The 640 MEG Shareware Studio 2/The 640 Meg Shareware Studio CD-ROM Volume II (Data Express)(1993).ISO/info/sanity8.zip/SANITY8.TXT

Text File | 1992-05-15 | 26KB | 589 lines

                               Boundaries of Sanity
                              ======================
                                    (C) 1992
                                  Aaron Turpen

                                   Issue #: 8
                                   Edited by:
                                  Aaron Turpen
                                 (AKA Thanatos)
                                    Released:
                                    05/15/92




What's In Here:
===============
1. Special Thanks
     Suck ups where suck ups are deserved.
2. The Editor's Soapbox
     So overly interesting, you can't miss it!
3. Feature Story #1: Harold Et Al.
     A universal phenomenon explained...
4. Feature Poem #1: Alive in Death
     With death comes new life.
5. Feature Poem #2: You Are Afraid of Becoming
     Weirdly trippy poem of spirit.
6. Feature Story #2: An Execution of Power
     A psychotic attempts the unattemptable...
7. Back From the Brink
     Answers for the insane and bent minded.
8. Feature Poem #3:
9. Feature Story #3: Musical Trains
     An ordinary man meets the extraordinary on a train to New York.
10.About the Literature
     An explaination of the authors in this issue.



Special Thanks:
===============
     Hmmm...Well, in this issue I think I'd like to thank all the people who
keep hounding me to get these issues done.  Basically, all my "fans," I
suppose.  Without them, I don't think I'd have much  reason to be putting
this magazine together.  I'd especially like to thank those devoted annoyers
(and I love them so) Andrew Frederico and Mike White, who's constant reminders
and questions are what keep me reminded that these issues are due out.  As we
all know, I'm a rather lazy person and I don't get much accomplished if
someone doesn't give me some incentive to do it.  These two are some of the
more dedicated incentive givers.
     I'd also like to thank the makers of Kool-Aid, who've kept me from my
usual heavy dosages of caffeine this week.

--Aaron Turpen


The Editor's Soapbox:
=====================
     Since I'm tired of hearing of the L.A. riots (not that it isn't important
but simply because I'm tired of hearing of it), I won't force my opinions on
that matter.  Instead, I think I'll skip the editorial part and just announce
a few happenings here at the Boundaries of Sanity.
     First of all, we are now an official member of the Disktop Publishing
Association.  The DPA is a group based in Birmingham, Alabama which promotes
paperless publishing.  Such ilustrious paperless magazines as Ruby's Pearls
are members of this group.  The DPA's support BBS in Birmingham will have all
of the issues of The Boundaries of Sanity as they are available.  The number
there is [phone] (12-9600bps, 24-hours, 8/N/1).
     Secondly, we will hopefully have, starting next month, a regular install-
ment from the owner of the Captain Salamander comic book store in Provo, Utah.
He will speak about whatever he deems important--such as upcoming attractions
at Captain Salamander's, what's new in the world of comic books, etc.  Also,
he has mentioned setting up a BBS in conjunction with his store!  So watch
for it.
     This issue is rather small and doesn't have as much as previous issues
(if you've noticed yet that there isn't a puzzle this month and only three
poems), I promise that next month's will be MUCH better.  I've got some big
plans for changes and additions.  So don't get too depressed, heh heh.



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HAROLD ET AL.
=============
(C) 1992 William J. Slattery

