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= TWILIGHT WORLD - Volume 5 Issue 2 (August 29th 1997 - JUDGEMENT DAY) ======
  ISSN 1387-229X

 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.

 This publication would not have been possible without the aid of  Scriba.Org
(http://www.scriba.org). Hail!

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

 EDITORIAL
 by Richard Karsmakers

 A CONSPIRACY OF WAITRESSES
 by David Peterson

 DARK SIDE OF THE SPOON
 by Richard Karsmakers

 CHARADES
 by Holly Day

 WINGS OF DEATH II
 by Richard Karsmakers

 TODAY OR MAYBE TOMORROW
 by Eloy Garza

 JUDGEMENT DAY
 by Richard Karsmakers

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

 Welcome,  dear  reader,  to  a special 'judgement day'  issue  of  "Twilight
World",  released  on  the  date  that,  according  to  the  smash  hit  film
"Terminator  2  -  Judgement Day",  would be  judgement  day.  The  theme  is
recurrent in several stories included in this issue,  albeit sometimes rather
loosely.  Each  of the authors have taken their own unique viewpoint  of  the
theme, which should hopefully make for an interesting and varying read.
 What remains to be said here is that "Twilight World" will be taking  things
a  bit  more seriously.  For starters I have obtained an  ISSN,  whereas  the
magazine will also,  from now on,  be sent out automatically  again;  through
the aid and sponsorship of my old good friend Gard Abrahamsen, a mailing list
has been set up on his scriba.org server.  Hail!  For further information  on
subscribing and unsubscribing, please refer to the end of this file.
 But now,  without further ado,  let's get down to business.  I hope you have
the  same fun reading as the authors had writing it.  And remember to  spread
the word...and the file!

 Happy judging...

 Richard Karsmakers

= A CONSPIRACY OF WAITRESSES ================================================
 by David Peterson ([e-mail])

 "You want fries with that? It comes with fries you know."
 "Did I ask for fries?"
 "Uh, no. I'm just sayin' that if you order the pattymelt that it comes with
fries."
 "I don't want fries."
 "I still gotta charge ya for 'em."
 "Fine."
 With military precision my pattymelt arrived about ten minutes later and she
still brought the fries.
 "I really don't want these." I said pointing to my plate.
 "Well the thing is,  I gotta charge you for 'em," gum snapping as she spoke,
"so I went ahead and put 'em on the plate..."
 The  waitress droned on,  I wasn't surprised though.  It had been like  this
during the entire tour.  The van,  driven usually by me, would pull into some
podunk town,  find the worst possible diner and then,  zombie-like,  we  four
wannabe  rockstars  would  pile  out and  slouch  into  the  first  available
naugahyde  booth.  We had been doing this same routine for about  four  weeks
when I first noticed the pattern.  It got to the point where no matter what I
ordered,  it tasted the same. Like donuts. Our frontman, Danny said that this
was  the mark of a fine diner.  Danny had a cast iron stomach and could  talk
about the most disgusting things imaginable while eating. Once, in a diner in
Jersey  I saw him kill a cockroach that was making a beeline for  his  omelet
without missing a bite.  "Hey,  I didn't order this," he said while  scraping
the carcass from the formica table.  Then, while still chewing his last bite,
he ordered, "hey sister, lemme have a hunk of that pie will ya?"

 This was life for us at the time.  We took ourselves very seriously and were
unified  in the notion that at any moment a major label A&R guy would  appear
at  one  of our ill-attended shows and make us the stars we thought  we  were
entitled to be. We were living in the crease of society and were able to make
enough dough to cover the essentials;  beer,  cigarettes and guitar  strings.
The songs were good,  or at least our girlfriends thought so,  and we  really
clicked  on stage as long as nothing went wrong.  Things usually went  wrong.
There was a long list of things that could go wrong.
 Anything that happened at night in a club,  any problem that may have arisen
while we were on stage was always talked about while we were eating. Strange,
but I don't remember ever sleeping while we were on the road, though I'm sure
that I must have.
 Once in a diner in El Paso,  Texas I sat,  staring, bleary-eyed and hungover
at  two  grease  pools that were allegedly eggs.  Though  it  was  clearly  a
breakfast choice the waitress had still uttered those magic words, much to my
chagrin. "Uh, honey, you want fries with that?" She was going too far.
 I felt the tension mount as the band got ready for another long  castigation
from me on the sins of french fries. I was too tired to let this one have it.
I meekly muttered,  "No." This place was too much, even for Danny. We all sat
there unsure of what to do.  I was sure of one thing, there was no way that I
was eating what was in front of me.  We all just sat there not saying a word.
The  smell  from  these  alleged food products was  giving  me  a  tremendous
headache when all of a sudden, John Locke, our drummer, blurted out "I AM NOT
EATING  THIS!!" no one even looked up at the normally quiet  John  Locke.  He
said this in every other stop that we made.  Truth was he only ate about once
a week. I would not have believed this fact but I lived with this man in very
close quarters for an extended amount of time and I like to think I know what
his habits were.  John Locke was a first class beer drunk.  He would  usually
start drinking as soon as we got to the club.  Before that,  if he was awake,
he would drink coffee and smoke cigarettes in the back of the van.  He rarely
said  more  than three words at a time.  The only response he  got  was  from
Danny.  "Good,  can I have the rest of your...whatever that is?" Danny  could
never admit that a place actually had inedible food. If the sign outside said
'restaurant' that meant that whatever they served you inside was fit to  eat.
John Locke looked at Danny and then contradicted himself by saying  "Nope,  I
not  quite done yet." He remembered that no matter who ate the food in  front
of  him that he would end up paying for it.  Grimly he picked up a  fork  and
started in on his order.

