Boundaries of Sanity ====================== (C) 1992 Aaron Turpen Issue #: 8 Edited by: Aaron Turpen (AKA Thanatos) Released: 05/15/92 What's In Here: =============== 1. Special Thanks Suck ups where suck ups are deserved. 2. The Editor's Soapbox So overly interesting, you can't miss it! 3. Feature Story #1: Harold Et Al. A universal phenomenon explained... 4. Feature Poem #1: Alive in Death With death comes new life. 5. Feature Poem #2: You Are Afraid of Becoming Weirdly trippy poem of spirit. 6. Feature Story #2: An Execution of Power A psychotic attempts the unattemptable... 7. Back From the Brink Answers for the insane and bent minded. 8. Feature Poem #3: 9. Feature Story #3: Musical Trains An ordinary man meets the extraordinary on a train to New York. 10.About the Literature An explaination of the authors in this issue. Special Thanks: =============== Hmmm...Well, in this issue I think I'd like to thank all the people who keep hounding me to get these issues done. Basically, all my "fans," I suppose. Without them, I don't think I'd have much reason to be putting this magazine together. I'd especially like to thank those devoted annoyers (and I love them so) Andrew Frederico and Mike White, who's constant reminders and questions are what keep me reminded that these issues are due out. As we all know, I'm a rather lazy person and I don't get much accomplished if someone doesn't give me some incentive to do it. These two are some of the more dedicated incentive givers. I'd also like to thank the makers of Kool-Aid, who've kept me from my usual heavy dosages of caffeine this week. --Aaron Turpen The Editor's Soapbox: ===================== Since I'm tired of hearing of the L.A. riots (not that it isn't important but simply because I'm tired of hearing of it), I won't force my opinions on that matter. Instead, I think I'll skip the editorial part and just announce a few happenings here at the Boundaries of Sanity. First of all, we are now an official member of the Disktop Publishing Association. The DPA is a group based in Birmingham, Alabama which promotes paperless publishing. Such ilustrious paperless magazines as Ruby's Pearls are members of this group. The DPA's support BBS in Birmingham will have all of the issues of The Boundaries of Sanity as they are available. The number there is (205)854-1660 (12-9600bps, 24-hours, 8/N/1). Secondly, we will hopefully have, starting next month, a regular install- ment from the owner of the Captain Salamander comic book store in Provo, Utah. He will speak about whatever he deems important--such as upcoming attractions at Captain Salamander's, what's new in the world of comic books, etc. Also, he has mentioned setting up a BBS in conjunction with his store! So watch for it. This issue is rather small and doesn't have as much as previous issues (if you've noticed yet that there isn't a puzzle this month and only three poems), I promise that next month's will be MUCH better. I've got some big plans for changes and additions. So don't get too depressed, heh heh. ==================================================================== The Existentialist BBS -- 226-8310 (public node, 2400). Specializes in messages (carries the RIME network), and quality files. Also features an abundantly helpful SysOp and a friendly, occasional Co- SysOpess. The editor frequents this board. (Avail. via ->EXISTEN) ==================================================================== HAROLD ET AL. ============= (C) 1992 William J. Slattery It began in an apartment complex on the east side and it started in the usual way with a small hole, a hole the size of a pin prick, you could hardly see it, just in the center of the flare on the left nostril of the nose of a man named Harold. That was Tuesday, just yesterday. Harold, with a towel around his waist, was shaving when he first saw it. "Tilly, come in here a sec," Harold called to his wife. Tilly came into the bathroom. Harold stood in front of the mirror just as he did every weekday morning. "Look at this," he said. Tilly looked where he pointed. He pointed to the tiny hole in his nose. "It goes all the way through," he said. "Look," he said, lifting his chin so Tilly could see up into his nose. Tilly peered inside. "Yep," Tilly said, wonderingly. "So it does." As Tilly gazed into the nostril, the minuscule hole widened. She couldn't be sure, but she thought she saw two tiny hands reach out of the hole and stretch it. Far out, she thought. Like something in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. In a twinkling Tilly became surer of what she was seeing. In fact she became absolutely sure of what she was seeing. Things were happening in Harold's nose and they were happening fast. This was not a cartoon she was looking at. This was real. The hole rapidly stretched from the size of pin