference to the power  source  for  the  gadget. 
Dilithium crystals were,  as far as Rodney knew, mere fiction. 'Trekkies', or 
Star Trek freaks might think differently. Part two of the article did however 
give details of a suggested circuit.  A 200 watt car stereo booster amplifier 
was 'utilized' (sic) for the driver for the output device. The left and right 
channels  were connected in a bridge configuration to double the strength  of 
the  focussed magnetic pulse sent out.  Rodney didn't really  understand  all 
this  but  continued  reading anyway.  He poured  himself  another  glass  of 
Southern Comfort and settled back in his easy chair.

 The  200  Watt  amplifier was greedy on electricity and a  car  battery  was 
obviously not portable. The amp was no problem, he had one spare, now that he 
no longer drove a car.  He found it in a cupboard and noticed it was made  in 
Taiwan.   The magazine article referred quite seriously to dilithium crystals  
but  further information was in part one - and unavailable.  Rodney put  down 
the magazine and looked on a bookshelf for scientific reference books. He sat 
down,  poured himself another Southern Comfort (it was his day off  tomorrow, 
after all) and thumbed over pages looking for mention of dilithium  crystals. 
His  search was in vain;  all he found was plain old lithium.  'Lithium  -  a 
silvery white metal. Lightest of all metals.' was all it said.
 He decided it was a waste of time pursuing this idea and instead browsed  at 
a  copy  of Computer Shopper he'd bought that morning.  Amongst the  ads  for 
peripherals and accessories he kept noticing ads for lithium batteries.  Then 
he  remembered  that his broken digital watch had a 7 year  lithium  battery. 
Actually,  the watch still worked but the black rubber strap had split  apart 
soon after he'd bought it.  Rodney poured another drink and recalled that his 
old Amstrad computer had a lithium battery in it, too. He robbed the computer 
of its battery and sat down again,  turning  the battery over in one hand, as 
he sipped his drink with the other.
 Rodney  was  rather  drunk by now and not  thinking  very  clearly.  He  was 
convinced there was a way of turning lithium into dilithium crystals,  but he 
had  no idea how.  He wandered unsteadily into the kitchen and wondered  what 
would happen if he put the lithium battery into the electric coffee  grinder. 
He  dismissed such a notion as dangerous (he wasn't stupid,  after  all)  and 
instead put it in the microwave cooker.  Not wearing his glasses,  he misread 
the digital display and set the timer to 11 minutes,  rather than the  minute 
he'd  intended.  He pressed the 'cook' button and the microwave thumped  into 
life.  The  battery  pirhouetted  slowly as the turntable  revolved  and  the 
fluorescent display counted down.
 Rodney suddenly realised that he'd been dying on a pee for ages and  stormed 
off to the bathroom.  'Aah, the relief!' He was zipping his fly when suddenly 
a very loud bang rattled the bathroom door. 'HOLY SHIT!' he exclaimed when he 
saw the shattered remains of the kitchen.  The microwave had been  completely 
blown apart and shards of ragged metal hung over the worktop.  Bits of  metal 
and  plastic  had  embedded themselves in the walls  and  broken  dishes  lay 
scattered on the floor.  He decided he'd clear up the mess in the morning and 
switched off the light.  Then he noticed an unfamiliar green glow coming from 
the centre of the former microwave cooker.  What's more,  the green glow  was 
pulsing slowly, getting bright and dim, bright and dim.
 It was the remains of the lithium battery. The rush of adrenalin had sobered 
Rodney up somewhat and he had the presence of mind to use a pair of tongs  to 
pick  it  up with.  He put it on a saucer and carried it  (somewhat  shakily) 
through to the living room. He filled up his glass, dimmed the lights and sat 
staring at the eerie green glow,  pulsing rhythmically.  After about an hour, 
when  the  bottle  of Southern Comfort was empty,  he finally  went  to  bed. 
Tomorrow he would go and visit his old chum Jack, the technical whizzkid.