 There was actually a space of three full days on the tour where I managed to
trick  the  conspiracy of waitresses.  I had taken to eating  only  pancakes.
Pancakes.  I was amazed that it had taken so long for me to figure this  out.
No one ever ate fries with pancakes. Then one day in Spearfish, South Dakota,
I met my match.  We decided to eat before retiring for the night rather  than
in the morning. I ordered pancakes and eggs as it was the special of the day.
The  waitress was a chubby biker type.  She was only thinly disguised by  the
official  polyester  waitress uniform.  I knew right away that  my  happiness
would be brief...  She actually leered as she said it.  It was as if she  had
been waiting all night,  I couldn't believe my bad luck.  Lenny,  our  guitar
player,  muttered  "Shit,  here we go again." I immediately started in on  my
usual diatribe.
 "Who the hell eats french fries with pancakes?" I complained.
 "Listen,  you little shit,  I'm not gonna take in crap from you tonight  you
understand."
 I was slightly shocked but no less determined.
 "Did I ask for fries?"
 Danny  and  Lenny tried to get me to stop but it was too late,  I was  on  a
roll.
 "I don't give a damn what you asked for,  you little punk." She was  raising
her voice now.
 I knew I had her even though I was scared.
 "You gotta care,  you're the waitress and if you didn't,  you wouldn't  have
asked."
 She sighed.  She was down but not out. I didn't figure on what she said next
though.
 "If  your're still in town when I get off I am gonna kick you skinny  little
ass. Do you understand me?"
 I sat there blinking, bare arms sticking to naugahyde. I had no response. My
mates  had abandoned me in my struggle against french fries.  They  were  all
doubled over laughing.  I wasn't laughing. I knew she meant it. She had dealt
with those like me before. I was beaten and I knew it.
 I sat there staring at the fries on my plate. It was a conspiracy. They were
all  out  to  get me.  The only recourse I still had was  not  to  eat  them.
Unfortunately that really wasn't the point though.  The fact that they had to
be  there at all really burned me.  I was so dejected that I  volunteered  to
drive  the van through the night rather than stay one unnecessary  second  in
this godforsaken hell-hole in the badlands of South Dakota.  We were  playing
Fargo  the next night and by comparative standards the food would be fit  for
Kings.
 Danny  walked along side me as we made our way through the expansive  gravel
parking lot, the gravel crunched beneath our boots. "I knew she was trouble,"
he said.  I was silent,  he was right.  "Cheer up man,  the sun'll come up in
Fargo  tomorrow and you'll be able to get even with all of  'em  then.  Might
want to think about ordering cereal though - just to be on the safe side."

 All in all it was the food that I remember most. I have since moved from the
crease  of society into the quick.  I am older,  I drive a station wagon  and
have  a respectable job.  But every now and then during the heat of summer  I
pick  a direction at random and hit the highway.  The feel of the wind in  my
face,   and   the   sound  of  radial  tires  whining  on  the   asphalt   is
exhilarating...and sometimes,  if I try really hard,  I can almost catch  the
no-so-subtle  scent  of fried bacon and boiled coffee...and if  I  press  the
illusion  just  a little bit farther,  I can hear the rustle of  a  polyester
waitress  uniform  and am always startled when the amalgamation  of  all  the
waitresses  in  all the dirty cafes utters that  beautiful,  succinct  aside,
"honey, you want fries with that? ...comes with fries you know."

= DARK SIDE OF THE SPOON ====================================================
 by Richard Karsmakers