      It began in an apartment complex on the east
side and it started in the usual way with a small
hole, a hole the size of a pin prick, you could hardly
see it, just in the center of the flare on the left
nostril of the nose of a man named Harold.  That was
Tuesday, just yesterday.  Harold, with a towel around
his waist, was shaving when he first saw it.
      "Tilly, come in here a sec,"  Harold called to
his wife.
      Tilly came into the bathroom.  Harold stood in
front of the mirror just as he did every weekday
morning.
      "Look at this," he said.
      Tilly looked where he pointed.  He pointed to
the tiny hole in his nose.
      "It goes all the way through," he said.  "Look,"
he said, lifting his chin so Tilly could see up into
his nose.
      Tilly peered inside.
      "Yep," Tilly said, wonderingly.  "So it does."
      As Tilly gazed into the nostril, the minuscule
hole widened.  She couldn't be sure, but she thought
she saw two tiny hands reach out of the hole and
stretch it.
      Far out, she thought.  Like something in a Bugs
Bunny cartoon.
      In a twinkling Tilly became surer of what she
was seeing.  In fact she became absolutely sure of
what she was seeing.  Things were happening in
Harold's nose and they were happening fast.  This was
not a cartoon she was looking at.  This was real.
      The hole rapidly stretched from the size of pin
point to the size of a pin head.  Then it doubled to
almost the size of a pencil eraser.  It doubled again
to the size of a dime, then a fifty- cent piece, then
a silver dollar.
      The hands were quite visible now.  Tilly could
see details.  The hands were hairy.  The fingernails
were bloodied.  They tore at Harold's flesh in a mad
blood-misted frenzy, ripping the hole wider and wider,
furiouser and furiouser the hands flew.
      Understandably enough, Harold was screaming.
      The creature had now devoured his nose, then the
side of his face, then his entire head, the hole and
the ripping hands becoming larger with each passing
second, the hands now seen as attached to wrists, the
wrists to forearms, now a shoulder was forcing its way
through the hole like a man climbing out of an open
man hole, Harold's entire upper body now was one
jagged rip, a face was now becoming visible in the
hole, leering through the irregular, quickly changing
wound.  It was Harold's face somehow, a fractal
Harold-face, perhaps, but hairy and primitive and
spooky-looking like Michael Landon in that werewolf
movie, the old Harold, what was left of him, now
reduced to a lower torso that was rapidly being con-
sumed by the ravening hole-creature, and, finally, an
entirely new Harold climbed out of the wet and bloody
hole that had been the original Harold.
      Thupppp!  And Harold was gone.  All that
remained of the poor man was a puddle and the towel.
      Not a nice picture at all, I assure you.
      In the space of perhaps a minute-and-a-quarter,
Harold was gone and this new creature stood naked in
front of the mirror.
      The creature's chest heaved, its hands hung at
its sides, dripping reddish green.
      The new Harold, if that's how you'd describe it,
looked in the mirror and saw itself.  It recoiled in
horror.  It sprang away from its terrible reflection
and collided with Tilly.
      Tilly had been watching Harold disappear.  Once
or twice she offered comments.  First she said,
"Awesome."  Then she whispered "Holy Toledo."  Then
she hollered.
      The creature's lips drew back from its red
teeth.  Its eyes widened.  It focussed on Tilly and
sank its fangs into her neck.  It paused and savored
the taste.  It smacked its bloody, rubbery lips and in
a sucking, crunching moment Tilly was consumed.
      "Oh my gosh," was the last thing she said.
      The hairy creature was now the size of Harold
plus Tilly, which is to say it stood about nine feet
tall and weighed about three hundred pounds.
      Harold&Tilly or whatever you want to call it,
lurched from the bathroom into the hallway leading to
the living room.  George, the family dog, a russet
cocker spaniel, spied it.  George barked and the
creature ate him in a gulp and promptly grew another
inch and put on thirty-six pounds.
      In the next few minutes, every living animal,
human and otherwise, in the entire apartment complex
had been consumed.  That included several goldfish, an
assortment of tetras, some canaries and a budgie, a
python, a large pack of dogs and a pride of cats.
Cockroaches and rats, too, of course.  The Har-
old&Tilly&George&et alia thing now had a name some two
hundred ampersands long and Harold&Tilly&George&-
Etcetera weighed several tons.
      By nine, Murray Hill was without animal life.
By ten, the entire city was zoologically destitute.
      By mid-afternoon the North American continent
was without any form of animal life.  By supper the
creature had run out of animal stuff to eat, having
eaten all the mammals and amphibians and reptiles, all
the fishes and all the bugs and insects and birds that
existed in the whole world.
      The creature became a vegetarian for the few
hours when vegetation became all there was left to
eat.
      By the time the afternoon soaps normally would
have been over, all vegetation on the planet was gone.
So were the microbes and viruses and bacteria and the
planet was entirely devoid of life.
      By the time the six o'clock news would have been
over, the creature had drunk up the oceans and was now
munching its way through what was left of the world,
devouring rocks and mountain ranges, gulping down
deserts and canyons and whatever else it could find,
and by the time most people usually settled in to
watch an evening of TV or read the papers, the entire
globe had disappeared into the maw of the creature,
and it stood in space, suspended and alone where Earth
had been before.
      It orbited the sun, slowly rotating.  It
scratched itself, burped, and looked about, this way
and that, for something more to eat.
      The creature saw movement over its left
shoulder.  What it saw was its own shadow on the face
of the moon.  It reached out and grasped...
      Well, you can imagine the rest.
      I have no idea what causes this.  Every fifteen
billion years or so, regularly like clockwork, this
happens.  It's always the same.  As you would expect,
the whole business gets boring after the first few
times, like a familiar disaster movie, but there is,
apparently, nothing I can do about it.  There is no
shut-off switch, no fast forward.  The whole
production is quite beyond my control.  Or My control,
if you prefer.





