kryptophilia issue 6

7/28/2019 Kryptophilia Issue 6

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kryptophilia prose and poetry

Issue 6 Mar/Apr Free

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kryptophilia issue 6

frontispiece Welcome to issue 6 of kryptophilia . kryptophilia , for those who have not encountered it before,is a fanzine dedicated to poetry and short prose. The prose should be something unusual: sciencefiction, horror, fantasy, tales with a twist, and so on. Poetry can be on anything at all. Newcontributors are decidedly welcome.

All articles, stories, poems, are considered to be copyright of their respective authors (seecredits).

kryptophilia is published bi-monthly - this issue, Mar, Apr 2004.

page contents01 Cover 02 Frontispiece02 Contents03 Short Story - A Hellish Holiday13 Poem - Rats13 Poem - Without Due Cause Or Meaning14 Short Story - Second Chance18 Poem - Drink Up18 Poem - Plastic Odyssey19 Short story - Who Am I?21 Poem - Counting Sheep22 Poem - The Recruitment Office22 Credits

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A Hellish Holiday

"Gee, Donald, I don't know." Gladys said. "We've never used these travel agents before. Areyou sure that we can trust them?"

"Ah, shucks, look at the brochures, Gladys. See how professionally they're done? And the

prices?" said Donald. "They've got to be efficient to be able to afford those prices. Think howmuch money we'll save. More money to spend when we get there."

Donald and Gladys Armstrong were booking their annual holiday. As may be construed fromthe conversation above, they were trying out a new travel agents - Mephistopheles Tours. It hadseemingly sprung up overnight. I say seemingly, because Donald and Gladys Armstrong wouldnever have been able to accept that it had actually sprung up over night; it had not been there theday before; there had only been empty ground where a building had once stood. But the thingabout the human mind is that it usually has problems accepting impossible things.

Donald and Gladys Armstrong were archetypal, possibly stereotypical, Americans. They were both badly overweight, and neither of them would ever win any awards for style. But they were both happy, and that's what matters, isn't it?

Donald Armstrong worked as an insurance salesman, until a couple of years ago, when he took early retirement. Gladys had not worked for years, but she had been a secretary when she had metDonald. That had been when Donald had first started out on his career, after returning from histour of duty in Vietnam. That had been many years, and many burgers, ago.

"Mephistopheles Tours? Are they Greek?" Gladys had asked."Sounds like it." Donald had said. "I knew a Theodopolous when I was in the army. His family

had come from Greece."They had gone inside, to look for holidays in Greece.

"Dis?" said Donald. "Is that one of the Greek islands? Isn't it somewhere near Cos?""Gee, Donny, you sure know your geography." said Gladys.

The suave, heavily tanned travel agent behind the counter smiled at Donny and Gladys

Armstrong. His white teeth were perfect, and they gleamed like in a toothpaste advert."May I help you?" he purred, regarding the Armstrongs in the same way that a cat regards mice.

He did manage to refrain from licking his lips, though."Yes, we were thinking about a holiday in Dis." said Donald Armstrong."Dis? I can most fully recommend it." said the salesman. "I can fully assure you, that you will

not find any cheaper tours of Dis anywhere on the planet.""Hm." said Donald. "What is the food like in Dis? Is it edible? How much money should we

take with us?""Oh, you will find that our prices are fully inclusive." the salesman said. "There is no need for

any alarm there. I can most fully assure you, that you will get everything that is coming to you. Now, if you would just like to sign this contract on the dotted line?"

The travel agent pulled out, from the recesses of the desk, a long, and multiple-folded piece of

paper, the print on it being so small that you would have needed a magnifying glass to read it.Donald Armstrong tried to read it, nevertheless, squinting at it, but, in the end, gave up theunequal struggle.

"Nothing to worry about." said the salesman, teeth still gleaming. "Standard clauses coveringindemnity, insurance, that sort of thing."

"Hm." said Donald, as he reluctantly signed at the bottom of the form."And the lady as well, please." the travel agent said. Gladys also transcribed her moniker on the

extensive contract."Where will we catch the plane from, and what time does it leave?" asked Donald. "What about

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tickets? How would you like us to pay? I take it that American Express is okay?""So many questions! We will send a car around tomorrow morning to collect you for your

sojourn." said the travel agent. "It will take you to your plane. Please make sure that you areready for it. Do not worry about payment, your signature on the contract has already committedyou to payment."

"Oh, right." Donald said, as the faux travel agent began to usher him and Gladys out of the building. The two of them halted in the doorway, apparently waiting for something.

"Have a nice day." the travel agent said, through gritted teeth, as the Armstrongs finally left.They did not realise how painful that sentence had been for their strangely tanned, oh so white-toothed travel agent.

The car arrived the following morning, to collect the Armstrongs for their holiday. They hadonly just completed their packing when it arrived, getting their voluminous swimsuits ready for their trip to the supposed Greek island of Dis. Sun block, sun cream, anti-mosquito spray, footcream, hand cream, sun hats, sun glasses, binoculars, transistor radios, toothpaste, electrictoothbrushes, nail clippers, small battery powered fans, and all the other flotsam and jetsam thatwash up inside people's holiday suitcases.

The car that arrived was a big black limousine. It was one of the darkest blacks that you canimagine, if black can actually have separate shades. The car was a most singular one, with nomakers name being visible. But the Armstrongs did not question the strangeness of it all. They gotin the car.

The limousine was a lot more luxurious than the Armstrongs had been expecting. The seatswere covered in real red leather. It was too hot in the car, though: the chauffeur must have had theheating turned up full.

The chauffeur was dressed in a black leather suit. He looked remarkably similar to the travelagent who the Armstrongs had met the day before. Perhaps it was a family business, theArmstrongs thought, and they were distantly related. The chauffeur closed the car door, shuttingthe Armstrongs in, climbed in himself, and they were off.

The car picked up speed as it roared down the road towards a busy intersection. It appeared thatthe driver had no intention of slowing down. Donald looked concerned, and Gladys got ready toscream.

Flames licked at the wheels of the car, and a dark hole appeared in the road in front of it. Downinto the hole the car went, its wheels flaming, Gladys screaming, on its way to Dis, the city on thesecond plane of Hell.

