Freeman and Company. Larson, N. Larson, Peter and Carpenter, Kenneth, eds. Lee, B. Unpublished thesis, George Washington University. Rainger, R. Switek, B. Tagged as dinosaurs , fossil mounts , history of science , museums , paleontology , science communication , Tyrannosaurus. Photo from Dingus Woodrow Wilson is in the white house. And you just heard that the skeleton of an actual dragon is on display at the American Museum of Natural History in New York.
It is difficult to imagine a time before every man, woman, and child in the developed world knew the name Tyrannosaurus rex , but that world existed not even a century ago. In , AMNH unveiled the very first mounted skeleton of the tyrant lizard king, immediately and irrevocably cementing the image of the towering reptilian carnivore in the popular psyche. More importantly, however, it is an icon for paleontology and an ambassador to science.
Herein lies the paradox presented by all fossil mounts: they are natural specimens and constructed objects, embodying a challenging duality between the realms of empiricism and imagination. Later this month, another T. This three part series is a look back at how the tyrant king has defined, and been defined by, the museum experience. Finally, Part 3 will conclude with a discussion of the positives and negatives of a modern world saturated in all things T.
Although the efforts of paleontologists O. Marsh and E. Cope in the late 19 th century fleshed out the scientific understanding of Mesozoic reptiles, it was these turn-of-the-century museum displays that brought dinosaurs into the public sphere. Fully aware of what a unique prize he had in his possession, Osborn wasted no time leveraging the fossils for academic glory and additional funding from benefactors. He even published a brief description complete with illustrations of the projected scene shown below.
However, the structural limitations inherent to securing heavy fossils to a steel armature, as well as the inadequate amount of Tyrannosaurus fossils available, made such a sensational display impossible to achieve. Model of unrealized T. Image from Osborn Instead, Hermann prepared a single Tyrannosaurus mount, combining the specimen with plaster casts of leg bones from the holotype. The original skull was impractically heavy, so a cast was used in its place. During the early 20 th century, constructing fossil mounts was a relatively new art form, and while Hermann was one of the most talented and prolific mount-makers in the business, his techniques were somewhat unkind to the fossil material.
Bolts were drilled directly into the fragile bones to secure them to the armature, and in some cases steel rods were tunneled right through the bones. Any fractures were sealed with plaster, and reconstructed portions were painted to be nearly indistinguishable from the original fossils. AMNH Tyrannosaurus , ca. This dragon, however, was real, albeit safely dead for 66 million years. More complete Tyrannosaurus skeletons have revealed that the tail reconstructed by Osborn and Hermann was much too long. The Tyrannosaurus mount was a solid representation of the best scientific data available at the time, presented in an evocative and compelling manner.
Larson , the deal was apparently underway well before the United States became involved in the war. Somewhat pointlessly, the skull fragments included with the specimen were buried inside a plaster skull replica, making them inaccessible to researchers for several decades. By the s and 60s, the comparably small number of researchers studying ancient life were chiefly concerned with theoretical models for quantifying trends in evolution. Although the aging dinosaur displays at American museums remained popular with the public, these animals were perceived as evolutionary dead-ends, of little interest to the majority of scientists.
Between when Brown found the iconic AMNH Tyrannosaurus skeleton and , only four largely incomplete Tyrannosaurus specimens were found, and no new mounts of this species were built. Continue to Displaying the Tyrant King Part 2. Dingus, L. Glut, D. Hermann, A. Naish, D. The Great Dinosaur Discoveries. Osborn, H. Rainger, Ronald Tuscaloosa, Alabama. University of Alabama Press. Wesihampel, D. The Dinosaur Papers: Washington, DC: Smithsonian Books.
Tagged as dinosaurs , fossil mounts , history of science , museums , natural history museums , paleontology , Tyrannosaurus.
Giant Monster vs Giant Monster
A week ago, Jurassic Park 4 director Colin Treverrow tweeted two words and a hashtag that set the corners of the internet I hang out in aflame for days afterward. The problem is that dinosaurs straddle two different roles in our culture. There is the scientific reality of their existence, informed by careful scrutiny of hard evidence. Brilliant researchers collect and interpret fossils, broadening our understanding of not only the lives of dinosaurs, but how life on earth evolves and adapts to change in general.
As a science educator, this is the perspective on dinosaurs I am usually invested in. From this angle, dinosaurs are appealing because they are monsters with big teeth and are generally super cool. This is coupled with an innate association of dinosaurs with early childhood that people are remarkably protective of.
And given a choice between factual and awesome, I will choose awesome every time! As Conway points out , the typical reaction of anyone with a vested interest actual scientific paleontology is to reject and belittle pop-culture dinosaurs whenever possible. And focusing conversations on the fact that popular conceptions of dinosaurs are wrong removes focus from the real benefits of researching past life. I think it would be more helpful to recognize the validity and significance of pop-culture dinosaurs, but to work towards separating them in the public consciousness from real dinosaurs.
A potential conversation: You think the Jurassic Park Raptors are cool? If would-be educators are outright dismissing what their audience is bringing to the conversation, that audience has little incentive to learn more. Filed under dinosaurs , education , movies , opinion , reptiles , science communication.
Tagged as deficit model , dinosaurs , Jurassic Park , science communication , Velociraptor. What follows was partially written several months ago and never finished. I was six years old when Jurassic Park came out. I was crazy about dinosaurs, but my parents had been told that the movie was way too scary for a kid my age. Since Aliens was already on my short list of favorite films at that point, this seems a moot point, but by the time my parents warmed up to taking me to see JP, it was at a second run theater.
I still enjoy Jurassic Park immensely. As an example, take a look at Dr. While Dr. Similar complaints turn up from time to time on the Dinosaur Mailing List as well. I, for one, have to disagree. This is an excellent jumping-off point for any discussion about paleontology, because it is a shared frame of reference. At work, I have become well acquainted with the fact that very few people understand Deep Time, or have ever given it any thought at all.