point to the size of a pin head. Then it doubled to almost the size of a pencil eraser. It doubled again to the size of a dime, then a fifty- cent piece, then a silver dollar. The hands were quite visible now. Tilly could see details. The hands were hairy. The fingernails were bloodied. They tore at Harold's flesh in a mad blood-misted frenzy, ripping the hole wider and wider, furiouser and furiouser the hands flew. Understandably enough, Harold was screaming. The creature had now devoured his nose, then the side of his face, then his entire head, the hole and the ripping hands becoming larger with each passing second, the hands now seen as attached to wrists, the wrists to forearms, now a shoulder was forcing its way through the hole like a man climbing out of an open man hole, Harold's entire upper body now was one jagged rip, a face was now becoming visible in the hole, leering through the irregular, quickly changing wound. It was Harold's face somehow, a fractal Harold-face, perhaps, but hairy and primitive and spooky-looking like Michael Landon in that werewolf movie, the old Harold, what was left of him, now reduced to a lower torso that was rapidly being con- sumed by the ravening hole-creature, and, finally, an entirely new Harold climbed out of the wet and bloody hole that had been the original Harold. Thupppp! And Harold was gone. All that remained of the poor man was a puddle and the towel. Not a nice picture at all, I assure you. In the space of perhaps a minute-and-a-quarter, Harold was gone and this new creature stood naked in front of the mirror. The creature's chest heaved, its hands hung at its sides, dripping reddish green. The new Harold, if that's how you'd describe it, looked in the mirror and saw itself. It recoiled in horror. It sprang away from its terrible reflection and collided with Tilly. Tilly had been watching Harold disappear. Once or twice she offered comments. First she said, "Awesome." Then she whispered "Holy Toledo." Then she hollered. The creature's lips drew back from its red teeth. Its eyes widened. It focussed on Tilly and sank its fangs into her neck. It paused and savored the taste. It smacked its bloody, rubbery lips and in a sucking, crunching moment Tilly was consumed. "Oh my gosh," was the last thing she said. The hairy creature was now the size of Harold plus Tilly, which is to say it stood about nine feet tall and weighed about three hundred pounds. Harold&Tilly or whatever you want to call it, lurched from the bathroom into the hallway leading to the living room. George, the family dog, a russet cocker spaniel, spied it. George barked and the creature ate him in a gulp and promptly grew another inch and put on thirty-six pounds. In the next few minutes, every living animal, human and otherwise, in the entire apartment complex had been consumed. That included several goldfish, an assortment of tetras, some canaries and a budgie, a python, a large pack of dogs and a pride of cats. Cockroaches and rats, too, of course. The Har- old&Tilly&George&et alia thing now had a name some two hundred ampersands long and Harold&Tilly&George&- Etcetera weighed several tons. By nine, Murray Hill was without animal life. By ten, the entire city was zoologically destitute. By mid-afternoon the North American continent was without any form of animal life. By supper the creature had run out of animal stuff to eat, having eaten all the mammals and amphibians and reptiles, all the fishes and all the bugs and insects and birds that existed in the whole world. The creature became a vegetarian for the few hours when vegetation became all there was left to eat. By the time the afternoon soaps normally would have been over, all vegetation on the planet was gone. So were the microbes and viruses and bacteria and the planet was entirely devoid of life. By the time the six o'clock news would have been over, the creature had drunk up the oceans and was now munching its way through what was left of the world, devouring rocks and mountain ranges, gulping down deserts and canyons and whatever else it could find, and by the time most people usually settled in to watch an evening of TV or read the papers, the entire globe had disappeared into the maw of the creature, and it stood in space, suspended and alone where Earth had been before. It orbited the sun, slowly rotating. It scratched itself, burped, and looked about, this way and that, for something more to eat. The creature saw movement over its left shoulder. What it saw was its own shadow on the face of the moon. It reached out and grasped... Well, you can imagine the rest. I have no idea what causes this. Every fifteen billion years or so, regularly like clockwork, this happens. It's always the same. As you would expect, the whole business gets boring after the first few times, like a