As the Armstrongs descended into Hell, two people, if that is the correct word, were standingoutside the Armstrongs house, packed bags of holiday accoutrements on the sidewalk besidethem. These two people bore an uncanny resemblance to Gladys and Donald Armstrong. In fact,the only thing that distinguished them from the real Armstrongs was a slight after smell of sulphur. Otherwise, they were identical.

They were not, of course, Donald and Gladys Armstrong, but a pair of devils called Dioveresand Gumption. It was only with the Armstrongs safely ensconced in Hell that they were free towalk the world of man. A cultural exchange programme, if you like.

It was the first time that Dioveres and Gumption had been upstairs, so to speak, since theMiddle Ages. Then, they had been able to walk around in their own bodies. But that wasn't donenow: nobody (well, hardly anybody) believed in devils any more.

So they had "borrowed" the bodies of Donald and Gladys - well, they weren't using them at thecurrent time - once they had breached the divide separating the Earth from Hell. It was onlyspirits, or souls, or whatever you want to call them, that were allowed down to Hell these days.

Not that the Armstrongs would necessarily realise that; but that was part of the fun, wasn't it?

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"Why did I have to get the female's body?" whined Gumption. "You know that I wanted theman's."

"We get what we're given." said Dioveres, who had never really liked Gumption, despite havingspent millennia in his company. This is not unusual. No devil really likes anybody apart fromthemselves. "This man's body is not really in much better condition."

"Well, it's the bits, really." said Gumption. "They're different to what I'm used to.""Stop whining." said Dioveres. "Just be glad that we managed to get out for a while. Unless you

fancy going straight back to Hell?"Gumption shut up. No devil wants to go to Hell. They know what it's like.

Meanwhile, the real Armstrongs, or at least their souls, were having a Hell of a time - but not ina nice sense.

The car spiralled down through gouts of crimson flame, down, far down into the piercingly hotdepths below. The journey seemed to go on forever, for Hell is eternal, and Dis is truly the Eternalcity, as it will still be there when Rome is dust, and long faded from the memories of mankind.When our species has become extinct, Dis will still be there. When our sun expands, and firefrom its corona burns the planet to a charcoal crisp, Dis will still be there. And when our universeis a bleak, blank void, lacking energy, light and life, Dis will still be there.

After an interminable flight, the limousine taxied in to land. But it was no longer the limousineof before. Once it had breached the barrier between worlds, it had undergone drastic changes. Ithad become a covered coach, of the sort that might have been seen in Budapest in the seventeenthcentury; or perhaps not, for this coach was constructed from ebony and bone. Thigh bones madethe spokes of the wheels. The door handles were made from the skulls of children. The drapes atthe window were funeral shrouds. The coach was drawn by four skeletal horses, their eyes

burning embers. The former chauffeur was now a postillion rider. And he, too, had changed, andwas now revealed in his true form. He had grown at least a foot in height, but he had lost much of his weight, so that he was now skeletally thin. His hair had become flame red, and trailed out

behind him. He also sported a long, pointed goatee, of the same colour as his hair.The chauffeur's garb had changed, as well. He now wore a cream coloured ruffed shirt, and a

long, black, frock coat with tails. His leggings - or possibly his legs - were black, and ended in bright yellow duck feet, that he obviously was unable to fit into the stirrups of the skeletal horsethat he rode. He was laughing wildly, but the Armstrongs failed to get the joke.

The demonic coach screeched to a halt on the plain of Dis, its wheels smoking slightly. The cityof Dis stood in the distance, as foreboding as the smile on the face of a psychopath.

"Hell, this ain't Greece." said Donny Armstrong. "Where in tarnation have you taken us, youexcuse for an...excuse."

Similes failed him."This is Dis." the coachman said, still sitting on his skeletal horse, but turning his head a full

one hundred and eighty degrees to speak to Donny and Gladys Armstrong. "Please enjoy your vacation here."

"Hell, this ain't no Greek island." said Donny, still not willing to accept what he had just seenand what, indeed, he was still seeing. "Where on Earth is it? You still haven't answered me."

"This is Dis, the great city on the second plane of the nine Hells." said the coachman. "This iswhere you signed up to go to, remember? A perfectly standard, fair and legally binding contract."

"Hell?" said Gladys. "But we haven't done anything wrong. We go to church every Sunday. Wecan't have been sent to Hell."

"Au contraire, o madam. Both you and your darling husband have committed minor, technicalsins throughout your lives. But I am sure that you will be delighted to know that, currently, theyare not enough to deny you access to the land beyond the Pearly Gates, or the Other Place, as we

prefer to refer to it here. This is only a holiday, of course. When it is over, you and your husband

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will return to your mundane little lives. But who knows? Perhaps after seeing what Hell has tooffer, you may convert to or way of thinking."

"Not likely." said Donny. "Now you can just take us back to our 'mundane little lives' right now.I'm not staying here, and neither is Gladys."

"You tell him, Donny." said Gladys."But I am afraid that you are." said the coachman. "You have entered into a contract to go on

holiday in Dis for two weeks, and two weeks you shall have. We're kind of sticklers for the finer points of legal details down here, you see. Must be all the lawyers. And now, I'm afraid that Imust leave you. The horses need feeding, and a good rub down."

"Feeding? On what?" asked Gladys, who could not escape her natural curiosity as to whatskeletal horses might actually be fed.

"Bone meal, of course." said the coachman, geeing up the horses. The coach ascended into therose red sky, leaving the Armstrongs and all their luggage on the plains of Hell, still a fair walk away from the city of Dis.

Donny Armstrong got a cigar out, and lit it with a match. He began gathering the luggagetogether, as much of it as he could carry himself.

"Come on, Gladys." he said. "We've booked this holiday, and we're damn well going to enjoy it,Hell or no Hell.

With that, cigar lodged firmly in his mouth, he marched off towards the walls of Dis, Gladysgamely bringing up the rear.

Back in the real world, the ersatz Gladys and Donny were not finding things entirely to their liking, either. One of the problems was that everybody was so nice. Gumption and Dioveres had

become used to people (well, demons, but they thought of themselves as people) beingunremittingly nasty to them. When people started being pleasant to them, they found it a littleunnerving.

