Floppyshop 2/Floppyshop - 2.zip/Floppyshop - 2.iso/diskmags/5791-.end/dmg-5874/twi_4_4.txt

Text File | 1997-01-08 | 65KB | 1,083 lines

= TWILIGHT WORLD - Volume 4 Issue 4 (July 28th 1996) ========================


 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.  It  is  also
uncensored. Ban any sites/servers/people that hinder freedom of speech!
 Please refer to the end of this file for further information.


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


 EDITORIAL
 by Richard Karsmakers

 THE ASSASSINS
 by Guilford Barton

 FLYING SHARK
 by Stefan Posthuma

 SELECTOR FILE ABSURD
 by Richard Karsmakers

 GAUNTLET II
 by Richard Karsmakers

 BARBARIAN II
 by Stefan Posthuma


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

 A  new  era of "Twilight World" is upon us.  The most important  thing  that
changes is that it will no longer be released every two months.  As a  matter
of  fact,  it  will only be released again when the total amount  of  stories
ready to be published amounts to around a 100 Kb. As it is, I have run out of
readily usable stories; my own store of stuff written in the past 10 years or
so  - as well as that of other stuff written for the "Twilight World"  mother
magazine,  "ST  News"  - has run dry.  This won't mean the end  of  "Twilight
World",  for I think that would be a shame.  No,  it just means that it  will
only  appear a few times per year,  at least if things continue the way  they
do.  This issue is,  therefore,  a bit less bulky than usual.  Make the  next
issues bulky again and submit a good story!
 Secondly, the future of "Twilight World" on the Internet has been secured. I
now have a private email account which is on a commercial Internet  provider.
So you might check the tail of this document to find the new details.
 As it is,  this issue is already late. I've been busy with my teacher course
and time has been precious indeed.  So without the proverbial further ado I'd
like  to wish you the best holiday you can possibly have,  a successful  next
academic year (if applicable), and fun reading!
 And remember...spread the word...*and* the file!


 Richard Karsmakers
 (Editor)


= THE ASSASSINS =============================================================
 by Guilford Barton ([e-mail])


 I  know  who killed John F.  Kennedy.  You all can  embrace  the  conspiracy
theories if you wish.  Cling fast to Castro and his band of not-so-merry men.
Hold the CIA close to your quivering heart.  Keep one eye open for  Russians,
the Mafia, the second gunman, or even the mysterious man with the umbrella if
it helps you sleep a little more soundly. But I was there. I saw him pull the
trigger.
 I know who did it, it was Corky.

 I  was eight years old when my family made its annual pilgrimage to  Florida
in  the  fall of 1963.  My younger brother and I endured the long  trek  from
Michigan  while lying prone in the rear of our old station wagon.  Dad  would
fold down the back seat and toss in a pile of blankets,  while mom filled the
remaining void with toys and food and comic books and any other tranquilizing
materials  she could lay her hands on.  Lord knows what they  were  thinking.
Granted, this was long before the days of mandatory seat belts, but it didn't
take a physics degree to realize what would have happened to us in the  event
of an accident --launched through the windshield like a pair of missiles clad
in cut-offs and matching Beanie and Cecil T-shirts.
 We entered Miami Beach the same way we always did, from the north end of its
magical  strip  which allowed for a ceremonial procession past  those  fabled
icons of tourism:  The Shellborne,  The Fountain Blue,  The Desert  Inn,  The
Surfcomber,  The  Dunes,  The  Castaways;  each with its own  aura,  its  own
distinct  gaudiness,  its own devoted clientele.  Our loyalty belonged  to  a
motel  called The Aztec,  a rambling stucco beast that squatted close to  the
water's edge.
 Apparently  the brutal laws of nature also had applications in the world  of
hostelry,  for each year we returned to find that the beast had extended  its
lair by devouring one of its weaker neighbors.   We'd also find Corky waiting
for us.
 He was a year or two older than me, red headed and freckled and already well
down  the long,  slippery road to obesity.  I remember that he liked to  wear
shirts  with wide horizontal stripes that made him look even fatter  than  he
was.  He  came  to Miami each year with a mother unfortunate enough  to  find
herself  divorced in a time when it wasn't nearly so chic.  She would lie  by
the pool all day long striving for the tan that never surfaced. Always in the
same  white  straw  hat and frumpy bathing suit,  always  with  a  Coppertone
stained paperback lying open across her stomach,  always alone;  politely yet
firmly shunned by the wholesomeness of the American family.
 That was also the year an outsider managed to infiltrate our little  circle,
a  dark haired boy about my brother's age with a toothy grin and a  startling
square face.  Corky instantly dubbed him Blockhead, so quickly in fact that I
don't  think I ever did learn his real name.  Together the four of  us  lived
those  precious few days with an intensity known only to children  who  would
otherwise  be  mired in a snowbound classroom,  with nothing but  close  gray
skies and a falling barometer waiting just the other side of the final  bell.
It  was like a stay of execution,  and we were determined to wring the  sweet
nectar of our fleeting childhood from every last moment.
 Each  morning  we  rose  early  and raced  to  the  sea,  not  to  beat  the
beachcombers to the conch shells and other precious flotsam,  but to run  and
jump  on  the  shimmering,  oily blue man-o-war that had  washed  ashore  the
previous  night,  delighting at the satisfying pop their  bubble-like  bodies
made  beneath  our tennis shoes.  We could sit for hours at the feet  of  the
mystical  "Hat Man" as he wove his palm leaf creations and tales of  scorpion
encounters with equal dexterity.
 The  limbo dancers mesmerized us as they slithered ever lower beneath  their
golden bar, and then lower still until their bronzed shoulders kissed the hot
sand.
 Whole  days were devoted to catching the chameleons that haunted  the  alien
shrubbery, releasing the poor creatures only after pulling off their tails so
we  could watch them writhe and twitch long after the rest of the lizard  had
disappeared.
 Great forts of sand were defiantly built just beyond the surf line  inviting
desperate battles against the tide,  which were lost, forcing us to fall back
and dig into new positions that were just as quickly besieged and overrun  by
the sea's endless strategy of advance...retreat...advance...retreat.
 If  all  else  failed,  one  of  our  parents  could  always  be  found  and
systematically tormented. My father was a favorite target. We'd wait until he
fell asleep on the beach,  then sneak up and fill his oddly hollow chest with
sand.  One day he woke to this indignity, rose up on his elbow and said, "Why
don't  you boys wade out a couple of feet into the water and get lost in  the
Bermuda Triangle?"
 "What's that, Daddy?" my brother asked.
  "It's a place where weird things happen," he said before turning  over.  It
was  a brilliant move on his part (I can imagine him smiling into  his  towel
even now),  because we spent the entire afternoon roaming the surf in a  vain
quest for the supernatural.

