"Jake Cassidy, you skate that ramp back there don'cha? You risk your
life for a thrill every chance you get."
This was no time for an anti-skate lecture. Jake could go home for that.
Besides, Carl was in trouble. "Look buddy; you gonna help me or not?"
"Buddy! Well, if that don't take the cake! Time was a boy your age
would piss his pants after just a glance of my face, but you just stared
right into it didn'cha now! Do you recognize me at all, son"
Jake looked again. There was something, but...
"Dammit kid, you look into my face every time you climb onto that
ramp and drop off into the void. I'm Death, Jake, the Grim Reaper, and
I'd sure as hell'd like to know how you got here."
Jake backed up. The man grabbed a stalk of healthy wheat and Jake
watched it wither, tum brown and rot before he could take his next breath.
"Jesus Christ!"
"Did he help ya!"
The man who called himself Death spat into the uncut wheat at his side.
"Huh? Be just like him, poking his nose in where it don't belong again,
like before with that Lazarus fella." His head suddenly snapped to the
side and he stared down the road. Jake turned too. Someone was slowly
walking up the road, he could hear the feet shuffling the loose stones.
For a moment, the worn skin on Death's face glowed translucent,
revealing a glimmering skull of shiny white bone beneath.
"That's it, ain't it, boy. You've come to cheat me. Well this time I won't
let ya. He's mine, by all rights, he's mine." He raised one blistered hand,
cupped it at his dry lips, and shouted. "Towards the blue light, son, I'll be
with ya in a moment.
The blue "night light" in the upstairs window flickered brighter as the
shuffling steps grew closer. Then the walker came into view. Carl was
entranced by the blue glow. Jake shouted his name, but he didn't answer.
Trailing a path in the loose stones, Carl trudged past the wheat field
toward the porch steps.
Jake turned his back on Death and started toward his brother-a mis-
take he sensed immediately. From the corner of his eye he saw the silver
blade slashing down toward his neck. In one quick movement, Jake raised
his deck high and dropped to his knees. The glinting tip caught on his
front truck and the curved blade bit into his Street Creep graphics. Cold
blue flames lapped the sharp blade's edges and Jake fought as Death
leaned his tall but weak body onto the scythe's long wooden handle.
That's right, son," he called out across the road, "up the steps and into
the house. The door's unlocked, just let yerself in and I'll be there shortly"
Jake rolled free and was on his feet. He heard Death's voice screech
behind him, all traces of humanity lost in a rattling howl of anger.
Carl was on the porch with one hand on the doorknob, when Jake
bounded up the steps and yanked his hand away. He looked confused.
"It's me, Carl, your brother. It's Jake."
There was a deep rumbling coming from behind him, getting closer.
Whatever Death was conjuring, it sounded mighty evil.
"I'm sorry, O.K. It was all my idea, and I'm sorry, but you can't die
now, man. I need you. Too many good times ahead. You hear me?"
Carl's expression changed. He seemed to look at his brother instead of
through him. "Jake!"
The rumbling was louder now. It shook the window panes and the
rotted porch rails. A strong wind sprung up from nowhere.
"Go back, Carl. Back to the ramp. Understand?" Carl nodded.
Then the God-awful screeching rattling howl exploded around Jake's
head. He closed his eyes and covered his ears while screaming in pain.
As the freight train rattled and rumbled by, Jake opened his eyes to find
himself barely two feet from the track. The horn blasted once more as it
raced into the night.
Across the tracks, Jake saw the McChesney's farm house. The dim light
in Elise's bedroom window was white. The surrounding fields were
empty and quiet save for the familiar chirping of crickets.
They took Carl to the hospital. Doc Taylor said he'd taken a right nasty
fall, and they'd have to watch him for a while, but he should be all right
soon enough.
"Good thing you brought him in when you did, Mr. McChesney. That
poor boy was at death's door!"
"You ain't kiddin'!"
Both men stared at Jake who nervously ran his fingers over the deep
black scorch marks on his board.
"You sure ain't kiddin'."
Not Alone
His eye was bleeding.
by Sandy Aijaca
He reached a filthy hand to wipe off some of the warm liquid around
his face. The acrid smell of burning flesh filled his body with a dread
fear of isolation.
He cowered into the
corner of a building and
surveyed the frightening
scene with his good eye.
Puffs of smoke drifted
lazily among the wreckage,
unaware of the final
destruction which had
occurred only moments
before. Carcasses lay
strewn on the thin layer of
soot covering the ground,
vacant eyes staring into a
void, mouths frozen in
silent screams.