familiar disaster movie, but there is, apparently, nothing I can do about it. There is no shut-off switch, no fast forward. The whole production is quite beyond my control. Or My control, if you prefer. ================================================================== Cloud 8 -- 756-5100 (14.4K USR HST) or 756-1630 (16.8K high speed) Specializes in Sound Blaster and high res. .GIF support! EXCELLENT files and a helpful SysOp. The editor frequents this board. ================================================================== Alive In Death ============== (C) 1992 Aaron Turpen Twenty years to my name: Aged am I, Old and decrepit. Nothing to keep but shame. No past to remember, Not much future left. Things only crush to a droop Nothing will me heft. I am withdrawing inward Searching for something That looks remotely skyward. But nothing presents Any hope for my distress I find myself sucking A black hole does press As I am pulled into myself. Blankness is my form, Moving, shadowy, black; My soul forever torn. I swell, then shrink. What is there for me, As my body dies, But this greatest agony? I will never be. I hold my breath, Waiting for the moment In when will come Death; With his white steed Bearing peace, contentment, And best of all No more forced endurement. I will be alive! You Are Afriad of Becoming ========================== by Mike Omputter YOU ARE AFRIAD OF BECOMING THE VISITING CLOWNS WHO DREAM OF FAME NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO EVEN YOU GET INTO THE RHYTHM BUT YOU QUIT WHEN YOU DISCOVER THAT YOU STILL HAVE FREE WILL ================================================================== Xavier's Barnyard -- 375-3937 (2400 baud): Message bases teeming with insanity. Features sponshorship of the popular local radio station X-96 (96.1 FM) with several employees there acting as DJs. ================================================================== An Execution of Power ===================== (C) 1992 Aaron Turpen The scratching sound of his dinner tray sliding under the cell door stopped. Clive turned to look to the floor from his bed, remembering that he had heard the same sound the day it all began... He had been preparing for his day of becoming for months now. His two uzi 9mm rifles were cleaned, loaded, and ready. The clips that fit inside them were taped together in twos, backwards from each other to allow for easy re-loading. He had six in all, one for each gun and one extra. All were loaded and ready for the work which he had planned. He had his black leather jacket oiled and shining, his long hair was pulled back into a pony-tail, but with only a small rubberband holding it, so he could easily break it loose and let his hair flow freely around his head. His body was finely toned and conditioned, muscles not protruding, but not missing either. His dark eyes glared out from under heavy eyebrows, alert and steely. He was ready. That night, at precisely eight o'clock, he arrived at the mall. Hiding the two guns underneath his jacket, in special pockets he'd made for them, he buttoned the bottom half of his jacket closed and walked in through the front entrance. Walking to the center court of the mall, he sat on a bench in the middle of the clearing, where he could see all around him and where nothing blocked his way. He waited. The stage was set up on his left, microphones and amps all positioned and ready for the upcoming show. At 8:30, a man walked up on the stage and announced, "The Yuletide Yodelers will begin their presentation for you in about five minutes. If everyone could please find a seat, we will begin as soon as we can." People began milling about, coming from seemingly nowhere, some sitting, others standing. Most watching the stage. Clive sat in the middle of the people, a grin appearing across his face. He would have a good gathering tonight. Each soul would feed his until his power grew enough that he could become that which he had been born to be. He had prepared for many days for only this one event. The time was almost near when he would be what his destiny wanted him to be. At 8:45 P.M. on Friday, June 16, there was a large crowd of people filling the center court of the Hampshire Mall in Jinsville, North Carolina. In the center of the crowd was Clive Derrig, bearing two uzi sub-machine guns, fully loaded. He stood, pulling the guns from their resting places in his coat, and pulled the triggers, spraying bullets through the crowd. Several people screamed, many ran, most fell, hit by a bullet or two. One man, who was unfortunate enough to be standing right next to Clive, was almost split in two by bullets as he spun from the impact. Blood spurted, screams emitted, muffs of bullets muffed into flesh , the hammers pinged on the shell primers, air heated and cooled as fire blasted from the end of the muzzles, the