 The  next day it began to rain.  By mid-morning we were desperate enough  to
shuffle into the formerly scorned craft room run by a middle-aged woman known
to one and all as Miss Sandy.  She gave us idiotic plaster figurines that  we
glumly  painted with idiotic colors.  Just after lunch the sky  quit  messing
around a really let go,  sending curtains of water that we tried to  visually
part  for a signs of a break in the storm,  and we loitered on the  brink  of
panic when it became obvious that none was coming.
 "What do you want to do,  Corky?" I asked as we sat in the  lobby,  swinging
our feet off the end of a vinyl couch.
 "Shit  if  I  know," he said,  shoving a handful of M&M's  into  his  mouth.
"There's nothing to do."
 "But  we're on vacation," my little brother pleaded,  very close  to  tears,
"there has to be something to do!"
  "Well there ain't,  so shut up." snapped Corky,  whipping one of the  little
candies across the tiled floor.
 We  watched in silence as a man came out the rest room and crushed it  under
his flip-flops.
 "I  know," ventured Blockhead,  "let's play assassinate the president."   It
was one of those rare moments of inspired genius.  Assassinate the president!
My  brother and I sat in mute wonder of the possibilities,  and Corky--who  I
knew  thought  of Blockhead in literal terms--grinned widely  and  wrapped  a
massive  arm around the smaller boy's neck.  We split up into two teams  each
armed with water pistols purchased from the motel gift shop. The younger boys
acted as the president and his faithful bodyguard, while Corky and I garnered
the  plum  roles of the treaded assassins.  We gave the other two  a  fifteen
minute head start before giving chase,  which led from the steaming machinery
and  snaking  pipes of the basement,  to racing across  treacherous  rooftops
slick  with  rain and guano left behind by the generations of  seagulls  that
roosted along the parapets.  We dangled from slick fire escapes,  hid  inside
the huge commercial washers and dryers, careened into guests along the narrow
corridors,  monopolized  the elevator,  and screamed past a sulking crowd  of
grownups as they huddled around the cabana bar clutching their cocktails  for
dear life.
 Time  and again we would catch a glimpse of our quarry:  a couple  of  heads
hovering  above a cascading pile of unused lounge chair cushions;  two  small
bodies streaking along an upper balcony,  a pair of feet disappearing  around
the corner at the far end of a long hallway.  Each encounter was closer  than
the  one  before,  and our excitement grew as the gap  diminished.  Twice  we
thought we had them cornered only to let them slip through our  fingers,  but
in the end something a simple as a wrong turn trapped the prey in the  second
floor game room. Corky pressed his wide back against the door jamb and leaned
into the opening. A stream of water shot over his head and splattered against
the opposite wall.
 "Cover me!" he gasped, diving through the doorway and behind the pop machine
while I wildly sprayed the far end of the room.  He returned the favor with a
withering volley as I belly flopped my way beneath a row of pinball machines.
Slowly we advanced, inch by inch, game by game, driving them back, popping up
just  long enough to draw their precious liquid fire,  which sheeted off  the
game tops and dripped onto the small of my back.  By the time we had  reached
the last pair of pinball machines the return fire had ceased altogether.
 Someone  cursed  from the corner of the room and a bright yellow  water  gun
bounced  off the Skeeball game next to Corky and skittered across the  floor.
Then  my brother rose from behind the chalk scarred pool table  and,  with  a
valiant yell of defiance,  emptied the last of his water in my  direction.  I
ducked  behind the table,  rolled to my left,  and brought my own  weapon  to
bear. Blockhead dove in front of my brother and cried, "You can't shoot, he's
the  president!" I pulled the trigger and a wet stain spread  rapidly  across
the Secret Service man's chest. Then Corky took careful aim and sent a lethal
stream straight between my brother's brown eyes.
 Nothing happened for a full minute,  we all just stood there staring at each
other as the water dripped off the end of my brother's nose.  Then Corky  let
out a loud whoop and we all dutifully followed suit.
 "Wow!"
 "Cool!"
 "Let's do it again!"
 The four of us skipped down the main lobby's spiral staircase arm in arm  in
arm in arm like the gang from the Wizard of Oz.  Before we were halfway  down
we knew something was wrong.  Knots of people stood here and there in obvious
distress  and confusion,  while the bellboys huddled near the front desk  and
conversed  in  reverent whispers.  One couple sat on a  bright  orange  couch
sobbing uncontrollably, their children and luggage strewn about their feet.
 A weeping Miss Sandy stumbled by us with her make-up in streaks.
 "What is it, Miss Sandy?" Corky asked. "What's the matter?"
 "Didn't  you  boys hear the announcement over the loud speaker?"  she  asked
with a puzzled expression.
 "No. What announcement?"
 "Oh,  its just awful, Cork." she answered, wiping her cheeks with a flowered
tissue. "Some damn fool's gone and shot Jack Kennedy."
 Of  all the memories I carry from that day one stands out in  sharper  focus
from the rest. It's the image of the man who stood alone in the middle of the
lobby,  silhouetted  against a huge plate glass window that looked  over  the
ocean. He stood very still, with his back to me, staring out at the rain, and
from  my vantage point it appeared he was about to embark down the path  that
meandered between two rows of palm trees as they marched down to the sea.  An
enormous,  overstuffed  suitcase hung from each arm and,  although they  must
have weighed a hundred pounds each,  he chose to hold them as he stood there,
rather  than let them on fall to the floor.  From the set of his shoulders  I
knew that he would always carry that burden.

 The Warren Commission scared the crap out of me,  and I lived in fear of men
with  dark suits and sunglasses who might swoop down like birds of  prey  and
carry  us  off into oblivion.  Each night in the  months  that  followed,  my
brother,  flashlight in hand,  made his way down the narrow hall that led  to
the  my  bedroom  sanctuary.  Beneath the covers we  tried  to  confront  the
mystery.  "How could it be?" we would ask the darkness.  "How could four dumb
kids  kill  the President of the United States a thousand  miles  away?"  For
there  was  never  any  doubt in our young minds that we  were  in  some  way
responsible;  that we were involved. We had never played that game before and
we sure as hell would never play it again. Did that make it pure coincidence,
or just one of those nasty pranks that fate sometimes plays on the guileless?
 It  was  my brother who eventually offered the explanation that we  came  to
embrace. "Maybe dad had it all wrong," he said one night as the glow from his
upturned Eveready garishly lit the underside of his chin and highlighted  his
nostrils.  "Maybe the Bermuda Triangle doesn't stop at the beach,  maybe part
of it sticks into the game room."
 It was not long afterward that he stopped climbing into bed with me.
 As  for Corky?...he and his mother left for New York the morning after  that
terrible  day  and  never  came  back.   Sometimes  when  the  weather  turns
particularly wet I'll let my thoughts fall on the memories of my old  friend,
wondering  how far his road has taken him.  And I don't know if they'll  ever
catch him or not, I just hope he doesn't squeal on us if they ever do.