The crimson sky scowled
and flames singed the
crumbling structures that
were once buildings. The
only sound audible to
Tim's ears was the
crackling of the roaring
blazes. Huddling against
the brick, he put a hand
over his bleeding eye and
tried to look at his feet.
His skateboard was alive. Although he knew it was unseemly, he
smiled... just a little...
He trudged along the road like a walking corpse, clasping his board and
kicking up dust along the way. He had no destination, but he felt a desire
to use his skateboard. It was all he had left. It was all anybody had left, so
he skated. This final bombing had destroyed the little that remained.
It was difficult to ride over the debris-covered street, but his lithe body
managed. He felt the fiery air ripple through his shredded shirt. It stung
his nose, but he kept on.
An unharmed golden parking block lay a few yards ahead of him. Its
bright color deeply contrasted the morbid background of gray ash. Again,
he smiled, but gore flowed from his eye more heavily. He tried to stop it by
wrapping a piece of his skate shirt around his head and over the wound.
The block was the only skateable obstacle in view. He squinted and
spat a yellow-red glob onto the ground. The fallout blew into his face but
he shielded it with an arm. "Eh, what the hell..." he whispered as he
sped towards his fluorescent goal. He didn't have time to railslide, grind,
or even decide which. The block crumbled under his truck's first touch
and sent him sprawling, hands first, into the rubble.
A stinging of a different kind moved up his arms as he fought back the
tears forming in his good eye. He looked at his scraped palms as he felt
the desolation taking over. He couldn't even skate.
At that moment, he spotted something in the distance. Something that
wasn't dead...
The pain he felt vanished as he lifted himself from the remains of the
block and staggered towards the figure. As he neared the live corpse, he
noticed electric blue eyes staring directly at him. It was a boy, younger
than Tim, about thirteen. The blue marbles lay in deep crevices. Ugly,
bruised, purple rings encircled each one in an eerie orbit.
A sickly, white, almost transparent skin stretched tightly over his face,
revealing rigid cheekbones and scarlet veins.
Tim noticed that the boy's shirt read, "SKB!" across the front and that a
worn pair of Vans decorated his feet.
He approached the boy, who didn't even blink.
"H...H...Hi," he stammered. "Are you OK?" He knew the boy was not.
The crystal eyes still stared. No movement was visible. Then, Tim had an
idea. "Look!" he finally said "I have my skate!" As if by magic, the boy's
eyes rolled in their sockets, down towards the board. A thin trickle of
saliva appeared on his swollen, cracking lips. "Do you want to try it?"
Tim was actually grinning. He reached up to rub the stubble on his
head, which was covered with ash. He realized it made his head itch.
"Ha, ha," he chuckled. "Good thing my hair is this short, huh?" The boy
smiled, a little, revealing his teeth, dry as old bones. He reached out for
the board. "Here, take it." Tim needed a friend now. Suddenly the boy
had the strength of a man. His blue eyes turned black and swallowed up
his frailness. He snatched the board from Tim's quivering hands and
swung it back over his head. The innocent boy snarled. A new pain
centered on the side of Tim's head.
The sounds of stale chewing woke him. As Tim turned his eye up, the
first thing he noticed was the boy sitting cross-legged on the ground. The
blue eyes were back. "That little bastard hit me!" he thought, but what
he saw made his stomach turn. The boy was clutching the remains of his
skateboard. Bite marks covered the edges. Tim watched horrified, the
boy's head lowered and he gnawed on the deck. Blood splattered all over
the marks along the board, and a few teeth hit the ground. A grin spread
over the boy's face. Tim lowered his head and wished he was dead.
Without his board, there was nothing. But he was not alone.
Bustin' Out
by Lucas Rowley
Kazow eased forward lightly, approaching the pile of wreckage. Most
of it had already turned to dust. "There seems to be some material here
we can salvage for the archives," he said.
The earth was a rocky desert. Only now, after years of technological
advances, man was finally able to conquer the environment he once
mocked. It was the year 2201.
"Shall I activate the fixer, sir" Kazow's assistant, Bloop, asked. He was
a young intern, with a flop of blond hair that seemed to scream cocky
eagerness. Kazow was sure he would make a fine archeologist one day.
"Begin." He had been through four dozen finds like this. Probably
wouldn't find anything to give society a meaningful look at its history.
Bloop raised the hose of the fixer and a jet of molecular vapor spurted
out of the nozzle, enveloping the pile of century old rubble. The process
sterilized and bonded molecules, preserving the find. The fixer was
developed for paper. That was what they were after. Books.
Kazow immediately took back his judgment of the find. He leaped
forward and lifted an ancient desk, throwing it aside. A mound of
priceless books lay before him. It must have once been a school. No one
had made a find like this in the last thirty years.