As Donny and Gladys were supposed to be on holiday at the moment, Dioveres and Gumptionhad decided to go and see the sights in America. I mean, the last time that they had been out of Hell the United States of America had not even existed, so they were curious to see this land thatthe white man had stolen from the Native Americans.

Once that they had decided that this was what they were going to do on their two weeks of freedom, they had to decide on an agenda.

Gumption wanted to go around all the flesh pits, the whorehouses and gambling dens, thedrinking joints and the porn cinemas; but Dioveres pointed out that they could do that in Hell,anyway. They were on holiday, and they were supposed to be doing something a bit different.

So it was to be a grand tour of the USA. The Golden Gate Bridge, the Grand Canyon,Disneyworld, the Statue of Liberty, et al.

First up on the agenda was the Golden Gate Bridge, as the two demons were already on theWest Coast.

They took a taxi to the bridge- paying with the Armstrongs' money, of course. And they had theArmstrongs' credit cards to abuse later.

Gumption and Dioveres had been expecting the taxi driver to be rude, and they had been

looking forward to being rude back. But they found him to be polite and courteous, if a littleovertalkative. He said "Have a nice day" when he dropped them off at the bridge.

It was a bridge. It wasn't made out of real gold. It was big, and impressive, but no more so thanany of the walls around the citadels of Hell. Gumption and Dioveres shrugged, hailed a taxi, andmoved on to the next attraction.

Meanwhile, the real Armstrongs had reached the gates of Dis. There was a devil manning thegate, and blocking their way. He was playing up to their preconceptions of what devils were like;he had red skin, cloven hooves, little horns, and he had a pitchfork leaning against the stone wall

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beside him."Nature of visit?" he asked, without looking up, as the Armstrongs approached."Nature of visit?" Donny Armstrong expostulated. You damn well abducted us! That's what the

nature of the visit is!""That is not an acceptable response." said the devil, without looking up from his form. He was

seated at a small wooden desk, barring the gate and the way in. the desk was the sort that youmight find in a school. It had an inkwell, and ink blots and doodles where the devil had got bored."Nature of visit?"

"Well, it sure ain't pleasure." said Donny. "We've been abducted and brought to Hell by ademonic coachman! That sure ain't a pleasurable experience, in anybody's books!"

"You tell him, Donny." Gladys said."So it is business." the devil said, with pen poised over his form. He did not enter anything yet.

"Who is it in the city of Dis that you have business with?""Oh, dang it, put it down as pleasure, then." Donald Armstrong said, grumpily."Names?" the devil asked."Donald and Gladys Armstrong." Donald said.The devil entered their names on his sheet of parchment."Right, is that it?" Donny asked."Hm?" the devil said, still not looking up from his sheet of parchment. "No, that is not it. There

are another fifty five questions to complete regarding your visit. Then it's on to sheet two"

"Where are we going now, Dioveres?" Gumption asked. "Huh? Where are we going now?""I thought that we would do a tour of Hollywood, see where all the stars live or used to live. Go

to Hollywood Boulevard, and look where the stars are on the pavement. I want to see if they gaveVeronica Lake one, or not."

So off to Hollywood they went. They took a guided tour of all Hollywood's current stars andstarlets. This comprised seeing a lot of closed gates equipped with security systems, although theydid see an old man shambling along who may or may not have been Charlton Heston.

"Is that..?" Gumption asked."Possibly." Dioveres said. "I can't tell from here. He'll be going upstairs when the time comes.""What?" said Gumption. "What about all that stuff with the NRA?""Doesn't matter." Dioveres said. "Think of all the good publicity the man upstairs got because

of him. That's bound to get rewarded. Anything else gets swept under the carpet. I mean, hemakes the rules, doesn't he?"

The two of them continued on their tour. They did not see anybody else who could qualify as astar - just two-bit actors and buxom C list starlets, struggling to work their ways up Hollywoodwhile their souls descended towards Purgatory or below. And all the people who the demons metwere unbearably pleasant: they began to get annoyed with seeing yet another pearly white smile,let alone hearing yet another person say "Have a nice day."

"Come on, let's go." Dioveres said. "We'll go somewhere different tomorrow. We'll set out for the Grand Canyon or Disneyworld or something."

Donald and Gladys Armstrong had managed to negotiate the gatekeeper to the city of Dis. Theywere refusing to be despondent about their situation. They were on holiday and, demons anddevils or not, they were damn well going to enjoy it.

Hell was not quite what they had been expecting; and it was not how it had been described inchurch, either. It was unbearably hot, it was true, but they weren't roasting in naked flames. Theinhabitants of Dis were a combination of demons, devils, and lost souls. They all seemed prettymiserable to the Armstrongs, the devils included. Even though they were nominally lords andmasters of Hell, they were still basically stuck in the same boat - condemned to remain in Hell for all eternity.

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nation that consumed so much sugar? There had to be some soul-trading going on, Dioveresthought, no dentist was that good) was even starting to get to Gumption by the end of the day.And so they had left. Dioveres had been too dispirited to even be rude to anybody. But they hadover a week left of their holiday, days in which to discover how venal and corrupt Americanstruly were.

Meanwhile, Donny and Gladys Armstrong (the real Donny and Gladys Armstrong, and not their physical bodies, which had been hi-jacked by Dioveres and Gumption) were still seeing the sightsof Dis, and trying to get a tan at the same time. (The Armstrongs' reasoning was that it was prettyhot in Hell, and that there was a fair bit of light (albeit reddish); so just whack on the AmbreSolaire and hope for the best.) The Armstrongs had decided to give the torture parlours a miss, itwasn't really their scene; but they did check out a couple of cinemas. They weren't quite showingHollywood blockbusters (with the exception of extended versions of Showgirls and PearlHarbour); 'interesting', 'educational', 'she must have been a contortionist' and 'different people dothings differently' were the Armstrongs' critical comments after seeing "Lesbian GorehoundsFrom The Black Lagoon". But the Armstrongs weren't going to overly criticise, or start moaning,again; just go in, and make the best of their current situation. And it was better than sittingthrough the Extended Producer's Cut of "Pearl Harbour", anyway.