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Alive In Death
==============
(C) 1992 Aaron Turpen

Twenty years to my name:
Aged am I, Old and decrepit.
Nothing to keep but shame.
No past to remember,
Not much future left.
Things only crush to a droop
Nothing will me heft.

I am withdrawing inward
Searching for something
That looks remotely skyward.
But nothing presents
Any hope for my distress
I find myself sucking
A black hole does press
As I am pulled into myself.

Blankness is my form,
Moving, shadowy, black;
My soul forever torn.
I swell, then shrink.
What is there for me,
As my body dies,
But this greatest agony?
I will never be.

I hold my breath,
Waiting for the moment
In when will come Death;
With his white steed
Bearing peace, contentment,
And best of all
No more forced endurement.
I will be alive!







You Are Afriad of Becoming
==========================
by Mike Omputter

YOU ARE AFRIAD OF BECOMING
THE VISITING CLOWNS WHO DREAM OF FAME
NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO
EVEN YOU GET INTO THE RHYTHM
BUT YOU QUIT WHEN YOU DISCOVER
THAT YOU STILL HAVE FREE WILL



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An Execution of Power
=====================
(C) 1992 Aaron Turpen

     The scratching sound of his dinner tray sliding under the cell
door stopped.  Clive turned to look to the floor from his bed,
remembering that he had heard the same sound the day it all
began...

     He had been preparing for his day of becoming for months now.
His two uzi 9mm rifles were cleaned, loaded, and ready.  The clips
that fit inside them were taped together in twos, backwards from each
other to allow for easy re-loading.  He had six in all, one for
each gun and one extra.  All were loaded and ready for the work
which he had planned.  He had his black leather jacket oiled and
shining, his long hair was pulled back into a pony-tail, but with
only a small rubberband holding it, so he could easily break it
loose and let his hair flow freely around his head.  His body was
finely toned and conditioned, muscles not protruding, but not
missing either.  His dark eyes glared out from under heavy
eyebrows, alert and steely.  He was ready.
     That night, at precisely eight o'clock, he arrived at the
mall.  Hiding the two guns underneath his jacket, in special
pockets he'd made for them, he buttoned the bottom half of his
jacket closed and walked in through the front entrance.  Walking to
the center court of the mall, he sat on a bench in the middle of
the clearing, where he could see all around him and where nothing
blocked his way.  He waited.  The stage was set up on his left,
microphones and amps all positioned and ready for the upcoming
show.
     At 8:30, a man walked up on the stage and announced, "The
Yuletide Yodelers will begin their presentation for you in about
five minutes.  If everyone could please find a seat, we will begin
as soon as we can."
     People began milling about, coming from seemingly nowhere,
some sitting, others standing.  Most watching the stage.  Clive sat
in the middle of the people, a grin appearing across his face.
     He would have a good gathering tonight.  Each soul would feed
his until his power grew enough that he could become that which he
had been born to be.  He had prepared for many days for only this
one event.  The time was almost near when he would be what his
destiny wanted him to be.
     At 8:45 P.M. on Friday, June 16, there was a large crowd of
people filling the center court of the Hampshire Mall in Jinsville,
North Carolina.  In the center of the crowd was Clive Derrig,
bearing two uzi sub-machine guns, fully loaded.
     He stood, pulling the guns from their resting places in his
coat, and pulled the triggers, spraying bullets through the crowd.
Several people screamed, many ran, most fell, hit by a bullet or
two.  One man, who was unfortunate enough to be standing right next
to Clive, was almost split in two by bullets as he spun from the
impact.
     Blood spurted, screams emitted, muffs of bullets muffed into
flesh , the hammers pinged on the shell primers, air heated and cooled
as fire blasted from the end of the muzzles, the defiance sounded
heavily from his lungs, the bullets whistled, ricocheting off of
various pieces of concrete and metal all around him.
     This was the extent of Clive Derrig's experience for four full
minutes as he unloaded almost a thousand shells in the Hampshire Mall's
Center Court, killing nearly fifty men, women and children.
     When he stopped firing, because he was out of ammunition, not
because he was finished shooting, there was not a person standing
in the room.  He alone stood in the center of a sea of blood and
bodies.  Even the microphones and amps had been knocked over with
the force of bullets tormenting them.
     He fell to his knees, the power of the becoming taking
force.  The life-forces of all those he had killed were
meshing with this own, creating a great and powerful light.  It
would take years for his soul to grow to its proper strength, but
he would have time.
     When the police arrived, all they found was a lot of gunsmoke,
piles of dead people, and a man in a leather jacket lying face down
in the middle of it all, two uzi 9mm rifles lying next to his
unconcious body.
     Clive awoke to the sound of a tray scraping through bars into
the cell he had been placed in.  It was his dinner...