= FLYING SHARK ==============================================================
 by Stefan Posthuma


 Feed the babies who don't have enough to eat,
 shoe the children with no shoes on their feet,
 house the people who live in the street,
 oooohhhh there's a solution....

 Steve  Miller  was again lifting my spirits through my walkman as  I  walked
toward  the  bi-plane.  Thinking back to the meeting I had the day  before  I
still couldn't imagine why I ever agreed to do it.
 I mean, I had to fly a bi-plane, right into enemy territory, defended by god
knows how many planes,  tanks and other terrible weaponry.  I had to cross an
extremely  large  area  of all sorts of terrain giving the  enemy  plenty  of
opportunity  to  hide themselves.  My only help was a powerful gun  with  the
capability  to increase firepower when I picked up certain items left  behind
by  certain  enemy planes,  and a smart bomb launcher which would  sweep  the
immediate vicinity of my craft.

 Some people call me the Joker
 Some call me the Gangster of Love....

 Steve  Miller  had  moved  on  to his next song  and  I  was  having  second
thoughts...
 Then my mind wandered off to the promises they'd made.  If I succeeded,  I'd
become a national hero.  Every network would pay huge amounts of money to get
me onto their shows. I would become famous, girls would finally notice me and
I could buy myself a Digital Watch.
 Especially  the last argument persuaded me to climb into the  small  cockpit
and run the checklist. The voice of the tower crackled in my helmet giving me
all  sorts  of  information on pressure and wind  velocity.  But  I  was  not
listening and engaged the controls.  Slowly, I manoeuvered the machine out of
the hangar,  entering the runway.  Pushing forward the throttle,  the  engine
started roaring and I was pushed back in my seat as the machine sped forward,
like a hungry tiger.
 When the wheels lost contact with the ground, a shiver went through me. This
would be it.
 Then,  after some time,  they came.  Two planes in a tight formation, racing
towards me,  sending some bullets in my direction with alarming precision.  I
quickly evaded the deadly metal,  and noticed two other planes coming. With a
powerful blast,  I sent them both to their doom. Another formation, this time
three of them,  approached me.  Banking quickly left,  I evaded their bullets
and pumped death into them.

 Blackened is the end
 Winter it will send
 Throwing all you see
 Into obscurity

 Metallica had arrived and I turned up the volume of my cockpit  speakers.  I
specifically requested a powerful stereo system to be built into my plane  so
I could at least enjoy my final moments...
 After taking care of some more planes,  I spotted movement on the ground.  A
large,  sluggish  tank  was  moving across a dirt track and  its  barrel  was
pointed  in  my direction.  The wings of my plane shuddered when  I  hit  the
controls and barely avoided a grenade.  A mere push of the red button reduced
the tank to a smouldering carcass.
 A small cluster of trees appeared at the horizon,  soon afterwards  followed
by  a  large forest.  Soon I was skimming the tree tops and  the  unavoidable
happened.  As I approached a clearing, I barely noticed the tank hiding under
the trees. It entered the clearing and fired. I merely avoided the bullet and
fired back. A direct hit.
 After a while,  the forest cleared and a little village appeared.  It seemed
peaceful,  until the tanks appeared. At the same time a little lake with some
gun boats and a large formation of planes came into sight.  They all fired at
me. I don't know how I did it, but I avoided all bullets and blasted them all
to  pieces.  Destroying the last plane of the formation revealed  a  special,
floating sign. Picking it up increased the power of my gun and I spread death
ever more efficient.  Planes exploded,  tanks burned and boats sunk. Blasting
away, dodging the enemy, picking up firepower, I felt great.

 When a man lies he murders
  some part of the world
 These are the pale deaths
  which men miscall their lives
 All this I cannot bear
  to witness any longer
 Cannot the kingdom of salvation
  take me home

 After  destroying some large guns which required multiple hits and  revealed
some  hidden  arms storages,  I finally reached a large  clearing  which  was
occupied by a large, extremely well-armoured vehicle. No matter how much lead
I sprayed over it,  it still kept spitting lead and mayhem at me.  Finally it
exploded and soon afterwards a runway came in sight. Sighing deeply, I turned
off the music and landed the plane to get my plane fixed.
 Ten minutes later I was in the air again.  Feeling fresh,  my plane repaired
and Metallica blasting away, I felt ready to take on every sucker standing in
my way. The enemy came in large numbers. Planes, tanks and little boats threw
themselves at me.  Using smart bombs and huge amounts of bullets, I destroyed
countless foes.  I reached the sea,  destroyed some landing vessels and  soon
some large ships approached.  Blasting away at them, I reduced their decks to
firestorms. Then a very large aircraft carrier appeared. Armed with countless
guns and guarded by a large aircraft which was literally spraying bullets, it
was hard to handle. Somehow, I managed and I left a crippled carrier behind.
 I was becoming tired.  My trigger finger ached, my plane was battered and my
senses  were numb.  Only Metallica showed no sign of fatigue,  and  continued
hammering away.  The enemy came in large waves.  Tanks suddenly appeared from
under large rocks,  numerous little boats were firing and large formations of
planes  were flying around.  Then two very large vehicles rolled into  sight.
Desperately,  I fired at them,  hurled smart bombs at them,  but it seemed to
have no effect.  Tanks appeared and it was hopeless. I fired, fired and raged
until  my  finger  slipped  off the trigger and my  throat  was  hoarse  from
shouting.  I ran out of smart bombs,  and one of the two vehicles was already
disabled,  belching black smoke.  But the other one was still there.  Another
formation of planes came into sight and with a last desperate attempt I tried
to blast them.
 Death was in my eyes and the grenade hit me hard.  The left wing was  ripped
off,  and  my  craft sped towards the ground.  I let go of the  controls  and
relaxed, not bothered by the fire around me. Burning kerosine was pouring out
of my plane and before the fire reached me, the plane hit the ground.
 Blackness  struck me as life left my crippled body.  The last thing I  heard
were  the sounds of the stereo which had miraculously survived the  crash.  I
closed my eyes and never opened them again....

 Now that the war is through with me
 I'm waking up I cannot see
 That there's not much left of me
 Nothing is real but pain now

 Originally written autumn 1988; rehashed slightly July 1996.

= SELECTOR ITEM ABSURD ======================================================
 by Richard Karsmakers

 A really absurd piece of writing relating to a mystic item called "The Atari
File  Selector Box".  There is really deep religious significance in  between
the sheer absurdity of this story that will challenge the taste buds of  your
mind and eyes...


 The  echoes of chanting had ebbed away and the candles had been  reduced  to
smouldering piles of molten wax.
 The  room  had something about it that could only  be  called  'eerie'.  The
cobweds hung in a disjointed way from the vaulted ceiling. A small fire threw
disembodied shadows on the walls that were partly covered with algae.
 The fire was under an altar,  and on top of that altar were the  dismembered
remains of what was still recognisable once to have been a floppy disk.
 Some careful examination would reveal a fairly inconspicious text written on
the label that was stuck on it and which was severely burned at its edges.
 If  someone would have taken the trouble of this rather straightforward  bit
of  examining,  the  text  "Universal  Item  Selector  II"  would  have  been
distinguishable.
 The disk had been crudely burnt,  and looked as if it had been sacrificed to
some kind of divine being.
 Which was, actually, precisely what had happened to it.