 Jack  was a self-employed electronics engineer Rodney had known  for  years. 
His workshop was a shed attached to his house, a sort of home extension.
 'What's all this nonsense about dilithium crystals?' said Jack as Rodney sat 
down on top of an enormous TV set.
 'Here,  take  a look at this then!' replied Rodney as he handed him  an  old 
tobacco tin.
 Jack pulled off the lid and looked inside. Sure enough, the eerie green glow 
continued  to  pulse and throb.  Jack went to pour out two mugs  of  tea  and 
Rodney's gaze wandered round the interior of the workshop.  There were  TV's, 
video  recorders  and audio components everywhere.  Rodney was puzzled  by  a 
home-made  looking gadget with multi-coloured LED's.  Jack came back and  put 
the hot mugs of tea on the Pacman arcade machine which served as a table.
 'What's that?' asked Rodney, pointing at the home-made gadget.
 'That's a dry joint simulator.' answered Jack.
 'What's it for?' queried Rodney.
 'It's for testing dry joint testers.' said Jack.
 'Oh..., I see' said Rodney.
 Jack studied the dilithium crystal closely, not touching it. He noticed that 
the  crystal  was slightly different shades of green  at  opposite  ends.  He 
reached over for his new Fluke digital multimeter, switched it to voltage and 
carefully applied its probes to either end of the crystal.   'Hmmm,  thirteen 
point eight volts exactly...' he muttered. 'That's the same as you get from a 
car  battery.  I  wonder how much current this baby can  deliver...'  He  dug 
around  and  found an old car headlamp and wired it up to the  crystal  which 
he'd fitted in a battery holder.  The headlamp shone brightly.  Impressed  by 
this,  Jack  got  an  old  starter motor which still  had  its  heavy  cables 
attached.  The motor turned briskly.   'Good God!' gasped Jack, 'These things 
take hundreds of amps!'
 Rodney  handed  Jack the tattered copy of Alternative Electronics  and  said  
'Could you make one of these ...?',  pointing to the article.  'I want to  be 
able to zap those impersonal stereos on the bus.'
 Jack  said he'd give it a try and Rodney left.  A week later he returned  to 
see if Jack had made any progress.

 'It  works.'  Jack  confirmed.  'I used the enamelled  wire  from  this  old 
degaussing  coil,  and these S-correction capacitors to tune it to the  right 
frequency. See that loudspeaker over there; no wires connected. Now listen... 
I'll just turn the power up slightly.'
 Jack clicked the trigger switch and the speaker emitted a short sharp  high-
pitched  pulse  of sound.  'That's a sine wave at about ten  kilohertz'  Jack 
informed  Rodney.  Jack  fitted  the device into the body of  an  old  Weller 
soldering gun and presented it to Rodney.  'Just pull the trigger to activate 
it, keep this knob turned well to the left. You won't need much power just to 
make someone think their personal stereo is knackered.' advised Jack.
 'Didn't you need the booster amp then?' asked Rodney.
 'Just  the  output  chips' said Jack.  'You don't want to carry  a  big  box 
around,  do you?  The crystal is in the handle. There's no need for heatsinks 
as the power cuts off after a hundred milliseconds.'
 Rodney  was  very impressed and grateful and promised to  buy  a  secondhand 
microwave from Jack as soon as he got the bonus he was expecting.  He  caught 
the bus home but there were no passengers with personal stereos.

 Back in his flat he had a closer look at his new gadget.  It felt and looked 
rather  like a ray gun.  It was satisfyingly heavy and Rodney felt  strangely 
powerful holding it.  He kept the power turned low and clicked the trigger. A 
short  piercing  blast of noise came from the transistor radio at  the  other 
side of the room. He increased the power and tried it again. The speaker made 
the same noise but louder.  He tried it on the TV set and somehow managed  to 
make a purple blob in the corner of the screen.   It was later that day  that 
he  found  that his  databank calculator's LCD display had turned  black  all 
over.  He thought he'd save the lithium batteries and when he turned it  over 
he  saw  a  tiny label saying 'Made in Taiwan'.  The next time  he  tried  to 
withdraw cash he would find that he had also erased the magnetic strip on his 
Cashline card.