 Click.
 A couple of nano-seconds later,  the cathode ray tube emits light and  gives
forth sound.
 "La la la lala! Be a swell dude! Use drugs and be rude!"
 The  camera fades out from the face of a happy drug  user,  which  generally
transforms to the intro of "Eye Witness News".  Once this has  finished,  the
face of a news readers appears on the screen.
 Narrator's voice:  Here's John Scragg with the "Eye Witness News"  headlines
of Blibicon 3rd 1991. This morning at about 7 AM C.E.T., the world of science
plunged  into turmoil as archeologists stumbled upon the remains of  what  is
thought  to be an information carrier of some kind.  It is believed to be  as
archaic  in  comparison with the current opto-floptical disc as  the  nuclear
bomb  was in comparison with current conventional weaponry,  yet  its  bigger
size  leads to speculations about a possibly bigger  storage  capacity.  Some
primary  dating has been performed,  and it is believed that  this  morning's
discovery is as important to our knowledge of an eventual prehistoric man  as
the discovery of artificial meat was to vegetarians! But, now, let's get down
to our correspondent on the spot. Come in, Jack!
 Film cuts to reporter,  standing in a kind of quarry. Scientists are walking
around. Outside the quarry, behind a fence that is guarded by dogs and police
officers,  there  are a couple of dozen people headed by some that look  like
spiritual  leaders  of some kind.  The latter are  dressed  in  snot-coloured
robes,  wielding hankies.  They are,  quite obviously,  demonstrating against
something - probably the excavation going on in the quarry.
 Jack (on the spot): Yeah, sure, John. That's the general opinion amongst the
scientists here,  too.  All morning,  they have been walking to and fro  with
pieces  of  this  newly discovered ancient thing that's  believed  to  be  an
advanced media carrier of some kind.  They have also found pieces of  decayed
paper which they believe can shed some light on the thing's origin and,  even
more  important,  its  age.  The crowd is surely not agreeing  with  what  is
happening.  Spiritual leaders clad in snot-coloured robes are heating up more
and more people, and...
 ...Ah. One of the scientists is coming my way now.
 Sir, may I be as bold as to ask you what you have found out already?
 Scientist  (looking uncomfortably towards the mob outside the  fences,  then
turning towards the camera while adjusting his tie):  Well...erm...we're  not
yet  entirely sure.  But it is my opinion that we have stumbled on  something
that will shed new light on our knowledge on the subject of pre-historic man.
 Jack: Pre-historic man? Isn't 'pre-historic man' a sensitively controversial
subject  these  days?  As  you know,  the  existence  of  these  hypothetical
ancestors  to our race is still fairly unconventional.  As a matter of  fact,
the church has tried to abolish the theory altogether, since...
 Scientist (slightly agitated,  in a way that shows that he has been it  many
times  before,  and indeed that he has already said what he is going  to  say
equally many times):  You can't keep on believing a book that says we've been
created from the remnants of some Huge Divine Prophet's nose excreta, now can
you?  Believing is OK,  but once scientific proof is collected that tends  to
tell  you otherwise,  it's a bit stubborn - not to say *stupid* - to keep  on
believing  this nose excreta stuff.  I guess our spiritual leaders  are  just
worried they'll be losing a lot of power - and money. Well. Duty calls me, as
you see, so I'd like to excuse myself. Thank you.
 Jack: Thank *you*, sir.
 The scientists scurries off to somewhere else in the quarry. The camera pans
out a bit,  and once again shows the demonstrating mob outside the fences. We
see the reporter move towards the fence,  in the direction of one of the more
prominently looking spiritual leaders.
 Jack:  And  what  do  you,  as a representative  of  the  church,  think  of
everything that is happening here?
 Spiritual  leader (almost lethally agitated):  It's bloody blasphemy it  is!
Everybody knows that all this evolution crap is nonsense! "The Divine Prophet
sneezeth  and thus we were created," thus the Ibleb sayeth.  How can  someone
believe  something  different?  The possibility of  our  civilisation  having
evolved   from  ape-like  bipedal  life  forms  is   altogether   ridiculous,
preposterous! The items these blasphemists are currently digging up have been
put there by the Agnostic Hanky Front!
 Jack  (on  his  face appears an expression that can be  described  as  being
somewhere  between  'surprised'  and  'shocked'):   The  AHF?  The  left-wing
revolutionists  sponsored by the Great White Handkerchief that is thought  to
irradicate the entire Universe during the Apocalypse?  So what you're  trying
to tell here is that this excavation could be a con or something,  or, worse,
an Agnotic omen?
 Spiritual leader (nodding): Yeah. Sure thing.
 As  if  signalled by the spiritual  leader,  the  other  snot-coloured-robe-
wearing people (probably disciples of some sort) start to chant,  heating  up
the crowd even more.
 The crowd: Blasphemy! Blasphemy!
 Crowd member #1: Hail the Divine Prophet!
 Crowd member #2 (blowing his nose firmly): May the Green Force rule forever!
 Crowd member #3: Down to all AHF Revolutionists!
 Crowd member #4: Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!
 The  police officers start to bark,  and the dogs have to go  through  heavy
physical excercise to restrain them.
 Jack (retreating from the fence,  that is budging a bit): Things are getting
a bit too hot here. So it's back to the studio.
 The camera shudders as the fence budges a bit more. Screen remains black for
about 2 nanoseconds. Then, the face of John Scragg appears again.
 Narrator:  Well, well. Aren't we hot on the news there. In the studio I have
with me Professor Leo Uther Natic, PhD. Professor, what is your opinion about
the 'prehistoric man' topic?
 Professor (after blowing his nose and examining his hanky's contents for the
possible  presence  of  gems  or,   indeed,  entire  new  galaxies  with  new
civilisations):  Well...erm...erm,  what  can I say?  This subject is  rather
difficult  to  relate to your viewers,  as they have pressed  upon  them  the
stigma  of  conventional religion which is generally thought to be  the  sole
thing  responsible  for eventual scientific...er...fuck-ups as we  tend  call
them.  But I can have a go at it, I think. It is a common belief nowadays, in
scientific circles that is,  that we have not been created through any  nasal
excreta  -  and  this theory is highly disliked  by  church  leaders.  Recent
discoveries of skeletons much like ours,  but dated over 5000 years old, have
fueled  our thoughts.  There may indeed have been civilised life  before  the
beginning of our history,  now 1991 years ago. Especially the things found in
the  quarry this morning lead us to believe that this 'missing link'  between
the apes and us had the ability to build primitive tools and weapons.  It  is
rather ironic that this 'missing link' had its own year reckoning,  and  that
the deposits found in this excavation seem to have been formed in their  year
1991. '1991 B.C.', as they call it. But...
 Narrator:  Sorry  for  interrupting you,  but did these people also  have  a
religion? I bet everyone's dying to know this.
 Professor:  Yes.  They had.  It was ridiculous,  of course. They believed in
some kind of entity they had never seen.  This entity floated somewhere  they
referred to as 'heaven' - this is well before the ozone shield, you see - and
this particular entity also had a son that died by being nailed to a tree  or
something. Well, that's all we've been able to find out so far. They may have
had other religions as well, but our excavations are in far too early a stage
for  any speculations on that.  We also know something about their  means  of
multiplication. As far as we've been able to find out, the males repetitively
sent angels to females which then got pregnant.
 Narrator: Quite a crude way of fucking,  don't you agree?  But can you  tell
the viewers anything about *what* has actually been found this morning?
 Professor:  Well,  a lot actually.  Apart from various pieces of cutlery and
pots  that seem to indicate that they still ate manually and cooked  on  heat
sources,  we found lots of media carriers. In the time when these excavations
were formed,  they seem to have been present in two rather popular forms. One
is about 10 centimetres in diameter and silver in colour. It seems to contain
a great many tiny impressions,  which we believe is a rather primitive way of
storing digital information.  For all we know,  there could be sound on them,
or text,  or images.  We don't know,  quite frankly, as we have yet to find a
device in which we can decode the information contained on them.  The  second
medium  is clearly magnetic and about 7.5 centimetres in  diameter.  We  have
found  devices with which to use these,  but these resulted in "Disk  may  be
damaged" error messages which lead us to think that the magnetic  information
has  been  lost due to the 5,000 year timespan that has  passed  between  its
creations and its discovery. Also, the thick layer of carbonated dust and oil
residue that covered up everything may have some kind of negative effect.
 Narrator:  Carbonated  dust  and  oil residue?  Is  it  possible  that  this
indicates  some  kind  of  catastrophe due to  which  this  pre-historic  man
virtually died out?
 Professor: We don't know for sure. It seems that some kind of large fire - a
kind of *global* fire, possibly caused by a war - did it.
 Narrator: A war?
 Professor:  Indeed,  Mr. Scragg. A war. This prehistoric man seemed still to
resort to war now and again,  which seems to indicate that their intelligence
levels  were infinitely lower than ours.  It's amazing that *we* should  have
evolved from such creatures that were quite clever on one side yet incredible
dumb on the other. I find no scientific proof for this Nose Excreta business,
but I am beginning to think perhaps it would be a theory to be preferred - if
only on aesthetic grounds - when compared to what we are finding out on  pre-
historic man.
 Narrator: That surely sounds very interesting, Mr. Unatic.
 Professor:  It surely does,  Mr. Scragg. But let me tell you something else.
Ever heard of Pink Floyd?
 Narrator:   You  mean  this  strange  bunch  of  guys  creating  a  somewhat
unconventional  kind of music,  stating that they're the reincarnation  of  a
5000-year old pop group that used to consist of pre-historic men?  I seem  to
recall them having an album out at the moment.  Isn't it called "Dark Side of
the Moon" or something?
 Professor:  Well,  that  is  the crude interpretation of a  someone  who  is
obviously not much in touch with current-day geriatric culture but, yes, they
are and their current product is indeed called that way. A brill album by all
means  if you ask me,  but please don't quote me on that or my children  will
divorce my wife and I will have to disown her. There is now reason to believe
that  our  current-day Pink Floyd are a bunch of hoodwinkers as we  have  now
reason  to  believe  that they are in fact but the reincarnation  of  a  pre-
historic computer demo program coding group.
 Narrator: Er?
 Professor:  Indeed.  We  have  found  one of those  strange  magnetic  media
carriers which had a kind of adhesive label attached to it.  This label  read
"Dark Side of the Spoon demo".  Of course we couldn't verify its contents due
to the aforementioned wear and tear inflicted by time.  This  does,  however,
shed  new light upon the supposed connections between computer  program  code
and longitudinal vibes.
 Narrator: I see.
 Professor: The album is quite brill, though. But don't quote me on that.

 Original written February 1991. Rehashed slightly on August 22nd 1997.