 The  High Priest of the Worshippers of the Atari File Selector Box had  cast
an ominous glance on the disk, and he had carefully put it on the altar.
 A  deep and vibrating hum arising from the bearded throats and pegged  noses
of  several  dozen disciples had filled the vaulted room,  and the  smell  of
their sweaty armpits and cheesy toes had momentarily beaten that of centuries
old vaulted room.
 But not for long.
 When  the fire was lit,  the scent of incinerating plastic was present in  a
rather omnipotent way throughout all Worshipper's nasal cavities.
 They  had  started chanting.  They had started clapping.  They  had  started
alternately stamping and brushing the ground with their travel-worn sandals.
 When  the disk had been sacrificed to enough a degree,  the High Priest  had
extinguished  the fire,  decreasing it to a mere slumbering bit of wood  that
had  no other power but to throw a couple of those disembodied shadows  of  a
couple of Worshippers on the ceiling and walls of the rancid old dungeon.
 The  High Priest had cleared his throat and had taken the peg off his  nose.
He had spoken in a very deep,  solemn voice about freedom, safety, peace, and
the Atari File Selector Box.
 After  they had chanted a bit more (and clapped and stamped a bit as  well),
they had left the room in a very happy mood.
 After  about five minutes of invisible but extremely  vicious battling,  The
smell  of  centuries old vaulted room had once again prevailed over  that  of
sweaty armpits and cheesy toes.

 The disk was lying in a very quiet fashion.
 It was totally incapable of doing anything else, of course, for disks do not
have any tendency towards moving, and if it had it wouldn't have been able to
anyway  because  it  had just been sacrificed during  which  process  it  had
sustained  burns that would surely have disabled it from moving for the  rest
of its times.
 At  that  moment,  the disk must have sensed something of  the  chronicler's
thoughts and started to move.
 If  the  chronicler would have been able to sense something  of  the  disk's
thought, it would have been something like "that's what you think!"
 Nonetheless, the disk moved.
 It  moved very much in a fashion the dead don't - least of all when  they're
disks.
 It seemed to bulge.
 Yes. That's what it did.
 It bulged.
 It seemed to grow.
 Indeed, it grew.
 After  it  had done some quiet growing to itself,  it raised on top  of  the
altar.  In spite of its molten bits and the burnt label,  it seemed to  stand
proud as two arm-like forms grew out of it.
 Indeed, two arms it were.
 The hand-like forms that were located at the far ends of the arm-like  forms
started tearing at the label.
 They tore.
 Under  the  tattered,  fire-worn label,  a new shiny label  became  visible.
Slowly  but  surely.  The molten bits of the disk seemed to  be  reforged  by
invisible entities,  until after a bit of tearing and reforging there stood a
shiny  disk,  just as new,  on which a clear and shiny label read  "Universal
Item Selector *III*".
 There was a puff of smoke.
 There was a blindening roar of thunder and some numbing lighting as well  as
a couple of deafening shockwaves.
 After the smoke had lifted, an unscathed disk lay on the altar.
 Would  anyone have had the ability to sense a disk's hushed  communications,
and  would  any  of these have been present in the vaulted  dungeon  at  that
moment, it would have revealed some soft grinning.
 The grinning of something that is obviously terribly pleased with itself.

 The  High Priest lifted a hand and suddenly halted,  causing several of  his
fellow-worshippers to bump into the back of him.
 Before  him  had arisen what could be nothing other than  an  apparition.  A
rather squarely built apparation, with long sideburns.
 It had appeared out of a door that had suddenly leapt out of the nothingness
before the High Priest,  and after the door had closed itself,  it had  leapt
back into the void it had occupied before.
 The apparition, after sniffing suspiciously, spoke in the common language of
humans, vaguely remembered by the High Priest.
 "Do you serve Kuwaiti beef here?"
 The High Priest stood rooted to the ground.  His fellow-worshippers had  all
kneeled  to  the  ground,  afraid to look at what they  considered  to  be  a
Prophet; a Prophet who could kill them with a glance or turn them into savage
heathens with the snap of a finger. Or both.
 "What dost thou sayeth, Oh Prophet, My Lord, Oh divine Apparition?" the High
Priest probed.
 "I said 'Do you serve Kuwaiti beef here', pal!"
 The voice of the apparition sounded like thunder to the fragile ears of  the
Worshippers,  who  were  used only to deep humming,  soft  chanting  and  the
occasional bit of "Woe! Woe!" and "Hail! Hail".
 The High Priest turned around to his followers,  and stretched his arms  out
to  where the sky should have been but where actually only were  the  vaulted
bits of a low corridor.
 "My  dear  friends!  Hearken me! The coming of this Prophet  signals  a  new
period,  and  I  foresee  it  will be one of  timeless  joy  and  titillating
chanting!"
 The apparation was somewhat baffled - in a way someone would who is  trained
to fight rather than think.
 It  therefore undertook an action it considered most fit for this  occasion,
took out something unrecognisable from under its coat and pulled something on
it that looked like a trigger.
 Indeed, a trigger it was.
 The High Priest forgot to cry, or even to startle.
 Instead,  he looked down in amazement at an enormous hole in his body out of
which all kinds of unpleasant things came.
 Without even letting out but a sigh, he folded to the ground.
 At  the  very moment the skull of the High Priest cracked open on  a  rather
crude  bit of stalacmite that happened to protrude from the  ground,  a  door
revealed itself from what seemed like utter nothingness.
 It opened in a mysterious way.
 The  apparition disappeared through it,  after which the door closed  itself
and similarly disappeared into the void it had seemed to come from.
 None  of the High Priest's fellow-worshippers had seen anything of what  had
happened,  and  when the first of them ventured to lift his  head,  he  stood
erect in total disgust and fear.
 "Woe!  Woe!  Bad  times are nigh!" he cried,  his voice filled with  sincere
emotion and grief, "Our beloved High Priest has departed! A new Item Selector
must have appeared!"
 "Woe! Woe!" the others yelled.
 "One for all,  all for one!" the first one now yelled,  "Hail the Atari Item
Selector!"
 "Hail!  Hail!" the others now yelled,  after which they all started a quiet,
deep  hum  and  set  off  through a door  that  had  suddenly  appeared  from
nothingness.
 A  copper  plaque above it featured a word that would have been  an  awfully
good  name for an Iraqi restaurant provided it served a good piece of  Kuwait
beef.
 Then,  as if it was the most normal procedure in the world,  both the plaque
and the door it belonged to vanished into a void.

 And the disk just kept grinning, though of course nobody heeded this much.