 When  Rodney got ready for work next day he put the gun in his coat  pocket. 
He  left  for  work at the usual time but had to run for the bus  as  it  was 
early, probably because it was a school holiday. He went upstairs and chose a 
seat near the back of the bus on the left. As the bus approached the next bus 
stop, Rodney could see Darren getting on, wearing his personal stereo. 'TSSHH 
-  TSSHH  -  TSSSHHH!' it went as Darren sat down several rows  in  front  of 
Rodney.
 Rodney  looked around at the other passengers and found that they  were  all 
apparently preoccupied.  Confident that nobody would know what he was up  to, 
he pulled the zapper out of his pocket, aimed it it the back of Darren's head 
and squeezed the trigger.  Sure enough, Rodney plainly heard a short pulse of 
high frequency sound.  Simultaneously, Darren gasped and yanked the earphones 
out of his ears.  Rodney slid the zapper back into his coat pocket and  tried 
not to smirk as he stared down at his knees.
 Darren was puzzled.  He unplugged the earphone jack and plugged it in again. 
He  whacked the personal stereo violently then shook it.  He re-inserted  the 
earphones  in  his  ears but with the volume turned  much  lower.  He  blamed 
'feedback'  for the painful blast of noise;  he'd heard feedback before  with 
rock groups.
 Rodney  was  satisfied.  He had punished the reprobate who had  invaded  his 
privacy  and  was  no  longer disturbed by the noise  of  'thrash  metal'  or 
whatever that so-called music was.

 Several  days  passed  and  Rodney's journeys  to  and  from  work  remained 
undisturbed.  Meanwhile Darren was looking for a new personal stereo. His old 
one  still  worked  but he'd been talking to his mate Drew  who  had  a  much 
fancier  personal stereo.  This one had light-action touch buttons,  a  radio 
with a tuning memory and a very impressive LCD display. Darren looked through 
his  mother's new Argos catalogue and saw the one he wanted.  It had all  the 
features  of  Drew's one but also had 'Mega Bass' and even a  remote  control 
built into the earphone cord. It was made in Taiwan.

 The  following Monday Rodney observed Darren boarding  the  bus.  'TSSZZ!  - 
TSSZZ! - TSSZZ!' went the earphones as Darren sat down only two rows in front 
of Rodney.  Darren admired the LCD display. When the machine was switched on, 
a  flickery  scrolling message appeared saying 'Conglations  on  owning  this 
Minimedia!  Pelsonar Sterio'.  He played with the sliders on the tiny  remote 
control and watched the bargraph display.   Rodney noticed one of his  fellow 
commuters grimace in discomfort at the invasive noise.
 'Right,  here  goes' thought Rodney.  He slipped the zapper out of his  coat 
pocket  and rested its business end on the back of the seat in front of  him. 
Failing to notice that the power control knob had somehow got turned right up 
to maximum,  he aimed at Darren and squeezed the trigger. A particularly loud 
pulse  of  high  frequency  noise,   followed  instantly  by  a  loud  'POP!' 
reverberated round the upper deck of the bus.  Darren wrenched the  earphones 
from  his ears and smoke was plainly visible,  curling out of  his  earringed 
ears.  He  was  in  considerable pain and was furious to find  that  the  LCD 
display  on  his pride and joy had turned  totally  black.  Furthermore,  the 
earphones had melted as their speech-coils had burned out.
 He  whipped  around in his seat and noticed that one of the  passengers  was 
smiling and looking across at Rodney. Darren turned further round in his seat 
and  saw a rather frightened-looking Rodney gazing unconvincingly out of  the 
window.  Darren stared at Rodney for a moment then turned round again, facing 
the  front of the bus.  Rodney's heart stopped pounding after a while and  he 
prayed that Darren didn't suspect him.  When the bus approached Q & B's  Mega 
Garden World, Rodney didn't notice Darren getting off the bus behind him.
 He was half way across the footbridge over the bypass when he felt a hand on 
his  shoulder.  He was turned violently around to find himself face  to  face 
with Darren.   Rodney looked in vain for help from other  pedestrians.  There 
was  no-one else on the footbridge,  and not likely to be until the next  bus 
came.
 'You  done  that!'  shouted Darren as he thrust  the  damaged  stereo  under 
Rodney's nose, 'Didn't ya!'
 'I beg your pardon...' responded Rodney.
 'You fucked my Walkman, you yuppy bastard' rasped Darren.
 'No I didn't' replied Rodney.
 'You  fucking-well did!' shouted Darren,  simultaneously smashing Rodney  in 
the  face  with the Walkman and kneeing him in the groin.  Rodney  fell  down 
amongst  the broken glass and litter on the footbridge,  doubled up in  pain. 
Then he blacked out.  He was only very vaguely aware that he was being bodily 
lifted into the air.  He thought it was a bad dream.  When he felt weightless 
he  knew it was a bad dream;  he'd had the same dream before - falling off  a 
cliff or a building and he knew he'd wake up,  just before he hit the ground. 
Only he never did hit the ground.
 Darren  had  heaved Rodney's semi-conscious body over  the  bridge  parapet, 
seemingly intent on murder.  By sheer chance one of Q & B's pickup trucks was 
passing under the bridge and Rodney landed on it, cushioned to some extent by 
the bags of peat on board.  The driver turned into the garden centre  unaware 
of what had happened. Darren ran back along the bridge and disappeared.

