"That is not dead which cannot eternal lie
Yet with strange aeons even death may die."
A WORD OF FAREWELL - THE LAST ISSUE OF THIS DISK MAGAZINE
by Richard Karsmakers
"The wind blew through the desolate streets, and the leaves that
had fallen in all their abundance from the trees onto the
pavement were mercilessly swept aside as if in ghusts of
The houses seemed dark and ghostly in the scarse midday light,
that seemed to envelop the scenery in preternatural nocturne.
Exactly the scenery where one would expect a funeral.
What's that sound that can be heard appearing beyond the nearby
Indeed. A funeral.
The soft sound of slow, sad chanting is barely audible through
the violent wind that is still playing with huge amounts of
autumn leaves as though they were only one. But soon the funeral
procession becomes visible.
First the heads. They are all bent in sorrow, and the eyes are
wet from both vivid emotions and the cold autumn wind.
Two distinct persons walk at the front of the procession.
One, a rather old man with frail vitality, is wearing a red
'Miami University' sweater. The other one, wearing spectacles
with glasses that are so thick that it would need good eyes to be
able to look through them, wears a 'Pool' sweater or something.
In spite of their apparent age and their lack of thick clothing,
it is plain that their shuddering is not due to the cold.
It's due to sadness.
To any beholder it would be plain to see that this is the
saddest moment of their entire life. Yet they wear their burden
bravely: A small coffin, probably just large enough to contain an
Its wood gleams softly, with a wooden kind of gleam. The brass
knobs and bolts of the coffin shine like radiating gems in an
ocean of mud.
As the first two of the procession walk by, bearing the burden
just mentioned, the rest of the people slowly walk by. There are
some women, but mostly they are men. One of them mutters
walkthrough stories, and another one mutters "East, west,
northeast, southwest, huh?" as he directs his gait behind the men
bearing the coffin. A third one can be heard to whisper some kind
of strange language that the innocent beholder might be able to
recognise as some kind of obscure (and very old) computer
language by the name of Forth.
It would go far beyond the scope of this story to describe all
the others walking behind this gathering. The people at the very
end, however, are worth mentioning seperately.
One of them looks completely shattered. He isn't really walking
straight any more, and he continually takes large swigs out of a
small black bottle labelled "Amando Noir". The second is very
old, but is clutching desperately to a 'Masters of the Universe'
puppet. He is continually nagging the first person and whispering
"pee-pee, pee-pee..." The first, however, seems totally immune to
whatever this might mean.
The third is definitely the oldest of the whole group. In his
hands he holds the remains of what can only be recognised as the
torn up fragments of...of...an inflatible harddisk (?). The
fourth (and last) of this illustre group looks rather normal but
has got a terrible habitual itching eye whenever one of his
comrades mentions 'hacking', 'ripping' or 'Frøystein'.
About half an hour later, the procession arrives outside town.
There is a large building from which an eldritch light pours
through some windows.
It looks deserted, and that's probably why they pass the
building without heading any of the laughter that comes from it.
A large plaque above the door to the building states 'Commodore
Business Machines', though it is clear that someone with ill
intent tried to erase the 'siness' in 'Business', to replace it
After the building, the procession stumbles upon a graveyard.
Not speaking in words, the two men at the front lead all the
people into this graveyard, and after some more moments halt at a
hole in the ground.
The hole in the ground, by the way, is of quite the same size as
the coffin they are carrying.
Some of the other holes in the vicinity are equally small, and
their tombstones have writings like "News Channel", "STOP",
"F.A.S.T.E.R.", "MAST Newsdisk", "ST Info", "CIP ST" and "ST
A gravestone lies ready next to the still empty hole.
"ST NEWS" is written on it in golden writing.
The whole company gathers around the hole, except for one of the
four last processionists. He is standing behind a tree and is
probably doing whatever 'pee-pee' means.
The inaudible chanting now changes into a different song, and
the words become more clearly to discern.
Oh...how much have you given to me
It's quite a lot, but we gave our lives for thee
You have given us friends and Nutties,
The entire world you did appease
But now we have gathered here tonight
To fullfill our latest and last plight
To put to rest thee disk magazine great
On this sad yet historical date...
The women start to cry softly as the gathering ends the chanting
and the two men at the front bend over slowly, lowering the small
coffin in the hole.
"Farewell," they mutter simultaneously.
The women exchange their soft crying for blatant wailing that
nearly floats the hole (and, indeed, the entire graveyard).
After the coffin is covered with mud, the procession leaves the
After setting fire to the large building, they return home.
There's a time of joy and a time to cry
There's a time to meet and a time for goodbye
ST NEWS has been there all the way
And we are proud to be able to say
We have done what we wanted to do
And we hope you liked it too...
Until we meet again. Goodbye.
The text of the articles is identical to the originals like they appeared in old ST NEWS issues. Please take into consideration that the author(s) was (were) a lot younger and less responsible back then. So bad jokes, bad English, youthful arrogance, insults, bravura, over-crediting and tastelessness should be taken with at least a grain of salt. Any contact and/or payment information, as well as deadlines/release dates of any kind should be regarded as outdated. Due to the fact that these pages are not actually contained in an Atari executable here, references to scroll texts, featured demo screens and hidden articles may also be irrelevant.