As they left the cinema the Armstrongs politely thanked the demon in the ticket booth, andwished him a nice day. They then turned and left. They did not see the demon grit his teeth sohard that one of them broke off, flying out of his mouth, and pinging off a board advertising"Coming Attractions - Veronica Lake in Chainsaw Bimbos From New Jersey."

The Grand Canyon was up next for Dioveres and Gumption. They had hitchhiked there, goingfor the much written about road trip experience. All it had done had made their thumbs ache.

They stood at the top of the Grand Canyon and looked down, and across. Even Dioveres had toadmit that it was impressive. Hell had some nice rock formations (all hardened lava, of course)

but nothing like this. But, even here, he and Gumption could not get away from Americans: fromnice, courteous Americans. He wished that he and Gumption were in the bodies of French people- that would get the Yanks riled up. Damn the other tourists! He found himself being polite back to them, he couldn't help it, although it went against his very demonic being.

The sun was about to set. Its red rays spread across the land, glinting off the buttes and pillars of rock. The crimson hues reminded him of Hell. He was starting to become homesick.

Dioveres shook his head. He was being stupid. Anything was better than Hell. Even Americans being nice to him was better than that.

Nice. What an insipid word it was, he mused. Nice biscuits. Sweet yet still bland, too scared tooffend anybody.

He noticed that Gumption was peering over the edge of the safety rail. Wearing GladysArmstrong's body as he was, he was more than a little top-heavy. Dioveres thought that he had

better get him out of there before he overbalanced and fell to the valley floor a long way below.They were supposed to return the bodies in a reasonable state - although considering howoverweight the Armstrongs were, they could hardly have been in a worse state.

"Come, Gladys." Dioveres said, as humans were looking at them at the moment. "On to the nextattraction. We still have a couple of days left. Let's head for the East Coast, and see what NewYork has to offer."

Despite being ensconced on the second plane of Hell, despite having been abducted anddumped outside the city of Dis, Donald and Gladys Armstrong were beginning to enjoythemselves. At least the holiday would provide them with plenty to tell their friends about; if theywere believed, of course. Donny had his camera with him, and he had taken a load of snaps. He

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did not know if any of them would come out, nor where he would be able to get them developed; but, if he could, then he intended to turn them into slides for his projector. And it was surprisinghow a camera could get even the most recalcitrant devil to strike a pose. They had a picture of ademon holding a barbed spear, standing on a mound of unconscious imps, looking more like awhite big game hunter on the African veldt than anything else. They had 'interesting' pictures of incubi and succubi, that were more likely to get the Armstrongs arrested than anything else. Andthey had loads of snaps of the architecture of Dis. Early demonic is not a style recognised by mostarchitects - but it was as distinctive a style as Gothic, or Rococo, or Edwardian.

The Armstrongs were currently getting a twelve foot tall fiend, a horrific demon who carried aflaming whip, to perform tricks with it for the camera. He had come up the street snarling atthem; but once he had seen the camera, he had been happy to comply with their demands. And sotheir holiday continued

The bodies of Gladys and Donny Armstrong, still containing the demons Gumption andDioveres, were now in New York.

"Is that it?" Gumption asked, staring up at the Statue of Liberty. "What's the torch for?""It's supposed to be the Torch of Liberty." Dioveres said."They've obviously never been to Hell." Gumption said. "Torches there certainly don't have

anything to do with liberty. They're for burning people with. Under the armpits, and all that kindof stuff."

"Yes, well," said Dioveres "we're not in Hell at the moment. We're looking at a gift from theFrench to the Americans, to celebrate the centenary, I think it was, of American independence."

"I thought that the French and the Americans hated each other.""Only recently." Dioveres said. "If not for French assistance, America would not have become

independent in the first place. Now, it's a symbol that people coming to America see.""I preferred the Colossus at Rhodes." Gumption said sniffily. "The way that the ships going into

the harbour sailed between its legs was really cool.""Yes, well that fell down, didn't it?" Dioveres said. "A small, localised earthquake. Funny how

that happened just after we'd visited Rhodes. It couldn't have been anything to do with you, couldit?"

"Yeah, well I was bored at the time." Gumption said. "And he didn't have any bits under hisskirt, either. I remember."

"I remember you looking up as we went under it on that boat and remarking that he was builtlike a woman." Dioveres said. "Why do you think that they never let us out of Hell these days?What was it that you did when we arrived in Rhodes? Dropped your human form and pretendedto be Pan, didn't you?"

"Hey, with the horns and the cloven hooves I got a lot of mileage out of that." Gumption said,smiling inanely as he relived the memories. "The girls were flocking to me for days."

"You would have got away with it if you hadn't tried to turn water into wine." Dioveres said."That is not the sort of trick that our side gets to perform."

"So where to now, then?" asked Gumption, changing the subject."Home, soon, I guess." Dioveres said. He thought that he would have been disappointed by the

prospect of returning home, but he was not. The Armstrongs' sojourn in Hell would soon be over,and their souls would be returning to their mortal forms. But Americans were too nice, always toonice, and he hated them. He hated the way that they smiled their pearly white gates-of-heavensmiles. He hated the way that they said 'have a nice day' and some of them actually meant it. Hehated the way that they thought that the American Way was right, and expected the rest of theworld to accept it. But, most of all, he hated the fact that he was stuck in the body of an obese oldman.

He looked at Gumption, or rather, at the body that Gumption was wearing. It looked smaller than it had been. Her clothes, that had been filled out by excess fat, had begun to hang a little

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loosely. It's having a devil inside you, reflected Dioveres. You burnt up calories like there was notomorrow. The body of Gladys Armstrong must have lost at least a stone in weight. Oh, well, shecould spare it easily enough.

"One last night in town." Dioveres said. "We'll go and hit the bars. Why should we havehangovers, when we can let the Armstrongs inherit them instead? Come on, let's go."

"Oh goody." said Gumption.

Gladys and Donny Armstrong were now having a whale of a time. Not so the denizens of Hell.They had not met a couple as indefatigable as the two Armstrongs before. For almost two weeksthey had taken all the unpleasantness and nastiness that Hell could throw at them and absorbed it;they had treated it as part of their holiday: something to be endured and, if possible, enjoyed.

