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"We are brought forth with nothing
And with nothing we depart
So I commend this body to the ground
For ever and ever
Dust to dust...
Ashes to ashes..."

Alive - not dead
Awake - not asleep
As friend gather 'round
And mourners they weep
My mind thinks of
Things I've done
My body is cold
But my heart beats on
And on...
And on...

As they lower me down
Into that hole in the ground
I scream out for help
But they hear no sound
I tear at the lid
My fingers they bleed
Is this happening to me
Or is it
Just a dream?
Summon the dead
Baphomet's call
Blood on my hands

Let me out of here!

My bones are decaying
My flesh is doth rot
I'm lying in silk
Take the lid of this box!
My lungs gasp for air
My eyes lose sight

Screaming in torment
I'm telling you all
Take heed of my plea
Answer my call
I'm going to be free!
'Buried Alive' (Venom) lyrics


by Richard Karsmakers

It was dark at the graveyard, apart from the scarce pieces of
land on which the moon shone. As a distant church bell tolled
midnight, a bat flew up as if fleeing from great peril that yet
has to be discovered.
An owl blinked its eyes patiently as it sat peacefully on one of
the branches of an ancient oak adjacent to an age-worn grave.
The distant sound of a police car's siren faded away in the
eerie loom of night.
The moon shone full. A bright aura created itself around it as
mist formed. A wolf howled, its silhouette visible on a far away
hill top.
Some clouds appeared, that darkened the sky in what definitely
seemed to be a preternatural way.
The first clouds now reached the moon. Its light slowly grew
The owl spread its wings and flew away, in search for prey.
A shape flew through the air. After observing the scenery, it
examined the razor edge of its scythe, said "QUITE SOME TIME
LEFT FOR A CUPPA TEA" and flew off, his long black robe flapping
behind him in the breeze.
The moon was now entirely covered by clouds, and not even its
vague contours could now be recognised.
The darkness was now complete.
There was utter silence except for the sound of the odd autumn
leaves being blown by the wind over the rough stony paths between
the graves and tombs.
A flash of lightning split the sky in two for a fraction of a
second, moments after which a deafening roar of thunder rolled
over the graveyard.
As the sound of thunder and the last bell toll ebbed away in the
distance, it started to rain.
A drizzle it was at first, but within seconds it transformed
itself into something in which one would hardly let cats and dogs
out of the house any more.
The oak seemed to sigh deep under the downpour.
The worn epitaph of the grave under the ancient oak gleamed in a
very eldritch way. On it were the remains of a name, vaguely
Algae, fungi and crawling plants had covered the heavy piece of
rectangular granite which lay upon the grave to function as a
lid, immovable and defiant.
Yet there was something distinctly odd about this immovable,
defiant piece of granite.
It moved.
Slowly. But it moved.
As soon as the chink that thus appeared was wide enough, a
couple of bony fingers appeared from it, grasping the side of the
lid and pushing it further aside.
Putrid stench of decades' rot and decay arose from the foul tomb
of death.
The lid fell off onto the wet, low growth at the side of the
grave with a thud.
The lack of light still revealed the creature in the heinous
darkness of its tomb.
What was this vile thing that defied the law of death?
What was this putrified entity that sought to arise from its
endless void of eternal nonbeing?
As if commanded by the flash of lightning that once again split
the sky in two, this time as if in an attempt to blind the very
matter of earth, the creature suddenly sat up straight in what
had been its home for all those decades.
Apart from the fact that it wore the extremely worn remains of
what could be seen to once have been a red sweater of some kind
of university, it also wore some tattered jeans and "L.A. Gear"

The heaviest rain had worn off and the sky was clearing up
again. The moon had again appeared at the firmament again, bright
and full like full moons generally are on virtually cloudless
An owl sat on a branch of an old elm, eyeing a window on the
ground floor of a small cottage with a thatched roof. Behind that
window, someone sat.
The person behind that window didn't really know what to do with
himself. The television was down, there was no new software, and
the CD player had been sent to a repair shop about two weeks
earlier. Boredom had struck in a viciously violent way.
It was a young man in his late teens, who stared at the computer
screen before him, which was just as empty as the gaze cast upon
He loaded a word processor program, but didn't really know
why. He could write a letter, but to who? He could write a book,
but about what? He could copy his "Chambers' Twentyfirst Century
Dictionary" into the word processor, but what would be the use of
He could also quit the word processor and try doing something
else. Yeah. That sounded like a great idea.

The lumbering peace of the graveyard was disturbed by a shape
that flew over it, to and fro, as if searching for someone... or
something. It viciously hew its scythe through the empty air,
yelling "DAMN!" repeatedly.
Then its searching eyes met a winding trail that seemed to start
at an opened grave and left the graveyard. The trail was littered
with maggots and various other creeping nasties, that seemed to
be preying on whatever was dropped (or lost) by whatever had
stalked there.
The winding trail, so the shapes' eyes were shocked to
establish, lead quite directly to one of those cute, small
cottage with thatched roofs, just at the horizon...