defiance sounded heavily from his lungs, the bullets whistled, ricocheting off of various pieces of concrete and metal all around him. This was the extent of Clive Derrig's experience for four full minutes as he unloaded almost a thousand shells in the Hampshire Mall's Center Court, killing nearly fifty men, women and children. When he stopped firing, because he was out of ammunition, not because he was finished shooting, there was not a person standing in the room. He alone stood in the center of a sea of blood and bodies. Even the microphones and amps had been knocked over with the force of bullets tormenting them. He fell to his knees, the power of the becoming taking force. The life-forces of all those he had killed were meshing with this own, creating a great and powerful light. It would take years for his soul to grow to its proper strength, but he would have time. When the police arrived, all they found was a lot of gunsmoke, piles of dead people, and a man in a leather jacket lying face down in the middle of it all, two uzi 9mm rifles lying next to his unconcious body. Clive awoke to the sound of a tray scraping through bars into the cell he had been placed in. It was his dinner... Countless judges had found him guilty, but he hadn't pleaded anything but guilty since the beginning. His lawyer was merely there to tell them in legal terms what he was telling them in his own words: "I'm guilty; execute me." Clive needed to die. The next step in the becoming was to die and therefore be reborn. His soul would become pure energy and he would achieve ultimate power. But first he must shed his mortal body. His day of execution was only a week away. He would die by electric chair, another part of his becoming. The electricity would help his soul to stay strong enough to withstand the jolt of its body being taken away. Everything was destined and everything would happen according to destiny. He was sure of that. Clive had refused a priest, but had requested a platter of oranges for his last supper. The citric acid in the oranges would aid the electricity in flowing with his body. Ultimacy would be his. They had shaved his head earlier. Now, bald and grinning, he was led to the execution chamber. He looked at the crowd around him. Guards were on every corner. They sat him down in the chair and strapped the leather bondings to him, holding him in. They put the black bag over his head and put the helmet over his baldness, tightening the chin strap to hold it on. He was ready. The oranges he had eaten were gurgling in his stomach. He knew they were awaiting the surge they were destined to feel. Suddenly, the electricity surged through him. He felt his body tighten, but not through normal senses. He felt it as though it were a dream. Then, before he knew it was there, a bright light flashed and he was above his body, watching it gyrate and flex. It stopped and a man with a stethoscope moved over and felt for a pulse. He shook his head back and forth, saying no. Clive yelled in triumph. He was dead! Suddenly, there was a tap on his shoulder. He turned and saw the hand of God pointing a finger at him. Back From the Brink =================== Here's the answers to the riddles from last month's issue: Riddle: Can you draw the shape below without ever lifting your pencil, backtracking, or going over any lines twice? /\ / \ /----\ /|\ /|\ / | \/ | \ \ | /\ | / \|/ \|/ \----/ \ / \/ by Woody Thrower Answer: No. It is impossible. I bet this pisses a few people off! POEM #3 ======= by ==================================================================== The Pension Grillparzer -- 224-1242, 2400 baud. Specializes in messages and oddities/literature files. Running Waffle v1.64. Also has an overtly helpful SysOp and a casual, confusing atmosphere and BBS system. Plus, newly added, USENET! Als has cookies... ==================================================================== Musical Trains ============== (C) 1992 Kevin Francis A special thanks goes to Thanatos The rain pelted the smooth concrete surface of the train waiting area. Ken stood ready to journey to his mother's home in New York City, a mere half hour train ride from his current position in Albany. He remembered his mother's smooth skin. He used to caress it with the back of his hand when he was young. Finally, he was going to meet her after five years alone. The conductor yelled, "All aboard!" and he made his way to the nearest door in the long line of cars which stretched for yards in both directions. "Ticket, please," the well dressed man asked. "Huh?" Ken absent-mindedly answered. He popped back into reality from the depths of his thoughts and anxieties. "Oh, yeah, right," he replied, handing his wrinkled ticket to the conductor. "Last door on the left of this car," the conductor directed him. Ken walked down the