The demons and devils were not having such a great time. Indeed, they did not know how theywere going to live down their current activity. This was because the Armstrongs had inveigledhalf the denizens of Dis into a massive conga line. As it wove its way around the buildings andthe inner walls of the city, more and more demons were recruited into the line.

"Everybody conga! Everybody conga!"They weren't really all that willing. It was more a case of 'oh, all right then' than anything else.

And, once they were in the line, grasping the devil in front, and being grasped by the demon behind, they found that they didn't know how to stop.

"Conga! Everybody conga!"The Armstrongs were orchestrating the conga, of course. Donald Armstrong was the head of the

conga line, and it was Gladys who was persuading reluctant demonic denizens to take part.From somewhere, paper party hats, of all different colours, had appeared. Perhaps the

Armstrongs had brought the hats with them. Perhaps party hats simply appeared whenever aconga line got big enough. Unfortunately, with the reddish light of Hell, most of the hats took ona shade between red and brown. Have you ever seen an eight foot tall fly demon, a pink paper

party hat parked jauntily over one giant, multi-faceted eye? Not a pretty sight, I can assure you."Conga! Everybody conga! Conga!"The conga went on until what passed for dawn in Hell. Although the Armstrongs did not realise

it, having lost track of their time in Hell, their holiday was almost up. It's hard to keep track of time in Hell, anyway. It doesn't flow like it does in the real world: it either stagnates, or

progresses with a hop, skip and a jump.The conga ended. The devils and the demons collapsed in a heap where they were. They, in

doing the conga, had experienced selfless pleasure - not the selfish pleasure of seeing someonehurt, and taking pride in it, but the pleasure that comes from release. Fun. Joie de vivre. Call itwhat you will, it was not something that they normally experienced, and they were not sure if they liked it or not.

Donny Armstrong was not tired at all. He walked over and joined his wife. And then it wasover.

Gumption and Dioveres were propping up the bar in an Irish pub in New York.. Murphy's, or Paddy's, or something like that. All shamrocks and fake 'Oirish' kitsch.

"Thirteen double whishkies. I think that'sh the record." Gumption said, as he slowly slid off the bar stool on to the floor.

"I couldn't drink another bloody thing." Dioveres said. "These human bodies just aren'tdesigned for alcohol. I don't know how they manage it. I mean that Dylan Thomas, he could holda few, I've heard. Shame I never got to meet him. Or Ollie Reed. A real man's devil. Devil's man.Devil's devil. Er, you know what I mean."

"Didn't they drink themshelves to deaf?" said Gumption, from somewhere near Dioveres' rightknee.

"Well, yes, but they were drinking like this every night. I mean, one night, and these bodies are

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absolutely washted. Wasted.""I want to go home." Gumption suddenly said, feeling maudlin."So do I." said Dioveres. "These people are too nice. Let's get back to Hell where people are

nasty all the time, and where they don't smile at you. I thought that we were going to have a riot, but it's been a nightmare. All those receptionists in hotels, with their perfect teeth, and their perfect smiles, saying 'have a nice day' - and maybe I don't fucking want to have a nice day.Maybe I want to have a bloody awful day, so that I can inflict my misery on somebody else.Maybe"

Dioveres paused for breath here, his invective incomplete."Come on, let's go." he finished, lamely. "Our time's up, and I've had enough." And so they

went, back to Hell.

Donald and Gladys Armstrong were now back in their own bodies. They gazed round, not quitesure of what was going on.

"We're back, Donny." Gladys said."I can see that." Donald Armstrong said. "But where in tarnation are we? I thought that we

would be back home."The two of them then looked down at their bodies. Their clothes hung loosely upon them, and

they felt a lot more physically fit than they had done for many years."We've lost weight." Gladys said, not having lost her ability of stating the obvious."Must have lost weight due to the heat of Hell." Donny deduced, incorrectly, not realising that

demons had inhabited their bodies while their souls had been away. "Well, we're back, and nonethe worse for wear."

That's what he thought. He didn't know how they were going to feel in the morning."And why the Hell are we in New York?" Donny asked, as the two of them waddled off. But

Hell, of course, was the reason why, and it wasn't answering.

- 12 -


13/23


RatsThey come in from the wind;They come in from the cold;They come in, though they're young;They come in, though they're old;The rats come in.

They come in ones and twos;They come in threes and fours;They come in through the drains;They come in under doors;The rats come in.

They come in, in winter;They come in, in the spring;They come in, all year round;They come in for our bins;The rats come in.

They come in for our food;They come in to make nests;They come in to give birth;They come in, unclean guests;The rats come in.

And everywhere where man does roam, And make himself a house and home,The rats will still come in.

Without Due Cause Or MeaningI don't know what you never said,All those words aren't in my head,The love that doesn't bare to be;I am captured to be free.All those sights to which I'm blind,Songs don't echo through my mind,Reading words, the page is blank,For which you have my bitter thanks.I can't complain, you are so sweet,Perhaps I should just admit defeat,I have a life that I won't live,Presents that I shouldn't give,All that was, that never will;Booze and hope and faith and pills,And other ways of dodging facts,I never really had much tact,But you know so much more than me,I'm naive in my misery:All my lies that you aren't reading

- 13 -


14/23


Are without due cause or meaning.

- 14 -


15/23


Second Chance By Brian Grove and Phil Drew

I woke up. I was still so tired, that I could sleep for a thousand years. All that I wanted to dowas to turn over and to go back to sleep. But I couldn't afford to do that. I had to go and go down

the Job Centre, and look for a job. I hadn't had a job for ten years now; and I didn't expect to getone after ten years on the dole. Employers tend to notice things like that. They go for younger people, ones with get-up-and-go. Anyway, since Thatcher closed all the mines down, therehaven't been any jobs in my village. Not proper ones: just government schemes designed tomassage the unemployment figures. But I've been told that if I don't apply for a certain number of

jobs a month, then the DSS are going to stop my benefit. And I can't be having with that, so I gothrough the motions for them, applying for the right number of jobs, none of them being any thatI stand a cat's chance of getting. It's a game we play.

I walked into the bathroom, and looked at myself in the mirror. I must have had a better nightlast night than I thought. There were no bags under my eyes, for a start. And there were a few lesswhite hairs than I remember having. Perhaps I should try waking up feeling tired more often.

I yawned. And then I yawned again. And again. I could not stop yawning for a full five minutes.I don't know what was the matter with me.

I washed, I shaved, I went to the toilet. I sprayed myself with smelly stuff out of an aerosol can.I went and got dressed, but I couldn't find my favourite black tee shirt. It wasn't where I hadthrown it on the floor the night before. At least my jeans fitted me fine. Looking down at mywaist, I could swear that I had lost a lot of weight. It's funny, but I had never lost any weightwhen I had tried to do so in the past. Perhaps I should market my diet - 'beer'n'chips, eat yourself thinner'.

This was not getting me down the Job Centre. I hurriedly finished getting dressed, and went outof my house, locking my door behind me. As I had sold my car when I lost my last job, I walkedthe mile and a half to the nearest Job Centre. I hate that place. The staff are so superior in their secure little occupations. They've got jobs, and you haven't, and every one of their false smilesreminds you of that fact.

The jobs on show were the worse that I had ever seen. I could hardly believe how little theywere paying. Eighty quid a week for a full time swimming pool attendant? Surely that was belowthe minimum wage? I asked the girl behind the desk whether it was below the minimum wage,

but she only looked at me as if I was odd. But, eventually, I found a few jobs that I could safelyapply for, in the knowledge that I stood no chance of getting them.

I walked home. Applying for those jobs was my good deed for the day. Now, it would be amenu of daytime television until the pub opened its doors at six o'clock.

The teevee was crap. Okay, so daytime television is not exactly great at the best of times, but itwas particularly bad today. All that they were showing was repeats. Channel Five was not even a

bad picture. It was not even its usual grainy snow, but was nothing but static, as if there wasnothing there at all. Perhaps some irate viewer had pulled their transmitter down. Bored, I turnedthe television off.

Something odd was going on, but I could not put my finger on it at the time. Something hadchanged. Well, I could think about it over a pint or two. As soon as the clock neared six o'clock, Iwent down the pub.

I had not realised how poor my village was. But walking down to the pub I did not see a car thatwas less than ten years old.

I walked through the doors of my local. My friends were already in the lounge, nursing a few pints. I waved to them, as I waited to get served.

I bought my pint of mild, and looked down at the change in my hand. There was a lot more thanI had been expecting. It must be happy hour.

- 15 -


16/23


I walked over towards my friends, with my pint of mild in my hand. I stopped. In fact, I stoppedso suddenly that the head of the beer spilled over the side of the glass and slid down my fingers, adroplet lingering slowly, before falling to the floor.

My friends were younger than before. There was no getting past it. They looked years younger.But they did not appear to have noticed this fact; they were chatting to each other as if nothinguntoward had happened.

I slid myself into a seat next to them. What was going on? Had I gone mad? Was it all a dream?Was it some sort of timeslip?

I decided that I would have to be careful when I spoke to my friends, just in case it was me. Idid not want to appear insane. I mean, I could hardly say 'did we all go back years in time lastnight?' That would be absurd. I would try and have to drop hints into the conversation, try and testthem as to whether they realised what had happened.

"Hello, Paul, have a good day?" Mike said.I'm Paul. Mike's one of my oldest drinking buddies."Same old, same old." I said. "How've you been doing?""Oh, you know." Mike said."Not the same since the mines closed." I said."Nope." said John. John's another long term drinking friend of mine. "And the Prime Minister

doesn't care. He's bloody useless."Aha, I thought! John had said 'he'. That meant that it wasn't Thatcher. So, either Major or Blair.

That rounded things down a bit. When was it that Major had come to power? 1991 wasn't it? Or was it '92? I wish that I had taken more interest in politics. But it had all become boring, onceThatcher had gone. I hated her during all the time that she had been Prime Minister; yet I still feltsympathy for her when she finally fell, driven away in tears. And I hated myself for my weaknessin feeling sympathy for her.

The pub was packed, busier than usual for this time of night. I wondered if there was some dogoing on. I recognised most of the people there. There were not only my regular drinking

buddies, who I'd been drinking with for most of my adult life, but also people who I had not seenin ages. Hugh was there. I hadn't seen Hugh since we'd had that big argument about... about...Hell, what was it that we'd argued about? It must have been something really important at the

time, for us not to have spoken to each other for three years. But, for the life of me, I can'tremember what the argument was about. I nodded in Hugh's direction, and he nodded back. Am Iin the past, or is it now? Am I friends with Hugh, or not? I don't really want to go over to speak tohim, yet, until I am sure.

Sitting at the bar, on a stool, is Sondra. God, she looks so young at the moment, I'm surprisedthat the bar staff are serving her. She does not even glance in my direction. I try not to stare at her too much. When was it that I first met her? It was around four years ago. Perhaps I don't know her yet.

Which brings me back to the fact that I must find out what is going on. If I am in the past, Imust find out how long ago. It has to be the past, everybody looks so young.

Ha! thinking that I'm clever, I go over to look at the music on the jukebox. The jukebox is therein the corner, where it's always been, with it's classic collection of tracks by the Kinks, the Beatles

and the Stones... damn, they never did put any recent music on it, did they? We always agreedthat modern music was crap. So I can't tell from the music when I am. But I have to putsomething on, so that I don't look weird. I must pretend that everything is normal. So, a fewmoments later, the strains of 'A Whiter Shade Of Pale' are filtering through the pub. What the helldoes Procul Harum mean, anyway? And why am I thinking these thoughts now? Perhaps I havegone insane, after all.

I never liked that song. I don't know why I put it on. I should have put 'Waterloo Sunset' oninstead. I walk back to rejoin my friends, glancing at the wooden tables as I go, hoping to see thatsomebody has left a newspaper. I have to find out the date. But there's nothing. Mean bastards.