 Originally written July 1990; rehashed moderetaly July 1996.


= GAUNTLET II ===============================================================
 by Richard Karsmakers

 "Keep your hands off of me!" A female's voice echoed through the trees.
 "Shut up!"
 SLAP!
 In a dark place in a dark forest,  one of Odin's handmaidens was being  held
by a couple of mean looking trolls. They pinched her and growled at her while
she lay on the ground, cunningly tied.
 "Just  wait until my master comes to my aid!",  she cried,  "I am Thyra  the
Valkyrie  and  I  have duties to attend;  he will surely find  out  when  I'm
missing and have you filthy trolls for breakfast!"
 The  trolls  uttered  some vicious fits of laughter as they  saw  her  hands
trying to get loose. No matter what's been said of trolls -they sure knew how
to tie knots, so Thyra found out at her own expense.
 "You  will surely regain your freedom," laughed the biggest and  ugliest  of
the trolls, "albeit temporarily! Har har!"

 In the mean time, somewhere else in the dense forest undergrowth, an Elf lay
on the ground,  listening.  He was Questron son of Glorfindel,  hiding from a
mean looking bunch of trolls that were looking for trouble.  Or,  now he came
to  think  of it,  maybe they were just looking for him.  As far  as  he  was
concerned,  they  could  get  trouble  if  they  wanted,  but  they  had  him
outnumbered  so he resumed to lay flat on his face,  even afraid to  breathe.
For the time being, this seemed the smartest solution.
 Unfortunately, Questron had an illness that only very few elves ever had. It
was called..."Aaatchew!"...hayfever.
 The  trolls  heard  a sudden noise and saw the elf  lying  in  his  shelter.
"Food!" some of them yelled,  and drew their knives.  They were just about to
utilise their sharp blades at the brave but outnumbered elf when a stout  and
low voice shouted,  "Halt, you fools! Are your brains filled by dwarfs' guts?
You know what we have to do when we find any fair people!" When speaking  the
last two words, he made a face as if he was chewing on something he disliked.
He spitted in the elf's face to get rid of it.

 Merlin  looked up from his thoughts as though he imagined to hear a  distant
cry in the forest.  There it was again:  A long,  wailing cry that went right
through his bones. "The Troll King is on the hunt for Sauromancer the reptile
eater," he knew, "my assistance is needed!"
 He walked down the hill,  leaning on his stick.  Suddenly,  he vanished into
thin air.

 Thor's  axe  had  already cleaved several  trolls'  skulls,  and  blood  was
dripping from it.  There must have been a dozen corpses at his feet,  and the
trolls just kept coming.
 A  giant troll with a crown tilted on his filthy head appeared on  a  nearby
hill and screamed:  "We want him alive! I'll personally dine on whoever dares
to kill that warrior!"
 Thor  felt himself strengthened when he heard that,  and his mighty  muscles
made the axe sway around once more,  beheading several trolls.  Blood sprayed
around, and eyes grew dim.
 A  heavy piece of wood was lifted above Thor's head - obviously manned by  a
troll that was the smartest at home.
 THUD!
 All Thor further saw that day was a black darkness,  filled with tiny  stars
as he kneeled down and fell forward like a slab of concrete.

 It  was  already getting dark when Merlin discovered a trolls' camp  on  the
mountainside.  There were several guards,  and inside the tents he could hear
aggravated cries. He tried to get a little bit closer and caught something of
the  conversation that was going on between what turned out to be two  highly
ranked trolls inside the tent.
 "Finally  we've got what Lurkhead,  our dear monarch,  wants!" said  one  of
them.
 "Yeah,  sure,  he has to feed the dragon in the maze or otherwise the  beast
will come up and look for food - right at Sauromancer's palace!" answered the
other one,  "and we're the ones suffering: That damn warrior killed about two
dozen of us, and that damn valkyrie castrated old Grindleguts!"
 "All we now need," continued the first troll, "is...."
 "...A  WIZARD  perhaps?" Merlin looked behind him and saw a  troll  standing
there.  Damn!  Why had he forgotten to take his invisibility spell with him?!
The troll took Merlin's magic staff and broke it in two. It then laughed with
self-satisfaction.
 The  other  two trolls came out of their tent.  "Grindleguts!" one  of  them
pronounced,  "what have you there?  A wizard?!" - "Yep," Grindleguts  proudly
said, "and I was the one who captured him. All on my own!"
 Merlin kept quiet and hid his inflatable spare stick in one of his boots  in
the  commotion.  Shortly  after,  he was led to a tent where  he  met  Thyra,
Questron and Thor.

 After  that,  the trolls had left them alone.  Only a couple of guards  were
outside  that now and then peered in with water dripping from the corners  of
their mouths, especially when they let their eyes dwell on Thyra.
 "What  are  they going to do with us,  Merlin?"  Thor  asked,  while  gently
stroking a bump of formidable dimensions,  partly hidden under his long brown
hair.
 Merlin sat silent for a while.  "As far as I know, they are going to feed us
to the dragon in the evil maze near to Isnagoth."
 "Isnagoth!"  cried  Questron,  "the place where my forefathers died  in  the
battle against he whose name we shan't mention?"
 The  wizard did not say a word,  and merely nodded.  Some tears appeared  in
Thyra's eyes: "When will that be, Merlin?"
 "We will know more in the morning.  Sleep now,  you'll need all the strength
you can muster before the moon rises again!" Merlin cast a spell and they all
fell in a deep and untroubled sleep.

 The  sun  had  barely started shining when they were awoken  by  the  hoarse
voices of trolls.  "Arise!  Arise,  fair people!" (SPIT) They were on a wagon
that was pulled by twelve ferocious Wargs,  obviously put there during  their
deep  sleep,  on  their  way to the  city  of  Isnagoth.  Already,  the  dark
silhouettes of the towers of the doomed city loomed in the hazy distance.
 The  procession  left the road and headed for an  amphitheatre  that  seemed
lost,  partly  hidden  behind  large  oak  trees.  The  town  was  not  their
destination; it was the maze they were heading for.
 When they entered the amphitheatre,  they saw that it was filled with trolls
-  the  troll king was also present,  sitting next to a man clad in  red  and
black: Sauromancer the reptile eater. They all started to make humming noises
as they recognised the four figures on the wagon.