But people know Jurassic Park, and I am very grateful for it as a starting point in the education process. Jurassic Park was the first widely disseminated look at believable dinosaurs, and it single-handedly brought post-Dinosaur Renaissance conceptions of dinosaurs to everyone. Unfortunately, as I mentioned, Jurassic Park is 18 years old now. It took awhile, but it seems to no longer be the go-to source of dinosaur knowledge for many Americans. The original film was a fantastic resource not only for paleontology education, but science education in general.
If a new sequel can match or approach that level of quality, then our job as educators will be much easier. In the same spirit, we would like to announce that next issue will feature an interview with H. Lovecraft, a. Cooper, in which he reveals that he used all the money he stole for reconstructive surgery and anew identity as L. Pixie Di Wather will welcome guests Thomas F. Monteleone, Brian Lumly and Stephen Laws. Say hi to Di. Speaking of our friends on the U. This small format zine, published by Dave Hughes and Nick Belcher, features full- size interviews and fiction with Britain's top writers.
Lots of art, chilling stories, author profiles — the works. The eight-page zine features crosswords, news bytes and a maniacal sense of humor. A breakfast cereal for those of you who are not afraid to eat right! More sought after than The Gunslinger. Mentioned in countless critical works. And available to the general reading public for the first time now! Stephen King's laundry list! Box , Woodstock, GA Call mean un-hip, oul- of-it-to-the-max dweeb, bul I thought that the peace symbol bad gone the way of hip-huggers and tie dyed tank tops Grateful Dead concerts notwithstand- ing.
I was wrong. According to my highly reliable fashion consultant -my friend Dave's thirteen year-old daugh- ter, Alicia-kids all over the country are wearing peace symbols becau. Actually, she might have said "bad," she has a slight speech im- pediment caused by her braces. Any- way, Alicia knows about these kinds of things and she says everybody is wear- ing peace symbols. I didn't have the heart to tell her about Pasadena, Texas. In what appears to be the beginning of a districtwide ban, six schools in Pasadena, Texas have outlawed the peace symbol because officials are con- vinced that it is a sign of Devil worship, a fact heretofore known only by the John Birch Society and George F.
The recent occult killings of fifteen in Matamoros, Mexico somehow rein- forced the Pasadena School Board's belief that the symbol is demonic. As a friend of American public edu- cation, I have written letters to mem- bers of the board, praising their courage and innovative leadership in the never- ending struggle against Satan and his supporters.
I also suggested that they look into the possibility of banning the flag of Texas, you know, the one with the big pentagram in the middle. For twenty-two days she swept their pods, bore their young, and cheered them up with her smile and up-beat personality. Then, without so much as a thank you or a souvenir, the ungrate- ful iguana-people beamed Miss Barnes back to her Little Rock trailer park.
The think I'm making it all up on account of 1 don't have a picture of the saucer or no thin', "explained Cathy. If you are abducted by extraterrestrials, demand an affidavit, a photograph, or some- thing that will substantiate your story. Philip Klass will pay ten big ones to anyone who can prove they were ab- ducted by beings from another world. There's a bit of acatch, however. Klass, a retired senior editor of Aviation Week and Space Technology magazine, will pay the money only after the abductee has filed a kidnapping claim and the FBI has investigated and confirmed the report.
Pathos, terror and lawn furniture, the story had everything. For those of you just returning from your holiday on Pluto, these are the gory details: Eighty year-old Stock- holm resident, Brigil Under, was vaca- tioning in Malmo, Sweden when she was attacked by a folding chair on he balcony. Apparently, Ms. Linder was catching a few rays when the chair's canvas seat gave way, and before she knew it, her bottom was resting on the terrace floor and her knees were up around ears.
Brigit remained in this sorry position for more than forty -eight hours, hidden by the terrace enclosure. Bad dreams and images of custom- made caskets were starting to take their toll on our girl when a workman spot- ted her and called the police. Linder's dignity. How would yoy feel if the world knew you had been bested by a beach chair! As a columnist for Midnight Graffiti , a magazine known to have the most compassionate readership in this hemi- sphere, I appeal to you. Let Brigit Linder know that she is not alone. Life threat- ening, blood blister, or just plain rusty- water-on-the-patio.
We will forward. Dennis Genz used to be fat, so he went on a diet. A serious diet. He lost lbs. Feeling like a scale model of his former self, Dennis was delighted with every bit of his new body, except one troubling feature— a twenty pound flap of empty skin hanging from his abdo- men. Meanwhile, a few hundred miles away, three month-old bum victim. Dexter Moore, was fighting for his life in an Indiana hospital ward. As Dexter lay suffering, his doctors put out an urgent call for the one thing that could save the infant's life.
Genz had bis flap removed and donated the four square feet of flesh to Dexter's bum ward, where physicians successfully grafted a portion thereof to the little guy. The health of a generous man and the life of a courageous baby. She's beautiful. She's vinyl. Meet Anne Droid, crime fighting mannequin. With a camera in her eye and a microphone up her nose, Anne and her namesakes stand guard against apparel- lifters in a steadily growing number of stores across America.
Anne Droid Security Systems is the brainchild of former mannequin restorer, F. Jerry Gutierrez of Denver. Droid is a bit more expensive than most surveil- lance systems, but Guticrrezand his partner, Eric Freehling, believe she is worth it. As word about the new system spreads, orders are corning in so fast, Gutierrez and Freehling are having a hard time keeping up with them.
As a security-mad America slinks toward its Orwellian future, we can all breathe a little easier knowing that well-dressed Anne Droid is standing tall and silent in the boutique - her eye watch- ing, her nose listening. Got any headlines I might have mis- sed? But what, you may ask, can you look forward to in the fall and winter months to add that little extra snap to the air, that pleasurable chill to your spine?