= CHARADES ==================================================================
 by Holly Day ([e-mail])

 The  thin layer of ice covering the snow cracks beneath my heavy boots  like
eggshells, the only sound left in the empty black night. I pull my cloak more
tightly  around myself,  more to hide the fresh bloodstains than from  actual
cold. My eternal shadow, nocturnal buzzards, circle overhead, their appetites
barely  sated by the thin child I led into the field to play,  she of  hollow
bones and little flesh.
 I was pretty disappointed with her, too.
 I'm glad I let her die.
 City lights blink in and out of the trees. A lone automobile roars up behind
me,  then  passes,  wheels spraying up slush from the uneven potholes in  the
road. A little bit of slush lands on my flesh, and I watch it, fascinated, as
it seethes and disappears from the heat of my body.
 Small packs of domestic dogs stage mock wars in the fields.  My fingers curl
into claws automatically, unconsciously, but I hold my peace and pass them by
without so much as an audible whimper of lust.  One dog might not be  missed,
two  dogs might not be missed,  but a whole pack of dogs and a missing  child
would not go unnoticed.
 I  reach  my  driveway just as the sky turns from  black  to  a  fluorescent
twilight blue. "I'm not going to be good for anything tomorrow," I say aloud,
more to practice the colloquialism than to actually express a sentiment.  The
door of the garage yawns open as I approach,  and I enter its musty  confines
gratefully,  allowing myself to sink down to the oil-splattered pavement  and
stretch out on the cool concrete,  just for an instant, just enough to let my
mind go blank.
 An alarm clock goes off from somewhere inside the house. I sigh and climb to
my feet,  pulling my cloak off and hanging it up on the hook by the  door.  I
stumble into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face without turning on
the  light.  I  pull my blood-soaked shirt and jeans off and  step  into  the
shower with them, the water from the tap loosening the dried blood, making it
wet again,  splashing red all over my chest and face, just like last night. I
feel myself getting erect at the mere memory of the pale wraith,  and I force
myself to think about something else.
 The  sun has almost completely risen when I walk back into the living  room,
my bare feet leaving wet prints in the worn carpet. I pull on my work clothes
- white dress shirt,  gray slacks,  patent leather shoes - and brush my  hair
into a straight black slick. Bloodshot eyes stare back at me from the hallway
mirror,  but otherwise, I look. Perfectly. Normal.  I am, as usual, the first
person  in the office.  I start up the coffee machine and wander through  the
building, letting myself fade into the automaton the company wants to see. My
boss breezes in a couple of minutes later,  greeting me with a cheerful "Good
morning!"  before disappearing into his own office.  I smile back an  instant
too late, then hurry to my desk and try to look busy.
 The  day passes uneventfully,  like always,  a million  routine  details,  a
million little lies and vicious gossip and stupid jokes floating through  the
office. I am too haggard to really pay attention, and spend the day shuffling
papers  and  drinking coffee.  I have to stay awake one more  day,  one  more
night, and then I can sleep for two whole days.
 I am out the door before the clock actually releases me.  I have to be  back
in the field by midnight, and I have to have my prey with me.
 The  coffeeshops are no longer an option.  I met my last two victims  there,
and I doubt if any other patrons would be stupid enough to leave with  me.  I
hit  the coin laundromat instead,  bringing my pile of mangled clothing  with
me.
 The  only  other people in the laundromat are two ancient fat  women  -  the
thought  of stripping them naked and mutilating them makes me limp.  I buy  a
newspaper and pretend to read,  convinced that this is the place, that supper
or love or both will meet me here tonight.
 And then she walks in.  Thin,  not too thin, a pillar of marble and bone and
flesh. Her thick blue veins pulse flirtatiously along her white neck, beneath
her  mane  of black hair.  She sets her basket of dirty clothes down  on  the
counter and begins filling up two of the washing machines,  brushing her long
hair  out of her face with one hand as she separates colors  from  whites.  I
catch  her  eye from over the newspaper and smile - the pleasant  smile  I've
been  practicing at work - and she,  amazingly,  smiles back.  I go  back  to
pretending to read the paper, determined not to rush this one.
 "Do you mind if I sit here?" She stands before me,  empty basket held in one
hand,  her purse slung over her arm.  I grin,  somewhat maniacally, and scoot
over the slightest bit, making more room for her. "Thanks," she says, sitting
down,  her leg almost touching mine. "You don't know how many weirdoes try to
come on to single women in laundromats."
 I nod,  trying to think of something to say. I end up clearing my throat and
folding up my newspaper.
 "You alone on a Friday night as well?" she asks,  sympathetically.  "I don't
know anyone with a real life who does laundry on Fridays." She stares off  at
the far wall and sighs meaningfully.
 "No  sense in us both being alone," I venture,  hoping it doesn't  sound  as
corny to her as it does me.  A little smile plays at the corner of her mouth,
as though she's trying not to laugh.  I try again,  floundering,  "I mean, we
don't  *have*  to  spend  our whole night washing  and  folding  and  ironing
clothes. We could step out for fifteen, twenty minutes for a beer or a cup of
coffee, possibly. The laundry won't get done any faster with us watching it."
 "Are you a weirdo?" she asks, point blank.
 "Uh, no," I answer, wondering if I've gone too far.
 "Okay." She stands up and stretches,  her long black hair almost touching my
face. "A beer sounds lovely."
 We  go out to my car and I hold the door open for  her,  the  quintessential
gentleman.  I pull out onto the main road and watch the sky grow darker,  the
stars  just beginning to peek out from behind the clouds.  "Did you have  any
place in particular in mind?" I ask her, just to appear interested.
 "Ah, not really." She seems somewhat preoccupied, staring out the car window
at the streetlights and evening crowds.
 "Are  you  all right?" Part of me is genuinely concerned,  and  the  concern
feels like a cold knot in my stomach.
  "Yeah,  I  guess." She tosses her hair and looks  at  me,  somewhat  sadly,
resigned.  "I hope you don't think I'm too forward,  just taking off with you
like this,  but I just got out of a really serious relationship,  and I don't
know what single people do together,  how they're supposed to act,  all  that
stuff. This is a really weird time for me right now."
 "For me, too," I say, and leave it at that.
 The sky grows black quickly, just as we reach the edge of town. She looks at
me nervously,  out of the corners of her eyes.  "Don't worry," I say quickly,
"I  just want to show you something.  It'll only take a second." I smile  the
friendly smile again,  and slow to a stop underneath the trees.  I get out of
the car and walk over to her side of the car and open the door for  her.  She
gets  out slowly,  nervously.  "Relax," I say,  and begin walking toward  the
field.  After  a few seconds I hear her footsteps crunching trough  the  snow
after me.
 I turn on her just as we're out of sight of the road.  She fights back, much
stronger than the pale secretaries and art students I've had here before, but
I have the advantage of surprise. My sharp teeth rip through her flesh, first
tearing into her left breast,  then finding a home in her alabaster neck. The
veins spit blood sluggishly into my mouth,  down my throat,  and I take  just
enough  to make her mine.  I drop her onto the snow and lean down to  whisper
into her ear. "You will not die," I say. "I have given you immortality, and I
will be back to claim you tomorrow night.  Do not be afraid,  my angel."  She
stares back at me through eyes that see nothing,  filming over like ice on  a
frozen pond. I kiss her lips gently, and arrange her still-twitching limbs in
a  way that looks somewhat comfortable.  Reluctantly,  I go back to  my  car,
impatient for the next evening.
 And  the next evening,  I find I have taken too much of her blood,  or  done
something  wrong,  for  she is gone.  Dogs have ripped her  body  to  pieces,
leaving  chunks  of her out in the open for the birds of the night  to  carry
back to their young.  A ripped shred of scalp beckons to me from a tree  limb
at the end of the field,  the wind having turned the strip of long black hair
into a macabre streamer.  From the right angle,  it almost looks like she  is
there,  still alive,  hiding behind the line of trees,  her long,  soft  hair
giving away her hiding place - but only for an instant.