     Countless judges had found him guilty, but he hadn't pleaded
anything but guilty since the beginning.  His lawyer was merely
there to tell them in legal terms what he was telling them in his
own words:  "I'm guilty; execute me."  Clive needed to die.  The
next step in the becoming was to die and therefore be reborn.  His
soul would become pure energy and he would achieve ultimate power.
But first he must shed his mortal body.
     His day of execution was only a week away.  He would die by
electric chair, another part of his becoming.  The electricity
would help his soul to stay strong enough to withstand the jolt of
its body being taken away.  Everything was destined and everything
would happen according to destiny.  He was sure of that.
     Clive had refused a priest, but had requested a platter of
oranges for his last supper.  The citric acid in the oranges would
aid the electricity in flowing with his body.  Ultimacy would be
his.

     They had shaved his head earlier.  Now, bald and grinning, he
was led to the execution chamber.  He looked at the crowd around
him.  Guards were on every corner.
     They sat him down in the chair and strapped the leather
bondings to him, holding him in.  They put the black bag over his
head and put the helmet over his baldness, tightening the chin
strap to hold it on.  He was ready.  The oranges he had eaten were
gurgling in his stomach.  He knew they were awaiting the surge they
were destined to feel.
     Suddenly, the electricity surged through him.  He felt his
body tighten, but not through normal senses.  He felt it as though
it were a dream.  Then, before he knew it was there, a bright light
flashed and he was above his body, watching it gyrate and flex.  It
stopped and a man with a stethoscope moved over and felt for a
pulse.  He shook his head back and forth, saying no.  Clive yelled
in triumph.  He was dead!
     Suddenly, there was a tap on his shoulder.  He turned and saw
the hand of God pointing a finger at him.






Back From the Brink
===================
     Here's the answers to the riddles from last month's issue:
Riddle:

Can you draw the shape below without ever lifting your pencil,
backtracking, or going over any lines twice?

        /\
       /  \
      /----\
     /|\  /|\
    / | \/ | \
    \ | /\ | /
     \|/  \|/
      \----/
       \  /
        \/

by Woody Thrower

Answer: No.  It is impossible.  I bet this pisses a few people off!



POEM #3
=======
by


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Musical Trains
==============
(C) 1992 Kevin Francis