 In the middle of the amphitheatre,  a large hole had been dug.  A hole  that
was  large enough for the dragon to get out,  and more than large enough  for
four of these 'fair people' to be dropped in.
 The whole theatre fell silent when Sauromancer arose.
 "Citizens of Isnagoth!  Behold the feeding of he who has to be fed!  Let the
prisoners step forward!"
 Sauromancer  stepped  forward and climbed down the tribune.  He  passed  the
prisoners and they suddenly felt cold and dead. He stood still at the edge of
the  giant hole in the ground.  He took a cross from his robe and held it  in
the air, upside down.
 "Astorath! Astorath!" he yelled, "ye habe ne vara ili gom sato!"
 A growling sound arose from the depths of the maze, and shivers ran down the
spines  of the prisoners (as well as those of some younger trolls looking  at
all  this).  Sauromancer nodded to the guards to let the prisoners  down  the
steep stairs.
 Thor,  Thyra,  Questron and Merlin were prodded and forced to climb down the
steps - to face a maze in which death would almost certainly loom.
 Grindleguts  kept  well away of Thyra,  and thought he saw her  eyeing  some
other trolls when she disappeared down the stairs as the last one,  into  the
dragon's maze...

 Originally written somewhere in 1987.  Rehashed,  but not much at all,  July
1996.


= BARBARIAN II ==============================================================
 by Stefan Posthuma


 An  acrid wind was sweeping the desolate plains,  polishing the many  skulls
lying around with the sand it carried.  The brimstone vapours in the air made
the lungs of the young warrior ache and the dust made his eyes very sore. But
he grimly wielded his double-bladed battle axe as he approached the  scorched
hills.
 Suddenly,  he  heard a growling sound behind him and he turned  sharply  and
faced  a massive man-like creature which was carrying a club as large as  the
warrior  himself.  Rabid  with evil,  the creature attacked  him.  The  young
warrior barely evaded the first swing of the mighty,  iron-padded club  which
surely  would  have  cracked his skull like a newly  laid  egg  being  thrown
against  solid rock.  His fighting instincts took over and with a very  sharp
blow, he made a large cut in the creature's upper leg. It howled and stumbled
for a second,  but retaliated with such might that he had to retreat  several
steps before he could attack again. This time he chose a more direct approach
and  swung  his  axe above his head and hit the  creature,  which  was  still
regaining  its  balance  after the wild  swing,  full  in  the  chest.  Blood
splattered into his face as the chest was cut deeply. The creature howled and
stumbled back.  Quickly,  the young warrior swept the blood from his face and
made  the  one move on which he had practised for so long.  With  one  fluent
turning movement, he decapitated his opponent. The ugly head fell spinning to
the  ground,  and  the large body immediately exploded and disappeared  in  a
thick, green mist.
 "You  must come up with more than that,  Drax," the young  warrior  muttered
under his breath as he continued towards the desolate hills.

 After  the defeat of Drax by the mighty Barbarian,  the despicable  sorcerer
had  taken  refuge in the Southern Hills.  Deprived of  all  his  powers,  he
disappeared and the Land was free from evil for a long time. But Drax was not
entirely defeated and slowly, very slowly, regained his ill powers. First, he
created  an  immense complex of caves and dungeons in which he  now  dwelled.
After  that,  he started breeding large numbers of creatures which  were  all
infested  with  Drax's  unstoppable  evil.   They  flooded  the  Hills,   and
exterminated all life on them.  Once a happy and lively place,  the  Southern
Hills  were now like an open wound in the country,  heavily infested  with  a
dark  disease.   And  slowly  the  evil  started  spreading,   infecting  the
surrounding lands.
 Many  have  tried to destroy Drax,  but none have returned from  the  barren
Hills.  It is said that Drax has resurrected two of the Old Demons who  guard
his private dwellings.

 The  young  warrior had reached a crack in the ground which looked  like  an
abyss to the very depths of Hell.  When he looked into it,  he saw far  below
him  a sluggish river of red-hot lava plunging through the crevice.  The  hot
air  seemed  to  reach  out  for him with  burning  fingers  and  he  quickly
retreated.  He took a few steps back and with one mighty leap, he crossed the
deadly cleft.  When he recovered his balance and looked up, he was confronted
with  a  creature  so horrible that he nearly stumbled  and  fell  into  that
dangerous crack.  Quickly,  he regained his composure and, with a hoarse cry,
attacked the monster.
 It was a large, green dinosaur-like creature with a long neck which ended in
a small head that was all mouth and fangs.  It stood erect on two large  paws
and the long tail wagged vigorously.  With one blow of its paw,  it threw its
opponent against the bare rocks. The warrior got up and swung his axe towards
the  dinosaur.  He hit it full in the shoulder,  but the thick skin  was  not
easily  penetrated.  He stepped back and delivered another blow with all  the
powers  he  could find within him.  This time he struck the creature  in  the
softer part of its chest and he felt the axe cutting the flesh, ripping apart
tissue and tendons.  The creature growled and stepped back. Then it happened.
Maybe it was a shriek from one of the large black birds in the sky or perhaps
it  was  the sight of a head on a stake,  watching the desperate  fight  with
hollow eyes,  but the warrior was distracted.  The creature took its  chance,
and  quickly stretched out its neck to bite off the head of  the  unfortunate
warrior.  With  one snap of the jaws,  the head was separated from  the  body
which fell to the ground with the life fluids streaming from it. The head was
swallowed by the dinosaur,  which burped loudly and pushed the body into  the
fiery crack.

 Giggling  maniacally,  Drax  put aside the glass orb in which  he  had  been
following  the warrior ever since he had entered the Southern Hills.  He  was
content.  With  one subtle movement of his arm,  he stirred the  fires  which
burned  under  a  figure captured in heavy chains.  The man  writhed  in  his
chains, his face contorted with agony.

 When she heard about the fate of young Huor,  who was the son of Dagron, the
captain of the Palace Guard, Queen Mariana made up her mind. She decided that
Drax had to be stopped.  But this time no young warrior had to be sent to his
doom.  She  would go there herself.  Filled with grief she retreated  to  her
chambers  as  she thought of the fate of her husband,  who was the  first  to
perish  in the Dungeons of Drax.  He was the one who had defeated  Drax  many
years ago and now he was either dead or captured by the evil forces.  Slowly,
she  opened the large chest in which she kept her most prized  possession:  a
sword forged by the masters of iron-lore in Mount Thunder itself.  She patted
the gleaming blade and thought about the many years of training she had  gone
through.  Her father,  who had passed the blade on to her,  had said that  it
contained unknown powers that could be lethally dangerous if the one wielding
it was unworthy of such a weapon. Even her husband, the mighty Barbarian, did
not dare to use it. But she had deciced.
 She would leave the next day.

 Two weeks later, she was standing at the edge of the Southern Hills. She had
sent back her horse because the terrain was too dangerous for the fair beast.
With  the sword in one hand,  she took a deep breath and started towards  the
hills.

 Drax laughed aloud as he beheld the frail figure in his orb.
 "It seems like your little wife has decided to seek her death in my  realm,"
he  said aloud,  not taking his eyes off the orb.  Behind  him,  the  chained
figure shuddered and groaned softly. "No, Mariana," he muttered softly.
 "Let me have some fun," said Drax as he cast a small amount of green  powder
into the fires.  Immediately, a large cloud of a sick, green gas erupted from
the flames and disappeared through a hole in the ceiling.