In delight, Kazow picked off his aluminum-latex gloves and discarded
them, forcing a displeased cough from Bloop. Kazow didn't care. There
must be fifty books, he thought. A fortune.
Picking through the volumes, he grabbed one of the thickest books,
and turned to the inside cover. A minute before it would have turned to
dust, but now it was stiff, thanks to the fixer. His mouth salivated, and
white spittle slid down his chin.
Book No.: 34-89
School: West High, da best, man
City: LA. It rocks, dude
State: CA-Da place to be
Issued to: Eddie Delmonte, garbage skater
Year: 89-90-Even if I don't grad, it's my last
Condition Issued: New, I'd say
Condition Returned: Semi-wasted, but mostly thrashed.
Kazow was shaking. In a way, he wished he had never uncovered this
find. Eddie Delmonte. Something about that name disturbed him.
Disturbed him badly. He let the book drop from his fingers.
"Are you feeling well" Bloop inquired with muffled anger. He had
dived for the book and barely caught it.
"I'm fine," Kazow said switching back into reality, "just had a hard day.
And I'm so excited about this find. Sorry."
"Don't be, I understand perfectly-" Bloop suddenly was silent. Kazow
had picked up a magazine. It spelled Thrasher in bold, ballooning letters.
Eddie Delmonte's name was scratched on the cover.
This magazine had something to do with Earth's history. Somehow it
was enormously important. It opened up two hundred years of ancestral
memory inside Kazow's head. Direct brain waves from his great, great,
great, great, great grandfather, Eddie Delmonte.
Suddenly, Kazow understood. And at that point, he went insane.
He looked down at the board he and Bloop and everyone rode. It had
no wheels and floated using gravity-repulsing units. The sensitive foot-
tape responded to the slightest motion of his foot, steering the travel.
Nobody ever thought about the decks they rode on. They were as
natural as hands. It was the ultimate evolution between board
and rider, but Kazow knew it was wrong.
He changed his mind. He wasn't insane, everyone else was. The real
meaning of skating had been stolen. The thrashing aspect was gone. It
was not skating. It was something else. Something horrible.
"Are you sure you're all right, sir?" asked Bloop. Kazow eyed his
assistant. He was skinny. Not skinny-bones skinny, but no-muscle
skinny. He looked ridiculous riding the board with no wheels.
In disgust, Kazow threw his board away. It simply balanced, hovering
a foot off the ground. Then he turned to Bloop and snarled.
Holding the Thrasher close to him, Kazow ripped the chemistry book
apart laughing. Then he jumped in his archeological hover vehicle.
In a few minutes, he reached the archives. His employer greeted him at
the door as it slid open. "Hello Kazow. Find anything?"
Kazow ignored the remark and shoved the small man aside. He entered
the archive chamber and saw what he wanted: an old pair of trucks and
wheels. The staff had wondered for years what their purpose was. Well,
he knew now. They snapped onto a deck very nicely.
Then he fumbled through a stack of ancient cassette tapes, grabbing up
one with delight. Most of the words had eroded away, but he could
make out RED ILI EPPERS Then, snatching up a cassette player, he
headed back out the door. His boss was there again and very angry.
"What's wrong with you, Kazow?" he asked. "And where's Bloop
You're risking your job, you know."
Kazow felt soiled by the insignificant man's presence. And his floating
two-by-four insulted him even more. A quick kick to the face, and the
boss-man thunked his head against the wall and slid to the floor.
Kazow walked out onto the parking lot and jumped on his skate. He
kicked the music in, and a blast of sound shattered the air.
A large group of people gathered around him, opening their mouths as
if to say something, but then closing them. Kazow ollied, and a scream
of pure ecstasy leapt from him. The first ollie in two hundred years. He
was smothered with an inner calmness and continued skating.
"Stop!" President Gabe of the World Archeology Society shouted from
the crowd. "Can't you see you're destroying our world?"
"You've already destroyed it yourself, man," Kazow said back. "I mean,
if you stop skating and outlaw it, you're tripping hard." He pulled a no-
comply and shouted in glee again.
Then the law enforcers arrived. They pointed energy weapons at Kazow
and ordered him to stop. He did a fifty-fifty grind on an ancient curb and
laughed. "You can't stop me like you couldn't stop Eddie, posers!"
Weapons cracked. Kazow hit the pavement. His skate shot out from
beneath him and into the crowd. Before all the lights went out, he saw a
kid discard his floating deck and pick up the real skate. Kazow smiled,
then spat on the concrete, resting his face in a puddle. I
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