dimly lit passageway and opened the door to find another passenger in the same cabin waiting for the train to start moving again. He moved over to the opposite side of the cabin and set his baggage on the seat next to him. "Hello, sir, Where you off to?" asked the man seated across from him. His face contorted as if he were trying to remember some interesting fact, but relaxed as if dismissing it. "New York City," he replied. "Hi, I'm Ken Smith," he reached over and shook hands with him. "I'm going to visit my mother." "Dave Bronton. I'm off to an art exhibition a couple miles outside of New York City," the man casually replied, looking out his window. Silence made the words echo in his mind. "Oh, nice to meet you," Ken replied. He was a little reserved about getting to be friends with someone he would never see again after a half an hour, but he felt strangely drawn toward the man. He couldn't help but talk to him and find out as much as he could about him. "Besides, if we meet again, I'll have a friend. New York City couldn't be too big of a place," he rationalized to himself. The time seemed like days and his new friend seemed to be full of conversation and knowledge about the field of art. Everything David said to him echoed over and over in his mind as if he were subconsciously trying to memorize the words as they floated by his ears. "So, what do you do for a living, Ken?" David asked. "I'm a salesclerk at a grocery store," he replied. "I don't get paid much, but at least I can keep a roof over my head." "Yeah, sometimes life can be like that," the strange man replied. He seemed to be reflecting on days long past that Ken could tell were very vivid ones. He started to fall forward. "Are you alright?" Ken hurriedly asked. "Yeah, I'm fine. I've just been on this train for a long time. I almost fell asleep," he said. He opened his eyes wide to keep his lids from coming together. "I only have to be on here for a half hour, but for some reason I'm so tired I think I'll take a nap," Dave said as he laid down and fell asleep. Ken pondered the man's placid way of sleeping. He couldn't even tell David was breathing. He suddenly realized that he hadn't even looked at anything in the cabin because he was so interested in the conversation he was having before. He looked around and noticed that David had a briefcase which had a few strange designs carved into the cover. "Hmm," he said, "that's an interesting briefcase. I guess he must have had it professionally done, because it looks very well made." "Take it," a voice whispered in his mind. Ken was startled by it and wondered where it came from. He focused on remembering it and realized that it came from the briefcase. Not being able to resist a sudden urge to look inside, he bent over and opened the briefcase to find a bright light. Dazzled, he couldn't do anything but stare in wonder. When he finally snapped out of it, he looked up to find an empty cabin from almost the same perspective he estimated someone else would have seen it. He thought about this and couldn't remember who this someone else was and dismissed it as something from an old dream. The door next to him opened and he looked up to find the face of an older woman with a smooth, round face coming in the cabin door. She walked in and moved to the other side of the cabin, putting her baggage down next to her. "Hello, miss. Where are you off to?" he asked, the words seeming vaguely familiar, as if he had heard them many times before. "Albany," she replied, "Hi, I'm Doris Smith." She reached over and shook hands with him. "I'm going to visit my son." "Dave Bronton. I'm off to an art exhibition a couple miles outside of Albany," he casually replied and looked out the window. The words were familiar, and yet he didn't know where they came from, and therefore directed his thoughts to the countryside swiftly passing by outside. He was a slight bit sleepy. About The Literature: ===================== "Hardol Et Al." was written by William J. Slattery, who appeared in last month's issue (#7) with "The Thousand Dollar Breasts." We're all very grateful he's giving us such GREAT stuff to read! Mr. Slattery witholds all rights to his work. "Alive In Death" was authored by the editor, Aaron Turpen, and is copyrighted 1992. "You Are Afraid of Becoming" was written by Mike Omputter who has appeared in several past issues with his unique brand of poetry. He has dubbed all of his work public domain and claims no rights over it. "An Execution of Power" was also written by the editor, Aaron Turpen, and he witholds all rights to this work as well. "Musical Trains" is another story from our long-time contributor, Kevin Francis, who has appeared in almost every past issue of The Boundaries of Sanity with various short stories and poetry. He witholds all rights to his work.