 Later  that morning the pickup driver found Rodney's body lying comatose  on 
the peat bags in his truck. The ambulance driver confirmed he was still alive 
(just)  and  raced  off to the hospital,  blue  lights  flashing  and  sirens 
wailing.  Rodney  was wheeled into Intensive Care and put on a  life  support 
machine.  He  was in a deep coma.  Consultants and nurses came and  went  but 
Rodney was unaware of all this.

 Days   passed  and  finally  he  began  to   approach   consciousness.   The 
electroencephalograph  indicated  increased brain  activity,  and  the  heart 
monitor showed a faster pulse.  He felt awful as he awoke and very cautiously 
opened his eyes a little. 'God, what a weird dream...' he thought. He thought 
he must have dreamt about dilithium crystals and the exploding microwave.  He 
sat up a little and rubbed his eyes. He focussed blearily on the life support 
machine,  which  he recognised as the type he once sold.  Loss of memory  had 
made him forget that he no longer sold medical equipment.  He was startled to 
find  that  this particular machine was connected to his body  by  wires  and 
plastic tubes. Had he woken up yet? He wasn't sure... He had experienced this 
feeling once before,  dreams within dreams,  when he'd been ill with  gastric 
flu. He flopped back onto his pillow and fell asleep again.
 His activity had been enough to trigger an alarm, however. A nurse came into 
his room,  made a brief phone call and a consultant arrived.  The nurse  gave 
him an injection and he woke up to see friendly concerned faces.
 'How are you, Rodney?' asked the nurse.
 'What happened?' asked Rodney.
 'You had an accident' said the consultant.
 'My microwave blew up' confirmed Rodney.
 'Your microwave blew up?' said the nurse and consultant in unison.
 'I  was  making dilithium crystals' explained Rodney.  'I sell these  for  a 
living' he added, pointing to the life support machine.
 The  nurse and consultant withdrew to the corner of the room  and  conferred 
before returning to Rodney's bedside.
 'Actually, old chap' said the consultant, 'you were found in the back of one 
of Q & B's pickup trucks.  That's who you work for. The police think you were 
thrown from the footbridge over the bypass.'
 Rodney remembered none of this.
 'OK,  you'd  better  go back to sleep now' said the nurse  and  gave  Rodney 
another injection.
 'Better  keep him hooked up to the hardware' advised the consultant  to  the 
nurse. 'He's not a well man.'

 Rodney  was  alone when he woke up again.  He felt confused  but  physically 
stronger.  He sat up on the edge of his bed,  taking care not to disturb  the 
tubes and cables attaching him to the machine.  Rodney had an amazing  memory 
for numbers and recognised the model number of the life support  machine.  He 
pulled one end of the trolley supporting it and had a peek round the back  of 
the machine.  He was slightly surprised to find that he had sold this  actual 
machine.  He  actually  remembered  the serial number -  but  still  couldn't 
remember much else, though.
 He pressed a buzzer and the nurse returned with the consultant.
 'We found this in your coat pocket' said the consultant. 
 'What is it? It looks like a soldering gun that's been modified.'
 Rodney remembered. 'It's a personal stereo zapper' he replied.
 'Really?' said the consultant. 'How does it work?'
 'You just point it and pull the trigger' Rodney answered.
 'Like this?' said the consultant,  not really believing Rodney and  pointing 
it at the life support machine.
 'No - Don't!' said Rodney,  but it was too late.  He saw sparks coming  from 
the  life support machine,  followed by a cloud of smoke and that was all  he 
saw.  He  passed out into a deep coma and dreamt more dreams  within  dreams. 
Eventually he awoke again to see a shiny new life support machine.  He didn't 
recognise this one;  it was a type he'd never seen before.  In one corner  he 
saw a label. It said 'Made in Taiwan ROC'.