 Mariana  heard a sharp,  hissing sound and saw a large cloud of  green  mist
erupt from a small crack in the ground. The mist instantly formed itself into
a small,  broad ape-like figure which immediately attacked her.  But she  was
not affected by it at all,  and with one mighty blow of her sword she  struck
the monster.  The blade came alive as soon as it hit the monstrous shape. The
ancient powers put in it by its learned forgers sprang alive and it seemed to
consume  the  ill flesh.  With a sharp pang,  the creature was reduced  to  a
quickly dissolving cloud of green gas.

 Drax  startled  as he saw his pet being destroyed.  He  recognised  the  Old
Powers  immediately and retreated into his chambers,  searching for a way  to
counter the unexpected forces.

 Creature  after  creature was slain by the  swordsmanship  of  Mariana.  She
quickly advanced deep into the Hills and soon after,  she found the  entrance
to the caves.  Without hesitating, she entered the dark mouth and disappeared
into darkness.
 But  the caves were not entirely dark.  The very rocks themselves seemed  to
glow with evil, casting terrible shadows on the many pillars, stalactites and
rocks. Mariana was assaulted by many creatures, from giant lobsters to large,
eyeless  lions.  But they all were slain by the ancient blade she wielded  so
skillfully.  Smeared  with blood and dirt,  she advanced through  the  eerily
luminated halls.
 After  a long time of searching,  crossing large hallways as well  as  small
tunnels  and  fighting  the foul creatures of Drax,  she  finally  found  the
entrance  to the Dungeons.  Drax was becoming desperate.  He could  feel  the
might of the Old Powers each time one of his creatures was destroyed by  her,
ruthlessly.  He  had searched through the countless ancient tomes he  had  in
his possession, but none of them revealed how to counter the forces hidden in
that mighty blade Mariana was carrying. The only thing he could do now was to
rely  on the two Demons that guarded the entrance to his home and  to  charge
his personal powers when - if - he had to face Mariana himself. He cursed the
figure in the chains and hurtled a small glass ball at it.  The ball exploded
when it hit the wall next to it and a yellow,  steaming liquid splashed  over
the  tortured body of the man.  Groaning with pain,  he endured the  burning,
acid pain. But it was clear that he could stand this torture not much longer.

 Searching the Dungeons,  Mariana was surprised to see a very small green orc
running  towards  her,  carrying an axe which was as large  as  the  creature
itself.  It giggled loudly and tried to hit her with the axe.  With one swing
of  her sword,  she splitted the creature in two parts which  disappeared  in
bellowing  green mist.  Then she heard a low,  rumbling  laughter.  When  she
looked  up,  she saw a giantish man coming towards her.  He was dressed as  a
wrestler and was empty-handed. Awed by the size of the man, she hesitated for
a second.  With unbelievable speed, the man kicked her full in the chest. She
was  thrown  back and hit the floor with a painful  crash.  The  man  laughed
again,  evilly.  throwing  his  head back,  then again started  towards  her.
Mariana  quickly scrambled to her feet and assumed a fighting  position.  But
the giant was not impressed by the blade which was gleaming,  almost  humming
with the powers concealed in it.  He swung a foot-thick arm in her direction,
but this time she was prepared. With one quick and fluid movement, she evaded
the blow,  turned and hit him full in the chest. Once again, the blade seemed
to explode and penetrated the body with unbelievable power. The impact was so
great  that the heart of the giant was cut out and sent tumbling through  the
dungeon's humid,  oppressive air. The large body fell to the ground, and like
every other creature slain so far, disappeared in a green cloud that prickled
her senses and made her giddy and nauseous.
 She  took a deep breath and heaved up her head.  With a grim look  upon  her
face, she started down the corridor and towards the large door at the far end
of it.
 When  she  passed  through it,  the door  immediately  disappeared  and  was
replaced  by  solid stone.  The chamber she was in had only one door  at  the
other end,  which was guarded by a creature enveloped in a cloak of fire. She
recognised it immediately - it was one of the Old Demons.  Fear fell upon her
like  cold  rain  and she clenched her sword  until  her  knuckles  whitened.
Then the creature stirred and hurtled a bolt of fire towards her.  She heaved
up  her sword in an instinctive reaction and the bolt of fire hit  the  blade
with a massive blow.  The two powers clashed with a loud explosion of  sparks
that made the very air seem to burn.  Mariana could do nothing but hold on to
the blade as she slowly advanced towards the doorway. Bolt after bolt hit the
sword and the violence was immense.  But Mariana was preserved by the  Powers
in the blade and when she reached the Demon,  it disappeared with a  piercing
scream. She fell through the doorway when, suddenly, the chaos ceased.

 Drax was beyond himself.  He had witnessed the defeat of the first Demon and
was  overcome  with rage.  But he was working on  something.  With  trembling
fingers,  he pulverised small pieces of a clay-like substance in a small pot.
After adding some other ingredients,  he heated it above a fire and then drew
a  small dagger from his cloak.  He dipped the dagger in the already  boiling
poison and walked towards his prisoner.  Slowly, he carved a pentagram in the
man's heaving chest.  His victim struggled feebly,  then at last fell silent.
Drax giggled nervously as he felt the pulse of the Barbarian.  It was totally
gone.

 Mariana  was alone in a small chamber which had only one door at  the  other
end.  But she felt a presence.  Unspeakable evil was there without any doubt.
The blade in her hand gleamed as if it was being forged at that very  moment,
and the air was thick with malice. Very slowly, she advanced towards the door
in the other end of the chamber when she suddenly noticed a round opening  in
the floor.
 She  froze  as an immense figure slowly emerged from the  pit.  It  was  the
second  Demon,  which  was climbing from its lair.  His skin was  scaled  and
coloured a hellish red. When he opened his mouth, a bolt of fire sprang forth
from it while he fixed Mariana,  like a cobra hypnotising its prey.  When  he
had fully emerged from the pit, he blew another of those bolts of burning air
towards the woman.  She heaved her arm to protect her eyes from the scorching
fire. She was forced back by the immense heat until she was standing with her
back  against  the  solid wall.  Slowly,  the Demon approached  her  and  his
slithering  tongue  was licking his lips,  as if he could already  taste  her
sweet flesh. With one blow, he knocked the sword from her grasp. With a sharp
metallica ring it hit the dungeon floor.
 The  demon did not strike immediately.  Mariana was a very beautiful  woman,
and  the  Demon was somehow fascinated by her features.  With  one  claw,  he
slowly stroked the forehead of Mariana who could do nothing but press against
the  cold wall.  Then his attention was slowly drawn towards her breasts  and
his  yellow  eyes became radiant with lust.  Mariana quickly reacted  as  she
noticed the distraction of the Beast.  With one movement, she pulled the cord
from  her  hair and slung it around the neck of the Demon.  The  monster  was
startled  by the sudden actions of its victim and reacted too  late.  Mariana
had  already positioned herself behind the creature and was pulling the  cord
with all the strength she could find within herself.  The creature raged  and
immense  jets  of fire emerged from its mouth.  Mariana was lifted  from  the
floor  as she held on to the cord.  Then the Demon made such  wild  movements
that she could no longer hang on and was thrown to the wall.  But she was not
defeated. With a swift movement, she grabbed her sword and sprang towards the
creature again, which was still struggling to release itself from the choking
cord around its neck.  With a mighty blow,  she struck it right in the  face.
Flesh was ripped apart and bone was crushed by the solid metal. Blood spilled
richly.  Deprived of sight,  he creature raged through the room. When Mariana
struck again,  it stumbled and fell into the pit.  She felt the jarring crush
of more bones when it struck the rocky floor, thirty feet below. Mariana fell
to her knees and recollected herself.  Now she had to face Drax himself,  she
knew.