                A special thanks goes to Thanatos

     The rain pelted the smooth concrete surface of the train
waiting area.  Ken stood ready to journey to his mother's home in
New York City, a mere half hour train ride from his current
position in Albany.  He remembered his mother's smooth skin.  He
used to caress it with the back of his hand when he was young.
Finally, he was going to meet her after five years alone.
     The conductor yelled, "All aboard!" and he made his way to
the nearest door in the long line of cars which stretched for
yards in both directions.  "Ticket, please," the well dressed man
asked.
     "Huh?" Ken absent-mindedly answered.  He popped back into
reality from the depths of his thoughts and anxieties.  "Oh,
yeah, right," he replied, handing his wrinkled ticket to the
conductor.
     "Last door on the left of this car," the conductor directed
him.
     Ken walked down the dimly lit passageway and opened the door
to find another passenger in the same cabin waiting for the train
to start moving again.  He moved over to the opposite side of the
cabin and set his baggage on the seat next to him.
     "Hello, sir, Where you off to?" asked the man seated across
from him.  His face contorted as if he were trying to remember
some interesting fact, but relaxed as if dismissing it.
     "New York City," he replied.  "Hi, I'm Ken Smith," he
reached over and shook hands with him.  "I'm going to visit my
mother."
     "Dave Bronton.  I'm off to an art exhibition a couple miles
outside of New York City," the man casually replied, looking out
his window.  Silence made the words echo in his mind.
     "Oh, nice to meet you," Ken replied.  He was a little
reserved about getting to be friends with someone he would never
see again after a half an hour, but he felt strangely drawn
toward the man.  He couldn't help but talk to him and find out as
much as he could about him.  "Besides, if we meet again, I'll
have a friend.  New York City couldn't be too big of a place," he
rationalized to himself.
     The time seemed like days and his new friend seemed to be
full of conversation and knowledge about the field of art.
Everything David said to him echoed over and over in his mind as
if he were subconsciously trying to memorize the words as they
floated by his ears.
     "So, what do you do for a living, Ken?" David asked.
     "I'm a salesclerk at a grocery store," he replied.  "I don't
get paid much, but at least I can keep a roof over my head."
     "Yeah, sometimes life can be like that," the strange man
replied.  He seemed to be reflecting on days long past that Ken
could tell were very vivid ones.  He started to fall forward.
     "Are you alright?" Ken hurriedly asked.
     "Yeah, I'm fine.  I've just been on this train for a long
time.  I almost fell asleep," he said.  He opened his eyes wide
to keep his lids from coming together.  "I only have to be on
here for a half hour, but for some reason I'm so tired I think
I'll take a nap," Dave said as he laid down and fell asleep.
     Ken pondered the man's placid way of sleeping.  He couldn't
even tell David was breathing.  He suddenly realized that he
hadn't even looked at anything in the cabin because he was so
interested in the conversation he was having before.  He looked
around and noticed that David had a briefcase which had a few
strange designs carved into the cover.  "Hmm," he said, "that's
an interesting briefcase.  I guess he must have had it
professionally done, because it looks very well made."
     "Take it," a voice whispered in his mind.  Ken was startled
by it and wondered where it came from.  He focused on remembering
it and realized that it came from the briefcase.  Not being able
to resist a sudden urge to look inside, he bent over and opened
the briefcase to find a bright light.  Dazzled, he couldn't do
anything but stare in wonder.
     When he finally snapped out of it, he looked up to find an
empty cabin from almost the same perspective he estimated someone
else would have seen it.  He thought about this and couldn't
remember who this someone else was and dismissed it as something
from an old dream.
     The door next to him opened and he looked up to find the
face of an older woman with a smooth, round face coming in the
cabin door.  She walked in and moved to the other side of the
cabin, putting her baggage down next to her.  "Hello, miss.
Where are you off to?" he asked, the words seeming vaguely
familiar, as if he had heard them many times before.
     "Albany," she replied, "Hi, I'm Doris Smith."  She reached
over and shook hands with him.  "I'm going to visit my son."
     "Dave Bronton.  I'm off to an art exhibition a couple miles
outside of Albany," he casually replied and looked out the
window.  The words were familiar, and yet he didn't know where
they came from, and therefore directed his thoughts to the
countryside swiftly passing by outside.  He was a slight bit sleepy.




About The Literature:
=====================
     "Hardol Et Al." was written by William J. Slattery, who appeared in
last month's issue (#7) with "The Thousand Dollar Breasts."  We're all
very grateful he's giving us such GREAT stuff to read!  Mr. Slattery
witholds all rights to his work.
     "Alive In Death" was authored by the editor, Aaron Turpen, and is
copyrighted 1992.
     "You Are Afraid of Becoming" was written by Mike Omputter who has
appeared in several past issues with his unique brand of poetry.  He has
dubbed all of his work public domain and claims no rights over it.
     "An Execution of Power" was also written by the editor, Aaron Turpen,
and he witholds all rights to this work as well.
     "Musical Trains" is another story from our long-time contributor,
Kevin Francis, who has appeared in almost every past issue of The Boundaries
of Sanity with various short stories and poetry.  He witholds all rights to
his work.