= THE MAO-KAO HOLY WARS =====================================================
 by Roy Stead


 The  war  raged on for many centuries,  a tide of desolation  engulfing  the 
ravaged plains of the Taims's home planet.
 No single Taim was *quite* sure how the War had started, nor precisely *why* 
the two religious factions - Mao and Kao - had found themselves locked into a 
life-or-death struggle with each other.  Each faction, after all, was equally 
as holy as the other, and their religious and social beliefs were identical - 
each revering the near-legendary Mother of their races, known only to them as 
Homet, the Holy Mother.
 But fight they did, and a bloody fight it was.
 Our tale begins as the Mao sect all but faces extinction at the hands of the 
Holy Kaos,  and prepares for one last attempt to save their threatened race - 
the leaders of the Mao are trying to contact their worshipful Mother, Homet.
 "And *I* say that Mother Homet is best reached using the Rite of The  Unborn 
Calf!"  shrieks the leader of the Taimish Mao sect,  "So let us  attempt  the 
ceremony."
 Unconvinced, but with no better ideas, the Maoish priests gather into a huge 
circle,  better  to  perform the Rite of The Unborn  Calf.  The  incantations 
begin, a low chanting providing the backdrop to the bizarre actions performed 
within  the circle.  Slowly,  a blurred window appears in the circle,  and  a 
wizened face comes into sharp focus within that window. The Holy Mother!
 "Please,  oh Mother of Our Race,  come to aid us in our need," requests  the 
High Priest. All fall silent as the revered Mother speaks.
 "This is Mother Homet. I'm afraid that I'm not in just now, but if you would 
care  to  leave a message after the burst of heavenly  music...*CLICK*  Sorry 
about that - Hello? This is Mother Homet, I'm afraid that I cannot be seen to 
show any preferential treatment towards any of my children.  However,  if you 
would care to visit me,  then maybe we can work something out.  Sorry -  must 
dash, I've left the iron on...*CLICK*"
 The window disappears,  the chanting ceases,  all is quiet.  The priests and 
congregation turn to face their leader: "What are we to do?"
 "Well," says the leader,  "If Ma Homet won't come to the Mao Taims, then the 
Mao Taims must go to Ma Homet..."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Roy Stead is a major force in fourth world metaphysics research,  holding  - 
as he does - a masters degree in Pan-dimensional psycho-dynamics.  There  is, 
unfortunately,  some debate as to whether such a degree exists,  but - in the 
words  of  a  small,  pink  pussycat which  Mr  Stead  encountered  one  day, 
"Miaaaoooow..."

 Mr  Stead's solicitors have asked me to add that the small,  pink  pussycat, 
mentioned above,  could - no doubt - have written the story attributed to  Mr 
Stead, had the feline not had other, more pressing engagements.


= SPEEDBALL II ==============================================================
 by Richard Karsmakers


 His  wet  footsteps echoed slowly through the darkness of the  night  as  if 
subconsciously trying to fence off invisible threats. Slow and deliberate his 
steps sounded, as if he was heading for somewhere specific where no person in 
the world could talk him out of.
 Little  pairs of lights gleamed in various corners of the alley.  Red  ones, 
green ones, purple ones, eyeing Warchild with attention as if waiting for the 
grim  certainty  in  the wet thuds to disappear,  waiting  for  a  moment  of 
hesitation so their owners could strike with lethal accuracy.
 A  sudden flash,  like some large metal thing catching the light of a  great 
sun  for  a moment,  blinded the mercenary annex hired gun for  a  couple  of 
dangerous seconds. He rubbed his eyes in mute frustration. Damn! His built-in 
reflexes were slowing down.  His head ached.  He must be getting old.  Tired. 
Battered.  In other words,  he was more likely to die. The little lights, the 
gleaming eyes, gained on him.
 Then followed the sound of thunder.
 Warchild staggered,  nearly fell.  He took hold of his ears,  trying to shut 
them off from the rolling sound that seemed to echoe through his very body  - 
but too late.
 He was sent reeling,  staggering against a wet wall, slipping, falling. This 
was what the eyes had been waiting for. They closed in on their prey.