= WINGS OF DEATH II =========================================================
 by Richard Karsmakers

 Life had been terrific.  After Sagyr had finally succeeded in defeating  the
wicked  witch Xandrilia and found the potion that enabled him to  regain  the
shape of his former self, people from all over the world had visited him. For
them he was the greatest magician alive, which he had no reason to dislike.
 For many years,  people would come to him whenever they needed minor bits of
magic to be done.  Some time ago an apprentice by the name of Kurgan had even
requested his aid concerning the release of an entire enchanted land!
 Sagyr  had it made. He was invited to royal parties and trivia quiz  panels;
he was asked to cut the ceremonial ribbon at official openings.  If he  would
have  lived  in  our  days,  in our plane of  reality,  he  would  have  been
contracted for washing powder commercials.
 He  had  nothing whatsoever to complain about. Life  was  terrific,  and  it
looked set to remain that way, smiling broadly at him.

 Until  one day a soft,  wet knock could be heard on the wooden door  of  his
humble  abode. It was already getting late - the moon was full and the  sound
of  wolves' howling would have made chills rush up and down his spine  if  he
wouldn't have been Sagyr, the famous, powerful sorcerer.
 He  was in the middle of mixing ingredients,  trying to make a  potion  that
could  change  gold  into  the  lead he  needed  because  his  washbasin  was
leaking. He muttered a soft curse when he heard the knock.
 It  was repeated.  It sounded as if a small lump of meat was  being  pounced
into the door.
 "Yes, yes," Sagyr muttered. He staggered to the door.
 The  awkwardness of his movements made him think back of when Xandrilia  had
changed him into an animal. He hadn't liked it, but at least he had been able
to fly like an eagle, hear like a bat, buzz like a dragonfly. Being enchanted
had  had  its  good  sides - one of them being  the  lack  of  his  arthritic
symptoms.
 He  muttered another curse when he opened the door and saw nothing  but  the
endless black void of midnight out of which only arose the howling of  wolves
and  the odd sound of owls. The curse was followed by some words  that  would
have  made  Eddie  Murphy blush if only he had lived in the  same  time  and,
indeed, in the same plane of reality, which of course he didn't.
 Sagyr  returned to his cauldron,  intending to continue mixing  ingredients.
Maybe some eye of newt? Some tongue of frog? Wings of bat? Some Plantiac?
 When  he  was  about  to take a swig of  the  latter,  he  suddenly  noticed
something green on the ground that mysterously made the name "Kermit"  appear
in his mind.
 He discarded the thought and instead bent over to look at it more  intently.
It was a frog and,  although it was a strange thing for a frog to do, it held
a little scroll between its front paws.
 Sagyr took the little scroll and unrolled it. On it was a totally ridiculous
text.
 "EVEN THOUGH IT MIGHT SEEM ODD TO YOU RIGHT NOW,  I AM ACTUALLY A  BEAUTIFUL
PRINCESS. ALL YOU NEED TO DO IS KISS ME."
 Sagyr  thought  long  and,  it can be  supposed,  hard.  He  knew  this  was
ridiculous but the only thing he had always longed for was a female companion
- just about the only thing with which his fame had not awarded him.
 He took the frog in his hand.  It felt like wet clay,  and looked revolting.
All he had to do was kiss it and he would have the companion he had wanted so
long.  Finally he would no longer be alone when mixing potions - and he would
no longer need to do all the paperwork involved with his sorcery practice.
 Wow.  And  a princess at that!  That was even better than,  let's  say,  the
ordinary everyday girl.
 He  closed his eyes and thought fervently about the first girl he  had  ever
cuddled on junior apprentice school - who had,  accidentally,  also been  the
last one.
 He kissed the frog.

 A  flash  of  bright  lightning  split  the  blackened  night  sky  in  two,
immediately followed by a crack of thunder sufficient to scare off Death.
 Sagyr opened his eyes. Princesses surely weren't as beautiful any more - not
like  he  recalled  them  from the good ol' days. The  one  standing  in  his
laboratory right now had long, grey, ragged hair that clung to her body as if
she had just emerged from a pool of mud - which was a fitting description for
the rest of the state she was in.
 The  note must have been mistaken.  She didn't look like a princess at  all.
She looked more like an evil witch of some sort, like...
 "Xandrilia!"  he exclaimed in a voice tinged with fright,  stepping back  in
awe.
 The  witch  didn't  say  anything but her eyes mutely  spoke  of  death  and
revenge. Quite  forgetting all about the fact that she was standing in  front
of her arch adversary in a rather nude,  befuddled and altogether silly  way,
she spread her arms and cast an evil glance skyward.
 Sagyr  took  another step back.  He felt his throat tighten,  as  if  powers
beyond his own were at work. Sweat appeared on his brow.
 What could he do? His potions were out of reach. He had given his magic wand
to a chap called Geraden two days earlier. There was no way out.  His  powers
were  of  no  avail here.  He could beg for mercy,  but  something  told  him
Xandrilia was not in the mood.
 Another flash of lightning seemed to yank the heavens asunder.  The crack of
thunder that followed would have been enough to cause mayhem in hell.

 No...not again!

 He felt a strange sensation in his stomach that quickly went to his head. He
felt fur on his arms. Or were it feathers?
 Xandrilia laughed like only triumphant evil witches can laugh which is in an
altogether very evil way.
 No. Not again. Not now. He could learn to hate fate.

 Originally  written  September  20th  1991,  rehashed a bit  -  and  with  a
different ending - March 16th 1997.