Lars, for that was the young man's name, was torn from his field
of thoughts when someone knocked on the front door.
Knock. Knock.
His late father had told him never to admit any people to his
house that called after midnight.
Knock. Knock.
Some very good advise, one had to admit.
Knock. Knock.
It were knocks of a very bony kind.
Knock. Knock.
But what if it was someone in desperate need of help? What if it
was a female that was prepared to fling herself at his mercy? His
mother would never find out for she was upstairs, already fast
Knock. Knock.
He stood up and went to the front door. He looked through the
peephole, and was surprised at what he saw - which was nothing
except for sheer darkness.
Knock. Knock.
He thought to himself that he should make a mental note to
remember not to forget to fix the light outside tomorrow, and
opened the door after unlocking it.
At first, a smell like decades of sickening carnage and
excoriatingly purulent meat literally hit him like a concrete
wall ten feet thick, completely disabling his vision from seeing
anything except for total darkness.
Then he could suddenly see. He saw loads of quaint little stars,
on top of colours he could not recall ever having seen before.
He decided that fainting would probably not be too bad an idea.

When he came by, he felt that he was lying on the sofa. He
opened his eyes, and was hardly surprised by the fact that he
still saw stars and weird colours.
"Do not be afraid," a voice, trying to be soft, belched near to
him, "I may smell a bit funny but I can assure you it is not my
intent to harm you."
The stars and colours blurring Lars' vision now faded away
rapidly. The safe surroundings of his house faded in - the cosy
fire burning in the hearth, the picture of his late father on the
cupboard and the dining table with the usual remains of the
evening's meal still on it.
In the middle of all this sat a zombie.
It wore a ragged red sweater, a tattered pair of jeans and "L.A.
Gear" sneakers, and it smelled quite revolting in an awkward kind
of way.
Lars startled, to say the least, and leapt behind the sofa.
The creature looked at the human in a way that could only,
although it sounds strange in the context of zombies, be
described as 'sortof endearing and gentle'.
"W..w..w...wh..wh..wh...wha...what...a....a...are...are you?"
Lars stuttered, making sure to keep the majority of the sofa
between him and the creature.
"The answers which you seek are of no importance to me nor to
any mortals," the creature said, farting, "yet my goal is one
of importance so great that you cannot even have the slightest
hint at merely grasping the mere concept of its sheerness."
It chuckled at itself in a rather satisfied way, as if it was
particularly proud of still being able to construct sentences
like that at such a respectable age.
"You are the descendant of a Great Man, Lars," the zombie now
thundered while pointing at the picture of Lars' father on the
cupboard, "He was the founder of Great Powers yet he wielded them
with great wisdom and care!"
The creature's voice softened to barely something more than a
hoarse whisper.
"There is but one mortal in the thing you call 'galaxy' - mind
you, but ONE mortal - that can perpetuate the Great Works
initiated by your late father. As I have not produced any heirs
on which my significant talents could be bestowed, there is but
one hope left for mankind."
There was a long pause after the zombie had said these words.
Although Lars didn't lose any awareness of the potential danger
involved in his current situation (which was 'being in a room
with a smelly zombie'), he found the courage to venture a
"And, excuse me for being so rude as to ask, who is that?" he
asked, as silently as he could.
"Who? Who?! WHO?!?!" the creature belched, farting and burping,
"well, Master Lars, it's nobody other than YOU!"
At the pronounciation of the last word, a sudden flash of
lightning, followed by a roar of thunder, shuddered the cottage.
This definitely had something very eerie about it. A bony finger
extended itself in the direction of the startled human, who now
crouched away even further behind the sofa.
"You are the One Heir," the zombie now said in a voice that
could only predict premature doom, "you have The Gift in you. The
Gift. The Gift!"
The creature now sank down on a chair, making a rattling sound.
"I feel Death coming, Lars," it continued, "yet I will never
find rest and piece if you do not proliferate the inestimable
talents granted by your genes. Continue ST NEWS, Lars. Let not
the Superlative Memory of your ancestry's Great Days come to
"But...but...," Lars now said, standing up behind the couch,
"How? And where? Why?"
"There's a time of joy and a time to cry," the zombie replied
solemnly in a voice of deep melancholy, "There's a time...of
hello and...time for....good...bye....
ebbing away... The...Gift...Lars... The Gift!"
At that very instant, the door flung open and in came a shape in
a black robe wielding an enormous, razor-sharp scythe.
"SO THERE YOU ARE, POSTHUMA!" it cried triumphantly, and
decapitated the creature before it even had the time to say

"No! No! NOOOOOO!!!"
Lars woke up on the sofa, crying, and bathing in sweat.
When he opened his eyes, he saw his mother sitting beside him.
She had come down, obviously after having been awoken by his
violent crying.
"Has he been here?" she asked in her typical, soft, motherly
Although he felt neither of them should be understanding the
other, he nodded.
"Good," she said, "then they can now finally both rest in

The winds had gathered power and now chilled to the bone,
sweeping the leaves aside as if attempting to introduce a
premature winter.
The skies were clear on that early fall's morning, and the pale,
powerless sun shone on a mother and her son, quietly knelt down
before a grave that was partly covered with autumn colours and
crawling vegetation. The heavy granite lid showed signs of having
been moved, and only they knew how and why.
"Now I know what to do," Lars said, pride vibrating in his vocal
chords, "Now I know my aim in life."
He started to chant softly:

ST NEWS will be again
Over the ST world it will reign
Everything will be like once before
Ancient values to restore
ST NEWS will once again be
An immortal spirit, like the sea
History can be undone
And we will stand together...together as One!

The last notes of his song trailed away in the skies; the wind
dried his tears. They both got up and walked back to the house.

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.