 It is believed that the future will see weather control.
 Hardly so.
 For years meteorologists from all over the world have tried to gain  control 
over rain and sun, clouds and winds. Apart from developing new ways of moving 
their  hands  when  forecasting the weather on TV they  have  not  made  much 
progress.

 When  Warchild  woke up he felt wet throughout.  A  sad,  miserable  drizzle 
descended upon his head and the rest of his body. The rain echoed through the 
streets,  dripped  off walls,  fell in ever deepening puddles,  made  clogged 
sewers burst.
 When  Cronos had stopped discovering the wetness that seemed to envelop  his 
body  like  a cold blanket,  he started to notice that he was  entirely  (and 
quite  offensively)  nude.  He was starting to make a bad  habit  of  getting 
mugged all the time. This particular time it had reached an all-time high (or 
low) by leaving him without any of his clothes - let alone his killer gadgets 
and,  indeed, his American Express Traveller's Cheques. The dark alley seemed 
even  darker than before.  If its wet,  dark walls could have laughed at  the 
ridiculity  of  the mercenary annex hired gun's situation  at  present,  they 
would no doubt have done so quite enthusiastically.
 When  Warchild stopped noticing his rather disgraceful nudity he saw  a  man 
standing before him.
 The  man  was eyeing him suspiciously,  the expression in his  face  showing 
doubt  as  to whether perhaps this offensive piece of human  wastage  he  was 
eyeing should be accordingly dealt with or perhaps not.  The rather  resolute 
way in which this man eventually took a pair of handcuffs showed that he  had 
made up his mind. Cronos, who was desperately trying to hide some of the more 
private parts of his anatomy, was roughly pulled off into a van that had blue 
flashing lights strategically positioned on its roof.

 The  only good thing about the cell he found himself in after a  rough  half 
hour of being transported and manhandled was the fact that it was dry.  Fungi 
stained the wall in colours he had never considered his eyes capable of  ever 
seeing.  Assorted smells arising from an improvised chemical toilet invoked a 
likewise  experience  on his nostrils.  The rain pelted viciously  against  a 
barred window.
 He  vouched to subject himself to another commando training when - if  -  he 
would get out of this mess.  Thank God one of the police officers had had the 
decency to hand him an improvised set of clothes.  Although he hated stripes, 
it beat hell out of the sortof-pink-with-tufts-of-hair-here-'n'-there look.
 Before he could start thinking further about his present situation, he heard 
booted footsteps closing in through the corridor outside.  The person  halted 
before  Cronos' cell door.  There was a short sound of keys and a  couple  of 
clicks. The door was being opened and in stepped an officer with a pencil and 
a piece of paper.
 "Warchild? Cronos Jehannum Warchild?"
 The mercenary annex hired gun considered it decent to nod, which he did.
 "Come with me," the man said,  "you have been selected." The voice seemed to 
carry with it a tone of sympathy.