To make your task a little easier, we've been spending a little time reading the galley proofs and manuscripts which will become the booh you'll be talking abou,. The big news for the fall is, of course, the publication of The Dark Half, Stephen King's first new novel in nearly two years. Although King's much- publicized five-year layoff from publish- ing new work has been shortened considerably, for most fans the wait has been long enough.
In fact, one acquain- tance of mine told me a few weeks ago that he was suffering from a heavy bout of Stephen King withdrawal. The Dark Half should provide King fans with a solid fix for their entertain- ment bucks. Like the two novels that proceeded it — The Tommyknockers and the Stoker-Award- winning Misery — the new novel is centered around a writer. In this case, Thad Beaumont is a novelist who has had a great deal of success writing violent thrillers under the pseudonym George Stark, but only critical and sales success with the handful written under his own name.
He divides his time between the towns of Ludlow and Castle Rock, familiar King territory. When circumstances force Beaumont to reveal and do away with the Stark pseudonym, a chain of events is set in motion which will link Beaumont to Stark in a novel and original turn on the classic Frankenstein tale. To say much more would ruin the readers' enjoyment of what is certain to be one of King's best novels, a relief to those readers who were disappointed by The Tommyknockers al- though, to be fair, it should be considered that "Die Tommyknockers was the last of five books King produced that year, was i editors, and underwent substantially more revision during that process than any of the four that proceeded it, includ- ing a sex-change for one of the two main characters!
It is obvious that some of the spark for The Dark Half came from King's experiences with pseudonymous writing in connection with his five Richard Bachman novels. In fact, the original draft of this novel was credited to both Stephen King and Richard Bachman, although at present, Bachman's help is acknowledged in an author's note. The book's cover features a bluish white skeletal face which is partially obscured by the orange title lettering, which breaks away from the brand name, stylized Stephen King logo Viking has used for King novels since 's Different Seasons.
At about the same time. Tor Books will release it's Halloween headliner, the long-awaited and eagerly anticipated second novel by Lisa W. Her new novel. The Ridge, proves that her performance the first time out was no fluke. The novel centers around The , a former monastery built on a i ridge of stone projecting out into the sea off the Carolina coast, which has been serving as the home of a family, who are literally splattered across the walls and ceiling as the story opens.
Nick Vears, a tough-as-nails loner with a murky past and no qualms about dispensing violent death, comes to The Ridge to find that the only survivor of this catastrophe is his daughter, Sara, who apparently has strong psychic powers which can shield her from whatever killed her mother — Vears' ex- wife — and stepfather, whose sister Danielle, is wary of Vears' sudden reap- pearances in his daughter's life. The only real action in the book comes at the very be- ginning and the very end.
Most of Cantrell's time is spent detailing the characters' search for the secrets of The Ridge, doling out enough detail to keep readers going until the final revelation is made. Granted, there is a little mayhem along the way, but by far the most outstanding thing about The Ridge is the remarkable gift Cantrell clearly has for building and maintaining reader suspense. It's a novel to look for, and a novelist to watch. Another up-and-coming novelist is Rick Hautala, a Maine-based horror writer whose next novel, Dead Voices , should be coming from Warner Books late this year or early in Hautala has been gathering steam steadily since the publication of his third book, Night Stone, a few years hack, and his new book is easily the best to date.
- Self Assessment in Axial Skeleton Musculoskeletal Trauma X-rays.
- Honey from Stone: A Naturalists Search for God;
- The Clinton Presidency and the Constitutional System (Joseph V. Hughes Jr. and Holly O. Hughes Series on the Presidency and Leadership)!
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- Sonata Le Tombeau: For Viola and Piano: 0 (Kalmus Edition).
- About this book.
Dead Voices is the story of Elizabeth Myers, a young woman who returns to her hometown in Western Maine to escape her crumbling marriage and her confused feelings about the death of her daughter about a year before. Instead, she is plunged into a gruesome nightmare of horror and necromancy in a bone-chilling tale of horror which centers around the eerie possibilities of speaking with the dead. Several methods for doing this are explored by Hautala in the novel, all of them depicted with an authenticity of detail which shows the care with which he researched his material.
Hautala was a student at the Uni- versity of Maine at Orono at the same time as Stephen King, which may explain why he hits many of the same marks as King in his work. It is well worth the trouble to chase down his six previous novels, all paperback originals and all still in print. I don't think so, but then I thought Book of the Dead was kinda tame, so I may not be the best judge of this type of thing. Perhaps the most telling remark I can make about Dead Voices is this: about three-quarters of the way through the manuscript, I got a galley copy of The Dark Half.
And even though I was dying to jump right into King's new novel, I still couldn't put Hautala's book on hold until I finished. I had to keep reading it until I finished. It's that good. Dean R, Koontz also has a new novel in the works, now slated for January publication. Entitled TheBadPlace, it promises to be more or a horror-oriented novel than some recent Koontz novels, which have had a strong science-fiction slant.
The Bad Place is set in Orange County, California, Koontz' own stomping grounds, and is the story of the Dakotas, a couple of private eyes who take on the challenge of their careers and get more than they bargained for. Koontz hasn't given out many details about the book yet — he's a man who likes to play his hand close to the chest — But he has stated that he feels that the villain of the novel is perhaps the best and scariest he has cooked up since the psychopathic killer of his classic novel Whispers.
We can only hope he's right. There's some action on the film front in the fearcast as well: Castle Rock En- tertainment is in the preproduction stages on their upcoming film version of Stephen King's Misery. Not much information is available as yet — it's still very early in the process — but here is what we do know.