= TODAY OR MAYBE TOMORROW ===================================================
 by Eloy Garza ([e-mail])

 Mrs.  Smith  awoke at six a.m.  sharp.  She had been doing so for  the  past
sixteen  years.  She always followed the same pattern.  She did it  so  well.
First she would stand and stretch,  then she would take a half empty glass of
vodka,  that she would place earlier that evening near her bed,  and drink it
down without a breath.  She would then head to her bathroom.  There she would
brush her teeth; up and down first and then from side to side. She would then
proceed  to brush her tongue because she knew how important that was and  how
little attention people paid to the matter. After all the brushing Mrs. Smith
would head to the bedroom and put on her clothes.
 Mrs.  Smith  would first take a small vodka break because she always  had  a
hard  time  deciding  what to wear and today would  be  no  different.  After
selecting her attire for the day she would head for her breakfast  nook.  She
didn't  feel  like eggs today ,  so instead she had a small glass  of  vodka.
Keeping track of time with the clock on the wall made her sips from the glass
frequent and lasting.
 At 7:45,  Mrs.  Smith would get in her car for the long journey ahead.  Mrs.
Smith was an excellent driver .  She always remembered to stay two car spaces
behind the car ahead of her.  While driving down the busy street,  Mrs. Smith
noticed Steven standing in front of a coffee shop.  Steven was an old  friend
of Mrs.  Smith.  She had met him about fourteen years ago . He had helped her
through  many  difficult times and she felt as if they were  the  closest  of
friends.  Steven was a wonderful person with so much to say.  Everyone  loved
Steven because he was a great conversationalist and incredibly  charming.  He
always had the greatest anecdotes and stories.  Mrs.  Smith pulled up next to
the  curb and waved Steven over.  Steven leaned into the car and in the  most
insensitive voice asked "How much?" Mrs. Smith replied with "Twenty, please."
After the transaction, Mrs. Smith continued down the street.
 Mrs. Smith wasn't a junky or anything of the like, she was merely buying for
the weekend. Her friends and she had been talking about going to this up-town
club and she knew it would be great to take a little that night.  Her friends
always entertained the idea of going to the club and this week-end they  were
sure to go.  As Mrs. Smith turned at the corner she saw her favorite Deli and
decided to stop in for a second.  Once secured in the bathroom she cut a  few
lines on her license and rolled up a one dollar bill.  She laughed to herself
as  she  thought of a couple of her friends having to snort two  lines  at  a
time.  She knew there was no need for that,  and quite frankly it yelled out
"Junky."
 After  about the third line there came a loud pounding from the  door.  Mrs.
Smith  thought,  "What the hell?" for she would never say such a  thing.  She
decided  to finish her lines when a second set of poundings startled her  and
sent  all  the ______ on to the floor.  The pounding grew louder  and  louder
until  Mrs.  Smith couldn't take it anymore.  She then reacted in a way  very
unlike herself.   She opened the door at a fast speed and without  hesitation
grabbed the young woman by the hair and slammed her into one of the  bathroom
walls.  She  then  proceeded to slam the young woman's head  onto  the  white
porcelain  toilet.  Mrs.  Smith was using every bit of strength and hate  she
had.  She began to yell at the top of her lungs,  "This is for losing my  job
three  weeks ago,  and this is for losing my husband two weeks and  six  days
ago, and this is for losing my children two weeks and five days ago, and this
is  for  yesterday's  eviction notice and this is for making me  blow  twenty
dollars worth of fame and fortune on to this disgusting floor!"  Mrs.  Smith,
along  with the cold thumping sound made by the young woman's  lifeless  head
slamming into the now red porcelain toilet seat, could be heard for blocks.
 Mrs.  Smith  was  found guilty of capital murder and sentenced to  death  by
lethal injection. Mrs. Smith discovered at the trial that the young woman she
so violently attacked and killed was a police officer. Police officers, as we
all  know,  are  quite  familiar with the sound one makes  when  snorting  an
illegal substance.  Mrs.  Smith was having an unusually bad day.  The bailiff
showed Mrs. Smith to the holding room and explained  to her that she would be
transferred later that evening.
 The rusty lock opened a dark and damp corridor that led  Mrs.  Smith to  her
private quarters.  As she walked,  with the help of a guard,  she could smell
the green her beloved child used to use to give life to his trees.  She could
also see the shades of pink that once filled the smile on her husband's face.
Mrs.  Smith was beginning to understand how her mind would sort and  organize
her daily events.  The bars now devoured her as she sat in the corner of  her
cell .  Her bound wrists were wrapped around her knees keeping her legs  from
sliding out symmetrically to the floor. She could hear every horrible whisper
for miles.  She rocked herself back and forth while her mind entertained  the
idea that God would call and she would go home soon.
 The priest that visited Mrs.  Smith later that day left with no  confessions
and  a rumor that God and Mrs.  Smith had discussed and finalized  the  whole
dead women in the bathroom incident.  Mrs.  Smith had explained kindly to the
priest  that  she  hadn't any need for a middle man  and  that  his  services
weren't worth her time. Mrs. Smith's final visitor came to show Mrs. Smith to
her end. At first, Mrs. Smith was barely able to sustain herself on her feet,
but  as  soon as she grabbed hold of a single train of thought she  began  to
fight and yell.  "God is going to call,  I know she will,  she said she would
call  later today or maybe tomorrow," screamed Mrs.  Smith with  a  fantastic
mixture of rage,  fear,  and conviction over and over.  Mrs.  Smith had never
fought  like this on her way to a fix before ,  but this was going to be  the
first  time  she  main lined and she wanted to consider  her  options  a  bit
longer.
 The  guard forced Mrs.  Smith into restraints and aided the Doctor until  he
was no longer needed.  Mrs. Smith continued to ramble about the ringing, God,
and sterilized needles.  Mrs. Smith's thoughts began to transform as she laid
strapped to the bed with a sterilized needle piercing her flesh and vein with
an alien substance.  Mrs. Smith could see the very first time she had a drink
and how sick she got the next day. She remembered her first line and how sick
she  felt the next day.   She struggled to get a clear picture of her  family
but the mirror she looked into was covered in a thin white film.  Mrs.  Smith
could no longer fight nor speak.  As the solution began to displace her life,
Mrs.  Smith  became very conscious of the sounds surrounding her.  She  could
hear the tiny drops of solution,  ordered especially for her, as they entered
the long stretch of plastic-to-vein connector,  the clock on the wall ticking
louder and louder,  the sound of her heart as it raced to kick open her chest
and,  most importantly, she could hear God ringing the phone. The ringing was
unbearable,  it made her chest hurt from the pounding and her ears  hurt from
the drops ticking and then when she could no longer take it... white.