 An  eerie sense of deja vu struck him when he was handed a metallic  uniform 
and  a helmet the likes of which he vaguely recalled having seen on  some  US 
television  network back on earth.  He seemed constantly to get  mugged,  and 
equally constantly he seemed to end up in some kind of underground game  that 
involved lots of aggression. Would he get out of this new ordeal unscathed?
 After he had put on the padded uniform and helmet,  a sturdy looking officer 
led him into a van.  In the van sat several people whom he first mistook  for 
himself.  They were all fairly rugged looking,  wearing that typical metallic 
uniform  and,  indeed,  the helmet that was obviously designed to supply  the 
face  with  some  rudimentary protection against things the  wearer  of  said 
helmet would rather not think of.
 He was the last one to get in the van. The door through which he had entered 
was closed and locked. The van set itself into motion.
 As  soon  as  the  van left the building in which  Warchild  had  been  held 
prisoner,  the clamour of a busy city surrounded him and the other  convicts. 
He peeked outside through the barred windows and saw sushi  parlours,  people 
huddled in raincoats,  cars flying to and fro through the air, huge Coca Cola 
adverts  illuminating entire office blocks.  The rain did not seem to  affect 
dayly  life  of  whatever  city he was in - it seemed  *part*  of  the  city, 
something without which it and its inhabitants would cease to be.
 After  about  half an hour's drive,  the van turned onto a  long  lane  that 
looked  like  the driveway to a huge,  almost ill-matching  arena  as  though 
teleported directly from ancient Rome. Warchild saw the building's huge shape 
at  the  horizon getting more immense as the van closed in on  the  structure 
that lay silently, almost as if lurking, grotesque amongst its surroundings.
 "That's  it," one of his fellows in distress muttered,  his  voice  carrying 
awe, "the arena."
 "Speedball," another man said, his voice shivering with fear.
 "Death," yet another spoke solemnly.
 There  was  a dramatic silence that lasted long seconds that crept  by  like 
extremely ordinary and not very heroic turtles with a nourishment deficiency.
 Cronos felt a most peculiar sensation. He felt as if he was waking up from a 
long,  detestingly boring sleep. Now he was enveloped by reality - reality of 
life and death.
 "*Certain* death," the man next to Cronos said, swallowing something.
 "Horrible  death.  Slow  and agonising.  Excruciatingly  painful,"  the  man 
closest to the locked door whispered,  "a way to die I would not wish upon my 
worst enemy."
 "Sounds like heaps of fun," Cronos said,  causing the others to look at  him 
in surprise,  "as a matter of fact I believe this might very well be the best 
day in my life ever since...since..."
 The others were listening intently.  What horrendous things had this obvious 
barbarian been through, in heaven's name? This poor man should be pitied!
 Another couple of seconds crept by, like dead tortoises.
 "Well,  I  dunno,  really," Cronos said finally.  He had never been good  at 
memorising events.  He *did* have a fleeting sensation of a crushing pain  in 
his groin for a moment.  Luckily,  it quickly disappeared like breath in  the 
wind.
 When the van finally stopped at the arena's back entrance, about a dozen men 
stepped out of it.  All of them looked beaten,  ill, sad, as if they expected 
the scythe of death to take them there and then. All of them, that is, except 
for  one  that strode proudly,  his senses aware of  everything  around  him, 
adrenalin leaping through his veins. An almost insane smile lay frozen on his 
lips.
 In his mind he read next day's headlines.

 Original  written  April and May 1992.  Rehashes so little  that  you  can't 
really call it a rehash at all, May 12th 1995.


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


 The next issue of "Twilight World", Volume 3 Issue 4, is to be released mid 
July 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...

 CRONOS WARCHILD VERSUS FAM
 by Martijn Wiedijk

 CRONOS IN WONDERLAND
 by Richard Karsmakers (a story that will burst the seams of "Twilight World" 
  a bit)

 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!

 OTHER ON-LINE MAGAZINES

 INTERTEXT  is an electronically-distributed fiction magazine  which  reaches 
over  a thousand readers on five continents.  It publishes fiction  from  all 
genres, from "mainstream" to Science Fiction, and everywhere in between.
 It  is published in both ASCII and PostScript (laser  printer)  formats.  To 
subscribe,  send mail to jsnell@ocf.berkeley.edu.  Back issues are  available 
via anonymous FTP at network.ucsd.edu.

 CYBERSPACE VANGUARD:  News and Views of the SciFi and Fantasy Universe is an 
approximately  bimonthly  magazine  of news,  articles  and  interviews  from 
science  fiction,   fantasy,   comics  and  animation  (you  get  the  idea). 
Subscriptions are available from cn577@cleveland.freenet.edu.
 Writers contact xx133@cleveland.freenet.edu. Back issues are availabe by FTP 
from etext.archive.umich.edu.

 THE UNIT CIRCLE is an original on-line and paper magazine of new art, music, 
literature and alternative commentary.  On-line issues are available via  the 
Unit Circle WWW home page: ftp://ftp.netcom.com/pub/unitcirc/unit_circle.html
 You can also contact the Unit Circle via e-mail at zine@unitcircle.org.

 Fantasy  fans  might want to read the first chapter  of  "FOOLS  ERRANT",  a 
satirical picaresque -- a little like Gulliver meets Nasruddin, as related by 
P.G.  Wodehouse.  Only  available  in  Canada as yet.  It's  located  at  URL 
http://www.ark.com/mhughes/fools_errant.html.

 YOU WANT YOUR MAGAZINE BLURB HERE?  Mail me a short description,  no  longer 
than  6 lines with a length of 77 characters maximum.  No  logos  please.  In 
exchange, please contain in your mag a "Twilight World" blurb (like the first 
paragraph of "DESCRIPTION", above). Hail!

 EOF