Rob Reiner, who directed Stand By Me, which most people consider the best King film ever, is scheduled to direct the film, from a screenplay by William Goldman, who has written the scripts for such classics as Marathon Man, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and Reiner's production of Goldman's own novel The Princess Bride. King, who has read an early draft of the screenplay, was reportedly quite impressed with it. There is no word yet on either casting or locations for the film, but keep watching this space and we'll keep you posted.
Followed swiftly by, "Egypt. Telling my friends I was off for life as a radio actor, I trotted down to the local station in Tuscon, Arizona, hung about friendless, rootless, emptying ashtrays, running for Cokes, and exerting my own peculiar animal magnetism. Payment for same? Free tickets for King Kong and The Mummy. I was the richest boy I ever knew.
When I had finished saying all this, there was an instant revision of Lists at our table. Men and women, of all sizes, shapes, colors and ages, had to agree I had hit on Subjects Number One and Two. But, especially One. For, as I put it to my friends: "If, this very instant, a stranger rushed into this room crying, 'My God, there's a dinosaur outside! Dinosaurs started me on the track to becoming a writer. Dinosaurs helped push me along that track to acceptance.
And a dinosaur who fell in love with the sound of a lighthouse foghorn in a story called "The Fog Horn," which I wrote and published in , changed my life, my income, and my way of writing forever. In this story, which was the basis for the film, The Beast from 20, Fathoms, I allowed my gathered love for such beasts to speak out; that drew the attention of John Huston in He read the tale and sympathized with the plight of a monster who took the melancholy cry of the foghorn for the mating call of yet another lost beast.
Huston sensed the ghost of Melville in the whole, and called me in to write the screenplay of Moby Dick. What Huston sensed, of course, was not Melville but the influence of Shakespeare and the Bible on me. And since the Bible and Shakespeare yanked the White Whale full-blown from Melville's brow, it all ends the same.
So, you see, the dinosaurs that fell off the cliff in The Lost World, that ancient film, landed squarely on me, as did King Kong when I was twelve. Squashed magnificently flat, breathless for love, I floundered to my toy typewriter and spent the rest of my life dying of that unrequited love. Along the way I met another young man, exactly my age, with exactly the same love, if not to say lust. For those prehistoric creatures paced his days, and stirred his nights.
The young man's name was Ray Harryhausen. He was building, and animating with stop-motion 8mm film, a family of dinosaurs, in his backyard garage. I visited the family often, handled the beasts, talked for hours, many nights in many years, with my friend, and we agreed: he was to grow up and birth dinosaurs, 1 was to grow up and dialogue them.
And it came to pass. The Beast from 20, Fathoms was the first and only film we shared together. Not a great film, not even a very good one, but the start of two careers that finally took his motion pictures, his beasts, and my books, into some of the farthest corners of the world. Culminating with the night when I introduced Harryhausen at a special screening honoring him, at the Motion Picture Academy of Arts and Sciences.
Along the way, Harryhausen and I had to put up with a lot of fly-by-night, round-heeled, always opinionated and always wrong pardon-my-feet-on-the-table producers. Right now is confession time. Some thirty-odd years ago, Ray Harryhausen, my wife Maggie, and I attended a performance of Siegfried with the then eminent tenor Jussi Bjorling performing the title role. We went, of course, not to see Siegfried, or to hear the music, which was of course glorious. We went to see — God bless our lost, sweet souls — Fafner, the Dragon.
I realize, in admitting this, that Harryhausen and I will probably go on most opera lovers' lists as the coarsest, most unthinking, most damnable Siegfried attendees in history. I accept the damnation and live with the guilt. Nevertheless, there we were, the three of us, in the lower left hand side of the balcony, waiting for what seemed nine hours, and was probably only eight, for Fafner to appear. He appeared all right. I saw an inch of his left nostril, Maggie saw one of his whiskers, and Harryhausen saw only the vast cloud of steam Fafner gave off in his brief "aria" before he vanished.
For, you see, our seats were so devilishly positioned, and the scenery onstage so cleverly built, that at least one-third of each audience never saw the brute clear. We were part of that one bereft third. Stunned, Ray and 1 looked across my wife at each other. The long wait through the admittedly wondrous music was all for nothing. Shortly thereafter, we beat a retreat to the foyer, and thence, defeated and disconsolate, home. Heading west toward the sea, a great car passed us carrying, in the back seat, a dark-haired queen, Elizabeth Taylor.
She was no consolation. It's a crock. S C H O W Arenas shifted back into his camp-complainer mode: "This ain't a military op, Sarge, so you don't really have any - — " "That's why it's not an order, buttplug. They were all dedicated, irrevocably committed; just coarse, battle- tempered and badass nasty enough to believe they were right, the sort of surety that had, in other times, redivided the grid of the world map and changed the names of continents.
The land itself endured. Only the nomenclature altered, according to the whims of the mighty or the subversion of the cunning. That was reassuring to Masterson, who in another war in another time had actually held the rank of sergeant. The only permanent thing was impermanence. Hold onto that. Their plan was to change everything, but the land would always be the same.
The story suggested that if you hopped into a time machine, cruised backward, and meddled with the macreme of past events, you could disrupt in utero the world you had left. You could terminate a family line eons before its ancestors evolved to sentience. The seed of entire races and cultures could be ground dead like a cigarette butt; whole civilizations could be erased down to their skeletons and the bones mortared to timeless dust, all before the primordial amoebae of said civilizations struggled for their first food.
History could easily be stabbed in the back, since it only marched foward, eyes front. The squad that had designated itself Omega Team was counting on that story being right. They quickly discovered that Heraclitus had been or would have been, yuk, yuk right, too: Time was a river. And if you paddled against the current, all the way back to the mouth of the waterway, and pulled your boat and supplies onto the shore, both you and the devices you carried would work just peachy, despite the paradox that neither would exist for millions of years.
You could then murder every living thing in sight, napalm to soot cells that, in a mere burp of passing time for the planet, would eventually become you. Yet you would not, as the operatic cliche went, die before you were born. You could get killed in back-time. But conventionally, and not thanks to a mean twist of plot. McCullough had gotten killed, conventionally, just this morning, and his messy death was what had Arenas bummed. Boyo was damned near catatonic.
Masterson noted that the men had reverted to calling him Sarge. It was something permanent, a reliable fallback in the jungle heat of what had been a one-sided war, until this morning. Boyo squatted near the coffee fire, his blond rag-cut starch stiff with dry blood. Half of McCullough had dropped and splattered him, and three hours later he was still rigid and staring, eyes too wide and blinking too frequently.
The few words he had spoken concerned McCulluogh. He wondered aloud whether the fluids of his partner's tissue, which now soaked his cami fatigues, contained microorganisms that were still alive. Germs that might someday evolve into a new McCullough. They were all going to die on this mission. They knew it and it was no strain. McCullough, however, had been the run's first casualty, and the way in which he had bitten the big one was spectacular.
Rather, Masterson thought morbidly, it was the way the big one had bitten McCullough. There were all sorts of special surprises they had not , anticipated, despite primo recon. Like a Tyrannosaurus Rex coming i at them from out of the trees, for example. They had been hacking their own Wail, staggered at three- I yard intervals, Satch walking point. Just past dawn they spooked a I herd of swan-necked Maiasaurs and massacred the hindmost. Franco and Arenas and Bull potshot the lumbering reptiles — "blowing their tires" was the expression Bull had coined for shooting out a large dinosaur's leg with an RPG.
Blow the tire and the whole beast crumpled, then Boyo laid down a mist of fifty-fifty from his I incendiary tanks, then Mendoza touched off the fireworks with a grenade after they'd all retreated. The smell was awful. Twenty klicks to the south the jungle was busy consuming itself by conflagration. That had been a happy accident, yesterday, courtesy of one of Mendoza's half-smoked Luckies. The flames had engulfed an entire valley, feeding on the wind and defoliating hundreds of acres and barbequing numberless animals.
Including, Franco hoped, a lot of those football-sized roaches he'd seen the first day in back-time, one of which had scuttled over him while he dozed. It weighed at least fifteen pounds and he'd shot it to gruel with his monster. These sci-fi mutant bugs were virtually the only back-time life that could be killed with bullets. The bulk of Omega Team's ordnance was tagged for the big guys. Smokey Mendoza's riff with the cigarette had not cost them a round, and Sarge had been impressed.
Big reptiles could make the creepiest sounds when they They sortied from brush to tropical thickets, where it was close and odious. The canopy of fronds meshed to block the sun and steam them slowly in thier logs. Bull and Satch managed to pick off several gliding, errant pterodactyls as they wafted from perch to perch on the sopping updraft of plant decay. Small arms fire sent them veering into trees and cartwheeling earthward to snap their airy i bonework amid death-tangles of vines and creepers.
Watching a creature with a twenty-two foot wingspan fold up and crash off- course was pretty comical. They had all the tensile strength of spun sugar. One that Arenas gunned down hit the turf right in front of I Boyo, who stomped its head flat and, laughing, made mud of its greasy brains. All nine men paused to chuckle or ignite smokes when the whole enclosed atrium of jungle seemed to vibrate, which froze them all, cat-alert.
McCullough looked up and found himself at ground zero of a widening shadow, just like Wile E. Coyote, eyes whitely visible in the abrubt darkness caused by the Rex landing dead bang on his head. A tri-taloned foot the size of a Datsun mashed him the same way Boyo had danced on the twirly-bird. Nobody had foreseen a ton-plus of death roosting above them. Bushwhacked by a monster with barely a quart of brains. But hell, nobody had ever expected it to be such a virulent purple and yellow, either, and by the time the team could gawp at such wonderment and maybe wheel a LAWs rocket around to bear, McCullough had been gnashed in two.
They all heard his ribs implode like cracking knuckles. Franco gut-shot it; dammed -up digestive gases sometimes made the beasts explode, and this one did, drenching everyone. Boyo did not intend to block any of the debris, but part of McCullough came whirling and hit with enough force to tear the flamethrowing rig from his back. S C H O W half with the head, and when Boyo sat up and opened his eyes, there was that head in his lap, staring right back, the fluids that had made his buddy function now soaking his fatigues. Out of the trees, thought Masterson, out of the goddamned trees. No conqueror in history has ever had the luxury of the perspective we experience every time we snuff out another antediluvian life.
The lesson of the story is that butterflies count. Worthless bugs can change history. Hindsight is what determines a battle to be victory or massacre. Change the future? We've been doing THAT all our lives. But now the difference is that we are assured that the changes we are wrecking sp? Not that we'll live to see any of it. But we know, and for warriors, the knowledge is enough to sustain us. One thing more: We are men, nothing less, but not gods or super beings.
Should anyone ever dig up this journal and prove intelligent enough to fathom this language, that's the single fact we all want made diamond- clear: We sortied into our past and changed the building blocks all around, but we were men. Even with a purpose as heightened as we decided ours was, we could still die, and McCullough died like a soldier. Sarge handed the journal back to Kopernick.
Sign it, seal it in one of the vacuum cannisters, and maybe a billion years from now something with tentacles and eyes on stalks will dig it up and go bannanas trying to decipher the meaning of the word fuck. Someday, maybe. He'd always wanted to bash together an oildrum nuke, and since no one had chased them, Masterson assumed that puppy had detonated fearsomely, slanrming the door behind them in a blast of hard radiation.
The techs staffing the lab had not died as honorably as McCullough had. They had groveled and pleaded and, in microcosm, demonstrated all the traits Omega Team had come to despise in a world of wimpy politicos, do-nothing administrations, bread- buttering lawyers, mass child killers, greedy governments and the low common denominator of the undisciplined and unprincipled. Since the cancer was too entrenched, Omega Team opted to destroy the corpus and start anew with a fresh body.
Arenas, Frank, and Mendoza began calling themselves the Terrible Trio, once Kopernick told them that the Greek root of the word dinosaur translated directly as "dire saurians," not "terrible lizards. They were armed, sentient men, and Greek was now a language that would never exist. What hey, victory. The story went that the tiniest death, the soundless pulverization of a butteryfly's fragile body in the past, could grow, in the future, to a thunderstroke, a palpable floodtide of sound that touched all, and changed all it touched.
The payoff for death on a massive scale was therefore seductive to Masterson. Although the mission he proposed was a guaranteed one-way op, each member of Omega Team had volunteered. Each volunteer realized that each of their actions, even the tiniest, like Mendoza's smoldering cigarette butt, would yield results too large to be contained by any history book, ever.
That power, savored briefly but equally guaranteed, was enough to recruit them. A story of people who never were, a fiction printed on dead trees in cheap black, could change the face of a world they scorned. Stories could be rewritten. Authors die, tastes evolve, and all of a sudden some latter-day Mongol monarch decides recorded history should begin with him and razes entire cultures to ash and legend. Technology has always existed to simplify ancient procedures.
Just look at torture. Franco, crazy fuck, decided he wanted to taste spitted dinosaur meat. Masterson said it would make him sick. Franco told him that it tasted like rattlesnake, only juicier. Then he died, vomiting blood and little foamy hunks of his own guts. Dinosaurs: 2.
With two men gone, some cockiness waned. Fright and hostility took their turns. Kopernick shelled in and rarely spoke to anyone. Boyo's eyes stayed under the spell of McCullough's dead gaze. Satch got pissed and shot a tracer round into his face. Boyo died trying to slap out the fire in his head. Masterson returned the anger by blasting Satch out of his combat boots. The giant roaches dug up the military graves and ate the remains. Arenas and Mendoza, the surviving two thirds of the Terrible Trio, died together when they went searching for Bull, who had gone into the forest to take a dump and never come out.
The Dire Duo took a lot of irritated prehistoric lifeforms along when they checked out. When Kopernick went insane, Masterson disarmed him and confiscated his yet-unburied journal. When he managed to cut his own cartoid, Sarge added a final entry and sealed the book up forever. He did not sign his name. What would be the point? All I'd like to do now is stop, and hope our fight really meant something, and go home.
But of course I am home already. It's impossible to go back because all of time lies ahead. Like time, I can only march forward. Like history, I can only spend my remaining hours waiting for that knife in the back. As he was putting down the cannister along with Kopernick's corpse, something flitted past Masterson's sweating face. It was a huge, glassine insect, much like a butterfly, its cobweb wingwork splotched with idiograms of color. It circled his head and lit on the grimed handle of the folding spade. Masterson laughed, gently now, and let it live. Applications are open to any dinosaur between two and six years of age, and must be stamped by a parent Biological parent only.
No Guardians, except for Orphans or Parricides. If one has questions, one should wait until after the examination results are announced. As with years past, we shall use Le Sacre Du Pritemps for ambience. And may the better dinosaur rip the flesh of the lesser, figuratively speaking of course. One must either watch impartially or be asked to leave!
We do not want to have to resort to calling in Officer Rex, now do we? Excuse me, girls. When I call out a position, it will be executed punctually and without enquiry. Are we understood? Failure to follow instructions accurately may result in immediate disqualification. Now — music, please! Girls: Demiplie, all positions, except the third. Very good. Watch your heads, use the Second Position of the Head until told otherwise. This is the dance, not the ablution. Five Poser derrieres, followed by ten Poser devants. Please give it more than your all, better than your very best. And what is the meaning of all this —?!
Who let those Heterodontosaurus in, the randy buggers —!? Girls, come back! Where is Officer Rex when one needs him? We might as well continue When your name is announced. Now: Mr. Brontosaurus — you changed your name to what —? To Apatosaurus —? That may be fine and well for your egocentric parents, but it wiillll not do for the Academy, it will not do at all. Brontosmms, Mademoiselles Stegosaurus and Plateosaurus, Mr. Megalosaurus — Please, members of the audience, one must refrain from fat jokes, one must shut up.
Music, Please, young ladies and gentlemen. Keep a very wide distance between one's face and one's neighbor's tail. Speaking of tails, one must be very, very careful to control the motions of one's tail during the dance. It is the essence of the Dance. Five grand plies! Fair — not bad, not bad, not good, but not bad.
At all times both Head and Tails in First Position. Very good, it shows pride. Positions soulevees, all of them — in no particular order. Think cloud. Better than one would expect. Stretching excersises! One may play, but no duals, no combat. Again, behave.
There will be monitors in our absence. The Elder never appears. Never has, in anybody's memory. But we are not barbarians. We wait. Sixty seconds of quiet meditation, please. Is it time for our lunch break? Is it time yet? Let us reconvene these Auditions in one hour. Or so. Let us now, then fall upon the Earth and feed our faces. I am sure you have heard some rumours — it being a smallish community — about my departure. Some of them have regarded the theft of some eggs from the hatchery. It is not true. And the parties responsible — we all know who they are — shall be hearing from my Solicitor.
It is true, however, that we are retiring. But hot departing from this dear circle of friends. I can tell, from your restraint, from your lack of response, that you are deeply moved. We are deeply moved. One must, we suppose, show dignity. This will be our last Audition together. Let us strive, together, to make it the best in living memory. We must suppose that one cannot be held to blame when one is being pursued by platoons of paramours.
But what, we must ask, are these arcs and secants upon the floor of the Dance? Is there a significance oracular, occult —? Are they drawings of divinity or of delinquents?
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You lay these garlands, these offerings, at my feet? It moves me to tears, to be so honored, and by those who will not even be my students though I do indeed have a decision in their fates, as Students of the Dance. However, during lunch, she suggested a break with custom which would allow me a few more moments of glory. I have gone over the examination results with our new Mistress, and selections have been made. These selections will be announced later, at the banquet. To which all and sundry are invited. So let us, instead, have another sixty seconds of quiet meditation.
If not the Elder, then perhaps one of the Ancients may return. No Ritual. Perhaps next year there should be a discussion among the Board regarding changing the format of these ceremonies. I have decided to give you your first lesson. Why, some of you may ask, does one need the Dance? After all, it is instinctive with us dinosaurs.
Yes and no, because yes you are born with basic technique and the vocabulary of the Dance, and no because you are primitive and unrefined, with no sense of nuance or subtlety. Also, there is no place in the Dance for humor, for japes. Jokes about our weight are in bad form, and form is the essence of the Dance. So, let us see some demiplies — I feel like a Ringmaster, standing in these rings.
Demiplies, First and Second Positions — what's this! Back, to the Bars, everyone! And would our audience be so kind as to return to their seat? Heads and Tails erect. Do not bare your teeth! It is rude to bare your teeth on the dance floor. It is a sort of sacrilege and a definite act of agression! Do not wag your Tails — we only do that when we are hungry. And have we not already had our lunch? Don't wag your tails—! Back, we say. Back —! It was in a cardboard box, and Fred thanked her and took the dinosaur downstairs to his study and took it out of the box and spent twenty minutes taking deep breaths and blowing air into it.
When the dinosaur was inflated, he sat it in front of his bookshelves, and as a joke, got a mouse ear hat he had bought at Disneyland three years before, and put it on the dinosaur's head and named it Bob. Immediately, Bob wanted to go to Disneyland. There was no snuffing the ambition. He talked about it night and day, and it got so the study was no place to visit, because Bob would become most unpleasant on the matter.
He scrounged around downstairs at night, pacing the floor, singing the Mouseketeer theme loud and long, waking up Fred and Karen, and when Fred would come downstairs to reason with Bob, Bob wouldn't listen.
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He wouldn't have a minute's worth of it. No, sir, he by golly wanted to go to Disneyland. Fred said to Karen, "You should have bought me a Brontosaurus, or maybe a Stegasaurus. I have a feeling they'd have been easier to reason with. I want to go to Disneyland. I want to see Mickey. I want to see Donald. Bob said it so much. He even found some old brochures on Disneyland that Fred had stored in his closet, and Bob spread those out on the floor and lay down near them and looked at the pictures and wagged his great tail and looked wistful.
He'd come up to breakfast and sit in two chairs at the table and stare blankly into the syrup on his pancakes, possibly visualizing the Mattcrhom ride or Sleeping Beauty's castle. And Bob got mean. He chased the neighbor's dogs and tore open garbage sacks and fought with the kids on the bus and argued with his teachers aand took up slovenly habits, like throwing his used Kleenex on the floor of the study.
There was no living with that dinosaur. Finally, Fred had had enough, and one morning at breakfast, while Bob was staring into his pancakes, moving his fork through them lazily, but not really trying to eat them and Fred had noticed that Bob had lost weight and looked as if he needed air , Fred said, "Bob, we've decided that you may go to Disneyland. Well now, Bob was one happy dinosaur.
He quit throwing Kleenex down and bothering the dogs and the kids on the bus and his teachers, and in fact, he became a model citizen. His school grades even picked up. Finally, the big day came, and Fred and Karen bought Bob a suit of clothes and a nice John Deere cap, but Bob would have nothing to do with the new duds.
He wore his mouse ear hat and a sweatshirt he had bought at Goodwill with a faded picture of Mickey Mouse on it with the words Disneyland inscribed above it. He even insisted on carrying a battered Disney lunchbox he had picked up at the Salvation Army, but other than that, he was very cooperative. Fred gave Bob plenty of money and Karen gave hime some tips on how to eat a balanced meal daily, and then they drove him to the airport in the back of the pickup.
Bob was so excited he could hardly sit still in the airport lounge, and when his seat section was called, he gave Bob and Karen quick kisses and pushed in front of an old lady and darted onto the plane. As the plane lifted into the sky, heading for California and Disneyland, Karen said, "he's so happy. Do you think he'll be all right by himself?
He'll be all right. They made arrangements with their next door neighbor, Sally, to do the job for them. When they got home, they could hear Bob playing the stereo in the study, and they went down to see him. The music was loud and heavy metal and Bob had never listened to that sort of thing before.
The room smelled of smoke, and not cigarettes. Bob was lying on the floor reading, and at first, Fred and Karen thought it was the Disney Brochures, but then they saw those wadded up in the trashcan by the door. Bob was looking at a girlie magazine and a reefer was hanging out of his mouth. Fred looked at Karen and Karen was "Bob? There was the faintest impression of tears in his eyes. He stood up and tossed the reefer down and ground it into the carpet with his foot. It's just some guy in a suit. The same with the duck. Movies like Ray Harryhausen's efforts and the early Japanese stuff were among my favorites, and the posters for these pictures seemed to speak directly to us preteens.
It amazed me how powerful those nightmarish images and situations were. How they stuck with me year after year. How perversely satisfying to do the same thing for an entirely new generation! It featured fine paintings by Norman Saunders of the Earth being invaded by grotesque Martians who visit violence upon us hapless Earthlings. The series climaxed with Earth launching a counter-attack on Mars.
Today hey are the most collected non-sports cards issued in the last fifty years and have spawned many articles, homages and even a 36 card imitation series produced in called URANUS STRIKES, which was produced with more enthusiasm than artistry. MARS ATTACKS was even reissued by an amateur publisher, but the cards were poorly reproduced by someone who knew nothing about the intricacies of reprinting that type of color when reshooting from a printed surface.
There are scenes of people being torn in half card this was more than an accident as a sinister being was behind these events, manipulating things in order to bring about the destruction of our world. The artwork for these cards are paintings done by John Pound, James Warhol a, and Earl Norem, although the vast majority of them 42 of 55 were painted by underground artist Chet Darmstaedter, known in the field by the pseudonym XNO.
When Darmstaedter first started doing the paintings, he tried to paint them realistically to the point of having the spilled blood look realistic as well, but Topps wanted the blood painted a brighter shade of red to make it show up better in the paintings. It's as though the original KING KONG didn't have only three or four censored scenes of explicit violence, but dozens, and all of them just a bit deranged. The story involves a time travel experi- ment which goes awry causing hun- dreds of dinosaurs to be transported into the world of modern day Earth.
But as the story unfolds we learn that The scenes on the cards were all conceived by Gerani from his script and done in storyboard form. The painters then used these drawings as the basis for their paintings. A series of eleven stickers were also released as part of the series although the artwork of those is by Paul Mavrides and Hal Robbins. Some of the people who appear in the paintings are based on polar- oids which Darmstaedter was pro- vided by Gerani to work into the art as inside jokes.
Artwork would be by Chet Darm- staedter and each panel would be a painting in the same style as the cards. Darmstaedter had already done a few paintings for the second series before Topps cancelled plans to complete it themselves. But we hadn't found an artist and when Aedena went bancrupt we just put the proposal back into our files. At that time the series wasn't fully plotted but just consisted of a story bible.
When Mark said he was interested, we started working on the plot some more and he said he liked the idea. He just told us that he should be able to start on it in September, although I don't think it will start appearing much before later in The story opens in Earth stands poised on the brink of the first World War when dinosaurs suddenly emerge from a dimensional gateway, bent on wrecking havoc and conquering our world. In , which is when most of the action takes place, the Saurian Wars have already been going on for a year. United against the dinosaur invaders is a group whose spearhead is composed of Captain Methuselah Stone an American flying ace , Poincare a French mathematician and one of Earth's foremost scientists and the beautiful and mysterious Mata-Hari, whose loyalties are at first very much at question.
That is a deliberate attempt to use an archetype," Jean-Marc explains. Rather the fact that the dinosaurs rule an alternate world which looks much like Earth and shares similar historical incidents, except for little things, such as the fact that the Christopher Columbus of the alternate Earth was an intelligent dinosaur.
I miss the old Earth- Two from D. I love parallel universes, but they have to be a lot more different than just simple things like President Kennedy wasn' t killed in that one. Ours are a lot more anthropormorphic, but I don't try to make them too human. For practical story purposes the society in that alternate world is divided into two main areas.
One is equivalent to Victorian England and the other occupies most of what would be the Soviet Union and Asia. So it is a lot more anthropormorphic than Harry Harrison's story. Nobody has done a British Victorian empire better than Michael Moorcock, so I would probably have to plead guilty to some kind of influence from there. Coming soon is Shayne's first sequential effort, a page comic called Overload, scripted by Paul Duncan. The following pages from Overload, are just a taste of the disturbing O'Dwyer wit and style, courtesy of the artist.
Our field teams of specialists have spent hours hanging around supermarket paperback racks and loitering by the mall shelves labeled HORROR. Their conclusions? While there is a bunch of good, scary stuff out there, the avalanche of awful stuff that balances it is somehow even scarier. What are these all-important Warning Signs, these storm watch beacons for stupid horror fiction?
The hints and clues that you should use the paperback as a doorstop, pronto. Same goes for ancient curses. Phewl 2. Pshawl Join the 20th Century, dudes. Enrollment is limited! Send check or money order todayl 6. EVIL Such as cloven footprints, bat wings, slit pupils, reptilian features, an "aquiline nose," a cadaverous pallor, or an exotic name that means something nasty and ominous in a for- eign language. We wanna know. And while we're at it, how about a Top Ten of dialogue cliches from science fiction and horror films?
Stop us if you ha ven't heard these two times too often. Too quiet. That's crazy.. But it just might work! That sort of thing never used to happen around these parts. You can bet that after centuries of waiting something is ready for feeding time. It's probably pretty blasphemous. And the horror was only beginning. Or any other word with the wrong letter stretched, as: "Bbuttl Bbbbbbbbbilillieee!
Let's all split up and die stupidly. It's the only publication devoted exclusively i that come out after dark! Braunbeck Eldritch Tales -It's an impressive debut -- showing a lot of thought and a lot of ambition. When the sun goes down, After Hours shines bright! Copies of the premiere issue are still available, featuring an interview with Robert R.
McCammon, best-selling author of Swan Song. New stories by J. Warner, Ronald Kelly, Anke Kriske, et al. Plus a classic from Tanith Lee. After Hours 2: An interview with Janet Fox plus a bibliography. Fiction by Ronald Kelly, John B. Cover by Alan Jude Summa.
- Trotzdem ans Christkind glauben: Winter- und Weihnachtstexte (German Edition);
- Full text of "Midnight Graffiti (Fall)"?
- Follow the Author.
An unpublished vignette from early in J. Subscribe tonight! The Burgeoning vanguard of succubi pant with enough passion to make old Count Dracula feel his age. Lately, the difference between man, woman and monster has ebbed with each new wave of horror fiction. In Blood is Not Enough, the most recent and only anthology in which vampiric behavior transcends traditional supernatural boundaries, Omni's fiction editor, Ellen Datlow, showcase the haunting, erotic world of vampirism with a collection of stories based on the draining of energy and will.