= JUDGEMENT DAY =============================================================
 by Richard Karsmakers

 "Do you believe in love at first sight?"
 The voice that asked her this question took her totally by surprise. She had
just spent an hour or so idling around, looking at an orchard of particularly
fine apple trees.  She had let her mind wander freely around,  join the birds
in flight and song, enter the bodies of various other animals that roamed the
garden.  She  felt good,  at one with nature yet completely  free,  and  very
content.
 She turned around to face the voice.  She looked into the face of a man. She
had never seen a man before in her life, but she had always reckoned this was
what they looked like,  without anyone ever having told her. He looked pretty
much  like her own reflection in a pond,  only he had a flat chest and  where
she just had a fluff of hair he had,  well,  a dangling sort of fat  worm,  a
kind of added bonus?  She looked at it for a while, then her gaze returned to
his face.
 His face, too, was different from hers. It was rather more rugged, and where
her  skin was covered with soft,  almost peach-like hair,  his  seemed  more,
well,  coarse.  She  could not resist the temptation and stroked  his  cheek.
Coarser,  indeed,  she could only compare it with pig skin, or elephant skin,
although  not  quite  as rough as those.  She next stroked her  own  skin  by
comparison. Yes, that was definitely a lot more agreeable. She took the man's
hand,  as if to convince him of his own rugged coarseness, and let him stroke
her cheek in return.
 Ever  since she could remember she had thought about the concept of  a  man.
She had never seen one before in her life, and nobody had ever mentioned them
to  her.  It  just seemed that the idea had always been in her mind  to  muse
about.  It had always held a peculiar kind of attraction to her,  though  she
never quite knew why or how.
 "What was that again?" she asked.
 The  man seemed a bit taken aback.  He,  too,  had never in his life seen  a
woman before.  He,  too,  seemed to have had the concept in his mind, innate.
He, too, had dreamed and fantasised about these weird and wonderful creatures
he'd never met,  these *women*, she-men. He had made up quite a few different
names for the concept,  but now all of a sudden 'woman' sounded  particularly
apt,  for some or other reason that he couldn't quite put his finger  on.  He
had  never quite realised that a woman would be different from  himself,  but
now that he saw that she was, he reckoned it was quite logical. And he had to
conclude that whoever had thought up the woman standing in front of  him,  or
whoever  had  *created*  her,  had definitely improved on  his  own  physical
appearance.  Where  he had hair on his chest,  hair in which  little  insects
always got stuck when he ran from place to place, she had these two wonderful
things. He had never expected them to be there, but now he saw them it seemed
very,  well, logical. They simply ought to be there, and they were there in a
most agreeable way.  He looked at them, hesitant to see if they, too, were as
soft as the woman's cheeks.  In the end he did.  Her cheeks turned a  faintly
more intense hue of pink,  almost red,  and she looked down. The breasts were
even softer. He had never in his life touched anything quite as soft as those
cheeks  -  the  sensation of the thin,  soft  hairs  creating  a  pleasurably
tingling  sensation on his fingertips.  And now already he had  touched  even
softer skin, and it made him sense a strange kind of wobbly moving feeling in
his guts.  Like leaves blown by an autumn wind,  maybe,  or like hummingbirds
wanting to make a nest there. He loved hummingbirds.
 He also had to conclude that her general form was a lot more appealing  than
his own.  He,  too,  had looked at his own reflection in brooks and ponds. It
looked quite different from any of the animals he saw around him,  even  from
the  bigger  monkeys with which he shared a general if somewhat  less  gangly
semblance.  He  thought he looked pretty sturdy and,  well,  *ready* for  the
world.  The woman, on the other hand, was shaped more delicately, with curves
where he had none, a more subtly built face, and those breasts which his eyes
just couldn't get enough of.
 "I asked if you believe in love at first sight," the man repeated.
 The  woman was yet unfamiliar with the concept of love,  let alone  love  at
first sight.  But the word had a pleasurable ring to it.  It sounded nice, in
the same way words like 'cuddle' and 'hug' rolled off one's tongue agreeably,
in the same way these words couldn't possibly refer to anything base,  dirty,
or vile.
 "Love," she said,  pronouncing the world just for the hell of it,  savouring
the sound it brought, like sampling particularly fine fruit juice.
 She  looked  at the man again.  She didn't know that she made him  feel  all
wobbly inside his guts, but she noticed she felt as if something was amiss in
her own tummy.  It was a feeling close to nausea,  but not quite the same and
eerily  more,  well,  *fun* than the similar sensation she sometimes had  the
morning  after she'd eaten that particularly tangy fruit that only grew on  a
few trees and that also made monkeys go all woozy and unbalanced.
 A breeze picked up his scent and made it brush past her nose.  She had never
smelled  anything  like  him before.  Although it wasn't like  the  smell  of
flowers she so much liked, it had faint undertones of attraction, of *good*.
 "Love," she repeated, faintly, as if in a dream.
 The wind now changed direction for a bit, bringing the scent of the woman to
the  attention of the man.  He closed his eyes and  inhaled  slowly,  deeply,
filling  his  lungs with her.  He had never smelled anything  like  her.  The
wobbly sensation in his stomach worsened,  but he didn't mind. Not at all. He
became  aware  of another feeling in his lower abdomen,  a  feeling  like  he
sometimes  had upon awaking early in the morning when he had to  pass  water.
Only,  like the woman's smell and the way she looked when compared with  what
he  was  used to,  it was something similar yet  importantly  different  from
anything  he had experienced before.  He didn't quite know what  to  do.  The
silly  thing  was that the woman also seemed wholly at a loss as  to  how  to
react to his question,  a question which he considered pretty straightforward
and easy to reply to. A simply "yes" or "no" would suffice.
 "I think I do," the woman now said.  Love,  she thought,  must be  something
really good,  exquisite,  really powerful,  something that,  yes,  it sounded
right, could conquer all.
 She  looked in the man's eyes.  They were blue and appeared cool but at  the
same time full of feeling.  Nobody had ever looked at her like this,  and she
was  sure that nobody would ever have,  even if there had been  other  people
around that looked at her in the first place.  There was a subtle  difference
in  the  way  his eyes appeared when compared with  hers.  Like  his  overall
appearance,  they  seemed  less refined.  Not in a *bad* way,  she  added  to
herself,  but,  well,  in quite an attractive kind of way.  She didn't really
know  who or what put these thoughts in her head,  but they seemed to be  the
proper thing to do,  something directed by the flow of  nature.  Nature.  She
liked nature. She *loved* nature. Yes, she knew what love was.
 He,  too,  returned her look by examining her eyes.  He noticed her  lashes.
They were longer than his own,  he noticed,  and it made her eyes look rather
like  stars.   He  could  look  up  into  the  night  sky  for  hours,   just
philosophising about the hugeness of black,  those manifold small  flickering
dots,  and  the way some of them seemed to belong together and  form  vaguely
identifiable shapes.  But the woman's eyes, he thought, were a different kind
of stars.  Where stars just looked back unwaveringly,  you see,  the  woman's
eyes blinked,  darted away shyly, quickly returned to his, and seemed to have
a hidden depth to them. He had to tear his gaze away for fear of being sucked
in,  drowning, not being able to breathe anymore. Yet already he thought that
drowning in those eyes would be altogether more enjoyable than any other sort
of drowning. He was sure that the lack of air to breathe would be replaced by
some other ingredient that was even better, though he knew not what.
 "You do?" he asked. There was an trace of incredulity in his voice. Could he
be this lucky?
 He wasn't quite sure if the woman realised exactly what he had asked, if she
really understood what he wanted to know.  But he felt with all his body,  to
such  an extent that the hairs on his skin erected themselves in  spontaneous
goosebumps,  that  it was extremely important that she did.  It  seemed  like
there  had  never before in his life been such a vitally important  thing  as
this. His future, the entire future, might hinge on it.
 She nodded her head,  slowly,  with deliberation. He hadn't noticed her hair
before,  but now he did.  It's funny, he thought, how someone's movements can
suddenly  accentuate  a particular part of the body.  Her  nodding  her  head
caused  his  attention to be drawn to the mound of  dark  blonde,  curly,  if
somewhat  unruly-appearing hair.  He wondered what it would look like  around
his  hands.  She,  too,  as if sensing that he was getting lost in her  hair,
examined  his.  There  was rather less of it than there was  on  her.  A  lot
handier to get tidy in the morning,  she found herself thinking,  though  she
was quite content with hers.
 The  next  moment they experienced what was likely the  world's  first  ever
occasion  of  animal  magnetism between two people.  They each  took  a  step
forward,  without talking.  It seemed the best thing to do,  it would make it
easier to touch each other.  Touching was a thing they both were very keen on
doing.  They now stood close together,  separated only by a thin layer of the
breeze that had earlier helped them to communicate their own particular  body
scents. It was no longer needed now they inhaled each other more directly. He
decided to look if her hair around his hands would indeed look as  beautiful,
as *right*,  as he had imagined.  It did.  It gleamed. It felt as great as it
looked.  She stroked his hair,  too,  it was a natural reciprocation.  Forces
more powerful than her own were at work here.  She realised that she was  not
completely in charge of her own destiny,  but it felt good to be sucked  into
this  little  maelstrom of sensations and emotions,  like perhaps  there  was
something more important in life than anything she'd held precious before.
 Next,  letting themselves flow with the maelstrom,  their mouths found  each
other.  Nobody  had ever taught them to kiss,  nor had they ever seen  anyone
else  do  it,  but  it felt magical and beautiful  and,  they  both  realised
instantly,  exciting.  After the kiss they both took a small distance  again,
looking at each other,  appraising,  agreeing. This was it. It would work. It
would be beautiful. It was the right thing to do.
 As  if in a story with a sense of melodrama and all that,  the sun began  to
set  around that time,  amidst a wildly colourful cloudy palette of the  most
beautiful purples,  pinks and reds.  They marvelled at it together. Of course
they'd seen the sun set countless times before,  but now the two of them  had
met,  in some weird and inexplicable way, it seemed to have attained an extra
sheen that neither of them had ever seen before. And, much in the same way as
their togetherness, it seemed right and wonderful and beautiful and good.
 A  blackbird sung its evening song and that,  too,  now  sounded  different,
better.
 When they,  again as if they lived and breathed in a story,  walked off into
the sunset, the man seemed to inhale happiness and content with every step he
took.  He could handle the world now he had found what he never even knew  he
had always been looking for.  The woman felt a faint nagging  sensation,  all
but  imperceptible,  a tiny mental commotion that seemed to conflict as  much
with  all  the  happiness the man radiated as with everything  she  felt  and
radiated herself.
 Eve  couldn't  quite put her finger on the feeling and tried to  ignore  it.
Ignoring it felt like the right thing to do,  anyway,  so she pushed it  back
and  let herself be swept away by the currents of that beautiful  word,  that
word that tasted so much like the finest of fruit juices, 'love'. The curious
nagging feeling would disappear in due course anyway, she hoped.
 It didn't.