 Drax had prepared himself fully for the battle.  He had pushed his  personal
powers  to their limits and his hands were glowing with might.  The  prisoner
was hanging, limp, in his chains. The last bits of life had left the body and
it was slowly being consumed by the fires.  Then the wooden door was  knocked
in and the slim but proud figure of Mariana appeared in the doorway.
 "So we meet again," said Drax ominously as his eyes met hers.  "I can  still
remember the fun we had together in the old days."
 Mariana  shook  her head as she suppressed memories of  her  captivity.  She
could never forget the terrible things Drax had done to her. Then she saw the
Barbarian  hanging  in his chains.  "No!" she cried and started  towards  her
husband.  But Drax waved his arms and fires blazed from cracks in the  floor,
blocking the way to her loved one.  Turning sharply,  she faced  Drax,  cried
aloud  and  attacked him.  Blind with rage,  she ran towards  him.  But  Drax
stretched out his arms and silver sparks emerged from his hands.  They struck
Mariana like a sledgehammer. She was almost knocked unconcious and fell back.
But  she  was  still  holding her sword,  the sword  Drax  feared  more  than
anything  else  and  did not dare approach.  From  a  distance,  he  kept  on
hammering her with vile blows of his dark magic.  Mariana was wounded deeply.
Black specks appeared before her eyes and life seemed to leave her body. Then
she noticed the heat coming from her sword.  As she looked at it she saw that
it was red-hot but when she touched it,  it felt as cool as rain on a  summer
night.  The  contact  with  the  blade pumped new  force  into  her  and  she
erected herself. With the last vestige of her power, she raised the sword and
threw it at Drax.
 Hell  broke loose as the blade hit the evil sorcerer.  It pierced the  body,
which immediately caught fire.  Within seconds,  Drax was enveloped in raging
flames.  He fell to his knees and his body started emitting pulsating rays of
energy  which crushed the rocks as they struck the wall violently.  Racks  of
books  and  pots were splintered and massive pillars where  blown  away  like
straws.  Then the body heaved itself upright again and started spinning. Jets
of fire sprang from it as it spinned faster and faster. It crashed into rocks
and pulverized them and when it hit the wall,  it exploded so violently  that
the floor cracked open and the ceiling started caving in.
 Mariana  crawled towards her husband and with what strength remained in  her
she  released  him  from the chains.  Then she dragged the body  to  a  small
chamber where they were still safe from the falling boulders. She noticed the
pentagram  carved into her husband's chest and when she felt his  pulse,  she
knew  that life had left him.  Overcome with grief,  she stumbled out of  the
chamber.  Tears  blinded her as she entered the hall.  The floor had  cracked
open in several places; huge boulders were falling from the ceiling.
 Screaming  aloud,  she ignored the danger.  "DRAX!  I HATE YOU!!".  She  ran
around madly, stumbling over rocks, and time and time again she was struck by
falling stone.  Then she noticed the handle of the sword lying on the  floor.
The blade was gone but the gem set into it was blazing with a white fire. She
picked it up and when she looked into the gem,  she saw clearly some dark and
very sharp lines forming a pentagram.  Gasping for breath, she dashed towards
the  small chamber were the body of her loved one was lying.  With  trembling
hands,  she placed the gem on the pentagram in the chest. The flesh hissed as
the gem touched it,  but still she pressed it to the body as if she sought to
sink it in. Then she felt him tremble and she pulled back the handle. It fell
from her limp hands. The light in the gem was gone and it shone dully like it
always had.  But the Barbarian moved.  He started breathing again and stirred
like  somebody having a bad dream.  Mariana laid herself beside him and  held
him closely while she felt life flowing back into his battered veins.

 Originally written in or around 1988. Rehashed ever so slightly July 1996.


= THE NEXT ISSUE ============================================================


 The  next issue of "Twilight World",  Volume 4 Issue 5,  is to  be  released
somewhere  later this year.  It will be uploaded to the FTP  sites  mentioned
further down.
 It  is  not yet possible to say which stories will appear in the  next  one.
Make sure one of them is yours, and submit a good story!


= 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 the odd bit of humour thrown in.

 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 a PC compatible 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  a  one-
space indent,  don't include empty lines between each paragraph, don't use an
extra space after a period, and use "-" instead of "--" (that's the "Twilight
World"  house style).  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)  (if  any)  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 [e-mail]

 WHERE TO GET "TWILIGHT WORLD"

 The current list of FTP sites where "Twilight World" may be obtained is:

 Server www.hials.no
 Directory pub/twilight.world/
 ftp://www.hials.no/pub/twilight.world/

 Server etext.archive.umich.edu
 Directory pub/Zines/Twilight_World/
 ftp://etext.archive.umich.edu/pub/Zines/Twilight_World/

 Server ftp.southwind.net
 Directory users/p/python/tworld/
 ftp://ftp.southwind.net/users/p/python/tworld/

 And the following html page can be referred to, too:

 http://arrogant.itc.icl.ie/TwilightWorld/

 The latest three issues can be requested with me personally if you email and
ask.

 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 the English Teacher's Course at Utrecht University.
 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 MAGAZINE BLURBS

 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 [e-mail].  Back issues are  available
via anonymous FTP at network.ucsd.edu.

 ESCENE is a yearly electronic anthology of the Internet's best short fiction
and authors from existing electronic magazines. It is available via the World
Wide  Web  and  in ASCII,  PDF and PostScript formats via  anonymous  FTP  at
ftp.etext.org/pub/Zines/eScene/>.  Contact series editor J.  Carlson at email
address [e-mail]. The URL is http://www.etext.org/Zines/eScene/.

 EOF


--
/--------------------------------------------------------------\
|   Richard Karsmakers                 [e-mail]   |
\--------------------------------------------------------------/
   C.R.I.M.E. Development; "Twilight World" Magazine; WWW-MMM
           P.O. Box 67, 3500 AB, Utrecht, Netherlands
/--------------------------------------------------------------\
|  "Who is General Protection and why is he reading my disk?"  |
\--------------------------------------------------------------/


OASIS_E-Mail: