tent="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1">

                                  T H E

                               Z E P H Y R

                      __     M A G A Z I N E
                     {__]++++++++++++++++++++++++++[]
                     Issue #20                6-28-86

                A weekly electronic magazine for users of
                            THE ZEPHYR II BBS
                        (Mesa, AZ - 602-894-6526)
                    owned and operated by T. H. Smith

                        Editor - Gene B. Williams

     . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
     . You may share this magazine with your friends under the   .
     . condition that the magazine remain complete and intact,   .
     . with no editing, revisions or modifications of any kind,  .
     . and including this opening section and statement.         .
     . If you like the magazine, our Sysop and I would appreciate.
     . it if you would let your friends know where they can log  .
     . in to find the magazine (and incidentally one of the      .
     . one of the finest BBSs in the country!).                  .
     . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
                                (c) 1986

    THIS ISSUE:

      Imagine this.
      You've been at one of the best parties that was ever held.
    It was a wild time for everyone, but eventually it had to end,
    and then came the drive home.
      You go outside, start your vehicle and head off. Maybe you
    had too much to drink (or whatever) - knowing inside that you
    shouldn't really be on the road. Maybe you dozed at the wheel,
    or maybe the road him is so familiar that you just weren't
    paying attention - for whatever reason you find yourself on a
    road in the middle of nowhere.
      You have no idea where you are. Nothing looks familiar. It
    seems that you are on a mountain road somewhere. And it must
    be a long, long way from civilization because there is no
    sign of a city anywhere, and the radio has nothing but static
    on it.
      Just as you're trying to figure out where you are - and how
    you got there - a creature appears and wants to take your
    life. It looks human enough, but nothing you do affects it.

                         THE GHOST OF HIGHWAY 12

      Bob felt great. He had the road all to himself. For hours his
    only company had been the thousands of tiny insects dancing in
    the beams of the headlights.
      Cool mountain air rushed into the cab through the open window.
    It carried a hint of rain, but the sky was cloudless, marked
    only by the countless sparkling stars and the thin glow of a
    cresent moon.
      The feeling of freedom and power as he pressed down on the
    accelerator was overwhelming - almost intoxicating. Only one
    thing bothered him at the moment. He didn't know where he was.
      Not that he was lost. Bob never got lost, at least not for
    very long. He just didn't know where he was. Or why. Or how
    he'd come to be there, or where he was going.
      He was just driving, all alone, in the middle of nowhere,
    for no reason that he could remember.
      He knew other drivers who would fall into a semi-sleep at
    the wheel. They'd experience a temporary disorientation. But
    Bob knew that he hadn't dozed off. He was wide awake, and fully
    aware of everything around him.
      He thought back, trying to remember when he'd stopped last.
      Two days before he'd been in Tucson. That's where Sara
    lived, so he certainly couldn't forget that.
      After Tucson . . . nothing. Two days were missing.
      He looked straight ahead through the darkness, trying to find
    the telltale dome of light of a city or town. Eventually he must
    come across a town - something that would give him his bearings.
    The road stretched out, surrounded by dense forest, on and on,
    with no signs of ever ending. The view in the mirror was the
    same.
      The radio was silent. Its light tried to tell him that it was
    working, but nothing came through the speaker but soft static.
    Every channel was the same. Either he was too far from any
    transmitter, or absolutely nobody was on the air.
      Without warning a man appeared in the road ahead. In the
    frightening and helpless second before collision Bob saw that
    the man was just standing there, arms raised, and smiling.
      Bob's hands automatically tightened on the wheel. But there
    was no impact. No thud. Bob clearly saw the image of the
    man slide through the cab and then disappear through the back
    wall of the van.
      Bob braked hard and fought to keep the van from going out of
    control. The right wheels bit into the gravel of the shoulder
    and sent up a wake of dust. Just inches from a large and very
    hard tree the van came to a stop.
      Adrenalin shot through his veins as he hopped from the van.
    He looked back through the darkness and saw that the man was
    now walking toward him, and still smiling. Just fifty yards
    away the man stopped, then waved.
      "Hello. I was wondering if you'd be by tonight. I've been
    waiting for you."
      Bob felt the blood rush to his face, leaving a streak of icy
    cold along his spine. His hand was shaking badly. Fighting a
    desparate flood of panic he reached into the van and pulled
    out a large wrench.
      "Hold it right there, fella," he commanded.
      The man shrugged. "Okay, if that's what you want. But you
    might as well put the wrench away. It won't do you any good."
      "Step closer and we'll see just how much good it does. Now
    who the hell are you, and what do you want with me?"
      "It doesn't really matter who I am. You're Bob Sawyer, right?"
      "Yeah. So what?"
      "Well, Bob, I've come to release you from this world."
      The chill along his spine exploded, spreading a tingling
    numbness all through his body. Breath came hard. The man
    began walking toward him again, arms open.
      "Stand where you are!" Bob screamed, choking.
      The man ignored it, and was smiling even wider than before.
    "There's no need to be afraid, Bob. Accept it, and it will be
    much easier."
      Using both hands Bob raised the wrench and hurled it at the
    approaching stranger. It sailed through him and slid along the
    road behind.
      "Calm down, Bob. I'm not here to hurt you. I'm going to
    help you. I'm here to release you from this world."
      Bob tightened his fists, knowing very well that all his
    strength wouldn't help him against this . . . this creature
    of darkness. "How can I fight a ghost?" he thought in panic.
      The man came very close before he stopped, and then stood
    looking at Bob and smiling. "Being dead isn't so bad. You'll
    see."
      "But I don't want to be dead!"
      "I'm afraid you have no choice, Bob. There's nothing you can
    do about it." The man opened his arms again, as if to take Bob
    into his embrace.
      Bob backed up quickly and yelled, "Get away from me. No spook
    is going to touch me!"
      The man smiled and lowered his arms. "Do you know what a
    ghost is, really?"
      A drop of sweat fell down Bob's nose and into his mouth. "Yeah.
    They're dead people."
      "Not all dead people are ghosts, but you're right, in a way. Some
    who have died just wander around, and won't let go of this
    physical world. They sometimes stay around the spot where they
    died - such as this road."
      Cold kept spreading through Bob until now he was shivering. He
    swallowed hard, trying to remove the grapefruit sized lump in
    his throat. "Then why don't you just leave!!! Why do you want to
    go haunting a road for?"
      The stranger stared at Bob, the smile gone. "You don't understand
    yet, do you Bob? It's not me who's haunting this road. I'm quite
    alive. YOU are the ghost. You died on this road three years ago
    and have been driving it ever since. Now you can leave. There's
    no reason for you to stay lost any longer.
      "You're dead, Bob."

    UNTIL NEXT TIME

      Well, response was a *little* better this past week. True,
    the discussion turned into electronic, hairless cats (with
    and without RAM) - but that was more or less in keeping with
    the general silliness of the issue.

      I wonder what this week will bring? Maybe a few personal
    ghost stories? Or just opinions on the subject? I just hope
    we don't go back to the little or no response routine.

      What should the magazine be? Weekly? Bi-weekly? Monthly? Not at
    all? (Out of maybe 200+ users I hear from 4?)
      Is it worth a couple of minutes of your time? Or am I spending
    hours each week to entertain myself?
      Well, if you care enough, there ARE several ways you can assure
    that the issues will keep coming each week.
        1.)  Post some participatory remark on the magazine board.
        2.)  Send me some mail, if only to give me your opinion of the
             present issue.
        3.)  Attempt an issue as a "Guest Author" (contact me in E-mail
             first).
        4.)  Bring a new user to Zephyr (and let me know about it).
        5.)  Download the file called "Question" then fill it out and
             send it to me, then make copies and hand it out to every
             appropriate person you can think of. (After well over a
             month, I have yet to get a single response.)

    (on the other hand, if having weekly issues doesn't really matter
     to you, all you have to do is to continue doing what you're doing
     now - nothing at all.)

      That's simple enough, isn't it?

    Next week:
      It depends on how much time I have. In the past I've given the
    issues of the magazine a position of priority. But since this is
    the "lowest paying market" I have (writing *is* how I make my
    entire living) . . . .

Zephyr Magazine is © Gene Williams. All rights reserved.