- 16 -


17/23


I sit down, and sip my beer. I listen to the conversations, rather than actively taking part, hopingto pick up some clues as to when I am. I hear snippets of names and events: 'Saddam', 'Gulf War','President Bush' - yet which one? Are they talking about Saddam invading Kuwait, or aboutDubya invading Iraq? I don't catch enough to find out. 'England mid-order batting collapse' -well, that never changes. That could be any time in the last twenty years or so.

Listening to the bits and pieces of conversation, though, I do reach a conclusion - which couldwell be erroneous, I admit, as I'm hardly Sherlock Holmes - that I have gone back in timeapproximately ten years. Of course, I don't inform anybody of this fact, as they seem oblivious asto what has occurred. Perhaps I am the only person that this has happened to.

There were so many people there, people who I had known from all stages of my life. It was asif everybody that I had ever known had turned up. I saw Micky, who had been my bestest friendfrom the age of six all the way through my school and college years, but who I had not seen inover nine years, ever since he managed to escape our village for a well paid job down Londonway. God, what scrapes we had got into when we were kids: scrumping for apples on nasty 'OldMan' Watson's land; trespassing on the railway, and putting pennies on the train tracks, to seewhat would happen; staying out all night, Micky pretending that he was sleeping over at myhouse, while I lied that I was sleeping over at his. Ah, happy times!

Then I saw Ted, who actually had been a teddy boy at one stage, right when Showaddywaddyhad been big. Ted could never afford all the rocker kit, though: he had the teddy boy hair, and thetrousers, and multi-coloured, glow-in-the-dark socks, but he never managed to save up for a

jacket, so the duffle coat that he wore instead kind of spoiled the image. Next to Ted, sipping a martini (he always had to be different), little finger cocked up in the air,

was Ian. Ian of the affected airs and graces, Ian who, like the rest of us, was as common as muck.I doubt if he even liked martinis: he only wanted to look posh. I give him a smile. I hope that itdoesn't look too insincere. He's probably too self-obsessed to notice, anyway.

And then there's Don, and Stella, and Mary, and Bob, and Rupert (his parents must have reallyhated him to call him that). People who I know now, and people who I haven't seen in years. I see

people there who I definitely did not know ten years ago; but I still recognise them. Perhaps thisis a dream after all, and I'll wake up n a moment. I talk to these people, who I should not know,and they talk to me. Do they also recognise me, or are they only being polite? I don't know.

I am starting to get somewhat drunk. I believe that the technical term is 'merry'. I no longer carewhether I am in the past or not, only that I am enjoying myself in the company of all my friends.

Then, suddenly, the realisation hits me. What I can do, forearmed with ten years knowledge of what is to come. I can become a millionaire through betting on the races! then I suddenlyremember that I don't know anything about horse racing. The only horses that I can recall are RedRum and Shergar, and I've no idea in what years they ran. Bugger. Oh well, it was a nice idea.

Then I see him, and a chill runs down my spine, and then right back up again into my scalp,making my hair stand on end. Rory walks into the pub. Rory Stone, one of my best friends, whogot decapitated in a car crash on the M6 five years ago. Of course, he's still alive at this momentin time. And I have no idea of how to handle this, it's so creepy. Do I try to act normal, and

pretend that everything is hunky dory? Or do I start babbling that he's only got five years to live,and that he shouldn't go for long drives along motorways? Would it even make a difference if I

said anything? Could I prevent him from being killed? In the end, I take the coward's way out,downing a quick double whisky (which makes me cough) and avoiding him for now, at least untilI am sure of the best way to handle it.

I have a drink, and I have another drink, and then I hear a bell ring. Shit! It can't really be lastorders yet, can it? But it is. I buy a final beer. I still have not worked out exactly when I am, nor how I got here.

I stumble home some twenty minutes later, the pub doors closing behind me. Although my legsare being somewhat rebellious, my mind is surprisingly clear. Perhaps it is only a drunkard's

percipience, in the way that people in a pub can solve all the problems of the world over a couple

- 17 -


18/23


of pints of beer and a packet of peanuts, but I suddenly see all the possibilities that have openedup for me. All those things that I regret doing, all those angry words that I regret saying. I cantake them all back. And all the things that I should have done - but never did - now, at least, I canattempt. I can tell Sondra how I feel about her, before she gets into that relationship with Adrian.Perhaps I can save Rory from destiny on the motorway. And I can get a job! I don't have to spendten years on the scrap heap of unemployment. I can get a decent job, and a decent flat, and livethe future that I never had.

I get undressed, and flop down on to my unmade bed. I still don't know if I'm mad, or if it's adream, and I'll wake up in the morning to find that I'm back ten years in the future. But maybe -

just maybe - what has happened is real, and I have the opportunity to change all the bad things inmy life. Perhaps I can really have a second chance.

- 18 -


19/23


Drink Up Drink up, drink up, the time's approaching When the landlord will ring the bell;We've got to get a few more beers in

Before we're thrown into the night,The pub doors locked behind us,Until tomorrow rolls around again.

Drink up, drink up, the beer is flowing, And I can hold a few more pints;The busty barmaid looks even better -

I wonder if I stand a chance? Perhaps some night I'll even ask her, Before tomorrow rolls around again.

Drink up, drink up, it's the eleventh hour, Not long now before we're off; I don't want to leave my local, I want to drink all through the night; I have to leave, the pub has closed now,Until tomorrow rolls around again.

Plastic OdysseyWho would be a bath toy duck Cast adrift upon the sea?On a wild and stormy nightBegan his plastic odyssey.

When a cago ship went downHe escaped on to the brineBetween Hong Kong and the States

Near to where they mark the dateline.

This took place in '92;On and on old Ducky floats,Passing through the Bering StraitsAnd floating past ice-fishing boats.

His yellow has faded now

Bleached by sun and salty air,The first years his only mark,Old Ducky sails the ocean fair.

Did he pass the northern ice?Has he sunk? Has he struck land?Or does Ducky bobble onTo beach sometime on British sands?

- 19 -


20/23


Who Am I?

Who am I?

I am little Martin Jones, aged six, clothes in shreds, discovered on a hillside, the only survivor

of the landslide that buried the Welsh village of Pontyffilin thirty years ago. They are only nowstarting to excavate the village, after thirty years of arguments between the church, and therelatives of the dead, and the local authorities, on how to best put the dead of Pontyffilin to rest.They never asked me what I thought.