 Written June 28th 1997 during a particularly thin patch in my  relationship.
They  say  that  a good author can put a distance  between  himself  and  his
personae; by that standard I guess I am not particularly good :-(

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

 The  next  issue  of "Twilight World",  Volume 5  Issue  3,  is  tentatively
scheduled for release somewhere later this year.  It will be uploaded to  the
FTP sites mentioned further down and sent out to the "Twilight World" mailing
list.
 It  is not yet possible to specify all the stories that will appear  in  it;
make sure one of them is yours,  and submit a good one! At any rate, it looks
like the following might make it...

 SOME CYBERPUNKISH BABBLE II
 by Stefan Posthuma & Richard Karsmakers

= 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  absurdity,  humour  and/or
horror thrown in.

 SUBMISSIONS

 If you've written some good fiction and you wouldn't mind it being published
world-wide,  you can email it to [e-mail]. At all times does the
editor reserve the right not to publish submissions.
 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  "--"  (such  is  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 snailmail  reply  please
supply one International Reply Coupon (available at your post office),  *two*
if you live outside Europe.  Correspondence failing these guidelines will  be
read but cannot be replied to.
 The address:

 Richard Karsmakers
 P.O. Box 67
 NL-3500 AB Utrecht
 The Netherlands
 Email [e-mail]

 SUBSCRIPTIONS

 If you would like a subscription to "Twilight World",  please send an  email
message to [e-mail] with a subject of "subscribe".  If you'd
like  to unsubscribe,  please use "unsubscribe" as a  subject.  Your  "From:"
field will be used to determine your email address.

 WHERE TO GET "TWILIGHT WORLD" BACK ISSUES

 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 WWW pages can be referred to, too:

 http://arrogant.itc.icl.ie/TwilightWorld/
 http://www.scriba.org/twilight/volX.zip/Y.txt
  (where X is the Volume number and Y is the issue number; Volume 5 issues
   will be located at /twilight/Y.txt until the end of the year)

 You can also request me personally to email you an issue.

 PHILANTROPY

 If you like "Twilight World", a spontaneous outburst of philantropy aimed at
the  postal address mentioned above would be very  much  appreciated!  Please
send cash only; any regular currency will do.
 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