Who am I?

I am the pseudonymous John Castle, writer of stories of horror and suspense. I do not know if Ihave become a horror author because of my experiences, or despite them. Yet I look back, and Icannot remember anything before being found wandering on that Welsh hillside. I could notremember who I was, nor what had happened. Doctors said that I was in shock, and that I had

blanked out the experiences, and that my memory would return of its own accord. It never has.My life began aged six, on that Welsh hillside.

Who am I?

I am Martin Jones, identified by an old woman from one of the neighbouring villages. I never had cause to question her judgement, before. I think her surname was Lewis.

I was taken into care, and was given to foster parents. They were fine. I could not remember myreal parents. I still can't. Still, all these years later, the first thing that I remember is being foundon that mountainside. My clothes had been reduced to tatters, and I was grimy and dirty, grit inmy hair, my fingernails broken and bloody.

They had spent days digging for other survivors at Pontyffilin, but they did not find any, only afew dead bodies. When they gave up the search most of the village still lay buried by themountainside that had slipped down on top of it. The one road leading to it was closed, thesignpost removed.

In the years that followed, I would lie awake at night, safe in my bed at my foster parents,wondering if somebody had managed to stay alive in an air pocket, their screams going unheard

by their would-be rescuers.

Who am I?

Thirty years later, they have begun to exhume Pontyffilin. It has been agreed that the bodiesshould be dug up, so that they can be reburied in the graveyards of the adjacent villages. I have astrange, morbid curiosity about this landslide that I still cannot recall. I have returned to Wales,not having been there for nigh on twenty years now, to be as close to Pontyffilin as I can. It seemsstrange to me, digging up all those old bones, only so that they can be buried again. It made thenational news. I would not have known about it, otherwise. They never told me.

The old woman who identified me, Mrs Lewis I think it was, must be long dead by now. Shehad to have been in her seventies at the time. She must be buried in one of the graveyards that aregoing to be used for the dead of Pontyffilin.

Who am I?

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21/23


I am a person who, for the last twenty years, has put his Welsh roots behind him. I don't evenhave an accent now. I left for college when I was sixteen, followed by university, and I never went back. My foster family moved to New Zealand. I still keep in touch by the occasional letter.They are some of the few people who know that I am also the author John Castle.

There was nothing in Wales for me to go back to. My earliest childhood friends were buried beneath tons of rock and mud, and are not even memories, any more.

All the dead, thirty years dead, have to be identified. Personal effects have to be sifted through,dental records have to be checked. New graves have to be assigned, and dug. Graves assigned tothem in pastures new. Relatives can them come and grieve.

I don't know what I am expecting that they would find. Perhaps something that would jog mymemory, and give me back the missing fragments of who I am.

Who am I?

I hope that I'll know soon. Perhaps when they dig up the rest of my family.I stay in Wales longer than I had intended, in a hotel, if you can call it that, ten miles down the

road from the dead village of Pontyffilin. I can afford to stay there as long as I want. John Castleis a successful author. I always think of John Castle in the third person. He's not me, only a mask that I wear when I want to get something published.

It took months, but all the dead of Pontyffilin have been dug up and identified. Including myfamily: Ivor Jones, my father; Ann Jones, my mother; Elizabeth Jones, my sister; and MartinJones, myself.

Who am I?

It appears that I am not Martin Jones. they found the body of six year old Martin Jones, buried

below half a hillside for these thirty years past. His body was found in what remained of theJones' house. There was no doubt that it was the right house. Martin was asleep in his bedroomwhen the landslide destroyed Pontyffilin. He never woke up.

I feel like a ghost. If he is Martin Jones, then who am I?

Who am I?

What family did I belong to? Old Mrs Lewis must have been wrong in her identification of me.It's too late to ask her anything now.

It might explain why I cannot remember being Martin Jones. I never was Martin Jones. I wasnot brought up by Ivor and Ann Jones. I never had a sister called Elizabeth.

One of the other families must have been missing a son. When all the bodies were found, I

asked who was missing, who was unaccounted for. That person must be me, and then I shalldiscover who I really am. When I know my real name, I shall remember my earliest childhood,my earliest memories flooding back.

Two boys, of my age then, can not be accounted for among the bodies that are recovered. Theyare David Williams and Owen Marks. Neither name rings a bell. Neither name means anything tome. Yet I must be one of those two; and I will never know which.

Who am I? In the end, I am me, and that must always be enough.

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22/23


Counting SheepYan tyan tethera.

John the shepherd's counting sheep,So why is it he can't get to sleep?

Hovera dovera dick.

There he goes, counting sheep again.Counting when it's snow,Counting when it's rain.

Un dau tri pedwar pump chwech saith.

Counting them in Scotland,Counting them in Wales,Counting them in Cornwall,Counting them in the Dales.

Baa baa black sheep have you any wool?Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.

John the shepherd's counting sheep, He's counting rows three hudred deep.

One two three four Gonna count a few sheep more

Five six seven eight Counting sheep keeps me awake.

Un deux trois quatre cinqCounting sheep, he counts every rank Six sept huit neuf dixCounting sheep will never cease.

Why won't his eyelids start to drop?Counting sheep, he cannot stop.

Eins zwei drei vier Counting sheep all through the year.

John the shepherd's counting sheep And he still can't.....get.....to.....sleep..... Zzzzzzz.

- 22 -


23/23


The Recruitment OfficeThese are the young men,Waiting in line,They are your future,Yet you send them to die.

Milkman, miner, monger,They are all here,They sign up for the war,Showing no fear.

They laugh and they shout,These heroes of the age,They see their names in the press,Warriors on the world stage.

But after they leave this place How many will returnTo those they have loved,The lives they have earned?

How many will fall Into the darkness of fools?Sent over the top:

Mad general's tools.

For how many yearsWill we remember their deaths?Their pointless sacrifice?The families left bereft?

Credits : All material in this issue written and 2004 Philip Drew; apart from Second Chance ,written and 2004 by Brian Grove and Philip Drew.

kryptophilia issue 6

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