Stargate (1994)
(from internet transcript)
EXT MOUNTAIN COMPLEX, TWO WEEKS LATER, DAWN
INT RESEARCH LAB
[An exhausted Daniel listens to his dictated notes at a table in front of the cover stones. The table is covered with reference books, paper, candy wrappers, and a coffee mug, as well as the dictaphone.]
Dr. Daniel Jackson
(on recording)
Completed search of cuneiform and other pre-dynastic hieroglyphics. No matches whatsoever. I've exhausted all reference material in comparing the symbols on the cartouche against all known writing samples from the period pre- and post-. Still no similarities...I'm never gonna get paid.
[Daniel shuts off the recording. He goes over to the coffee pot to refill his cup, only to find the carafe is practically empty.]
From 10/28/1994 ( premiere USA film "Stargate" ) To 5/8/2024 ( ) is 10785 days
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 5/14/1995 ( premiere USA TV miniseries "The Langoliers" ) is 10785 days
https://www.imdb.com/title/tt21158452/
IMDb
Dark Matter
S1.E1
Are You Happy in Your Life?
Episode aired May 8, 2024
"The Langoliers" by Stephen King, author
excerpts, Chapter 9
(from internet transcript)
Goodbye to Bangor. Heading West Through Days and Nights. Seeing Through the Eyes of Others. The Endless Gulf. The Rip. The Warning. Brian’s Decision. The Landing. Shooting Stars Only.
1
The plane banked heavily east, throwing the man with the black beard into a row of empty seats three-quarters of the way up the main cabin. He looked around at all the other empty seats with a wide, frightened gaze, and squeezed his eyes shut. “Jesus,” he muttered. “DTs. Fucking DTs. This is the worst they’ve ever been.” He looked around fearfully. “The bugs come next... where’s the motherfuckin bugs?”
No bugs, Albert thought, but wait till you see the balls. You’re going to love those.
“Buckle yourself in, mate,” Nick said, “and shut u—”
He broke off, staring down incredulously at the airport... or where the airport had been. The main buildings were gone, and the National Guard base at the west end was going. Flight 29 overflew a growing abyss of darkness, an eternal cistern that seemed to have no end.
“Oh dear Jesus, Nick,” Laurel said unsteadily, and suddenly put her hands over her eyes.
As they overflew Runway 33 at 1,500 feet, Nick saw sixty or a hundred parallel lines racing up the concrete, cutting the runway into long strips that sank into emptiness. The strips reminded him of Craig Toomy:
Rii-ip.
On the other side of the aisle, Bethany pulled down the windowshade beside Albert’s seat with a bang.
“Don’t you dare open that!” she told him in a scolding, hysterical voice.
“Don’t worry,” Albert said, and suddenly remembered that he had left his violin down there. Well... it was undoubtedly gone now. He abruptly put his hands over his own face.
2
Before Brian began to turn west again, he saw what lay east of Bangor. It was nothing. Nothing at all. A titantic river of blackness lay in a still sweep from horizon to horizon under the white dome of the sky. The trees were gone, the city was gone, the earth itself was gone.
This is what it must be like to fly in outer space, he thought, and he felt his rationality slip a cog, as it had on the trip east. He held onto himself desperately and made himself concentrate on flying the plane.
He brought them up quickly, wanting to be in the clouds, wanting that hellish vision to be blotted out. Then Flight 29 was pointed west again. In the moments before they entered the clouds, he saw the hills and woods and lakes which stretched to the west of the city, saw them being cut ruthlessly apart by thousands of black spiderweb lines. He saw huge swatches of reality go sliding soundlessly into the growing mouth of the abyss, and Brian did something he had never done before while in the cockpit of an airplane.
He closed his eyes. When he opened them again they were in the clouds.
3
There was almost no turbulence this time; as Bob Jenkins had suggested, the weather patterns appeared to be running down like an old clock. Ten minutes after entering the clouds, Flight 29 emerged into the bright-blue world which began at 18,000 feet. The remaining passengers looked around at each other nervously, then at the speakers as Brian came on the intercom.
“We’re up,” he said simply. “You all know what happens now: we go back exactly the way we came, and hope that whatever doorway we came through is still there. If it is, we’ll try going through.”
"The Langoliers" by Stephen King, author
excerpts, Chapter 8
Refuelling. Dawn’s Early Light. The Approach of the Langoliers. Angel of the Morning. The Time-Keepers of Eternity. Take-off.
“We’re waiting, Craig,” the president of his own banking institution said. Craig felt momentary surprise — Mr Parker hadn’t been scheduled to attend this meeting — and then the feeling was overwhelmed by happiness.
“No procedures at all!” he screamed joyfully into their shocked faces. “I just bought and bought and bought! I followed No... PROCEDURES... AT ALL!”
He was about to go on, to elaborate on this theme, to really expound on it, when a sound stopped him. This sound was not miles away; this sound was close, very close, perhaps in the boardroom itself.
A whickering chopping sound, like dry hungry teeth.
Suddenly Craig felt a deep need to tear some paper — any paper would do. He reached for the legal pad in front of his place at the table, but the pad was gone. So was the table. So were the bankers. So was Boston.
“Where am I?” he asked in a small, perplexed voice, and looked around. Suddenly he realized... and suddenly he saw them.
The langoliers had come.
They had come for him.
Craig Toomy began to scream.
19
Brian could see them, but could not understand what it was he was seeing. In some strange way they seemed to defy seeing, and he sensed his frantic, overstressed mind trying to change the incoming information, to make the shapes which had begun to appear at the east end of Runway 21 into something it could understand.
At first there were only two shapes, one black, one a dark tomato red.
Are they balls? his mind asked doubtfully. Could they be balls?
Something actually seemed to click in the center of his head and they were balls, sort of like beachballs, but balls which rippled and contracted and then expanded again, as if he was seeing them through a heat-haze. They came bowling out of the high dead grass at the end of Runway 21, leaving cut swaths of blackness behind them. They were somehow cutting the grass
No, his mind reluctantly denied. They are not just cutting the grass, and you know it. They are cutting a lot more than the grass.
What they left behind were narrow lines of perfect blackness. And now, as they raced playfully down the white concrete at the end of the runway, they were still leaving narrow dark tracks behind. They glistened like tar.
No, his mind reluctantly denied. Not tar. You know what that blackness is. It’s nothing. Nothing at all. They are eating a lot more than the surface of the runway.
There was something malignantly joyful about their behavior. They crisscrossed each other’s paths, leaving a wavery black X on the outer taxiway. They bounced high in the air, did an exuberant, crisscrossing maneuver, and then raced straight for the plane.
As they did, Brian screamed and Nick screamed beside him. Faces lurked below the surfaces of the racing balls — monstrous, alien faces. They shimmered and twitched and wavered like faces made of glowing swamp-gas. The eyes were only rudimentary indentations, but the mouths were huge: semicircular caves lined with gnashing, blurring teeth.
They ate as they came, rolling up narrow strips of the world.
A Texaco fuel truck was parked on the outer taxiway. The langoliers pounced upon it, high-speed teeth whirring and crunching and bulging out of their blurred bodies. They went through it without pause. One of them burrowed a path directly through the rear tires, and for a moment, before the tires collapsed, Brian could see the shape it had cut — a shape like a cartoon mouse-hole in a cartoon baseboard.
The other leaped high, disappeared for a moment behind the Texaco truck’s boxy tank, and then blasted straight through, leaving a metal-ringed hole from which av-gas sprayed in a dull amber flood. They struck the ground, bounced as if on springs, crisscrossed again, and raced on toward the airplane. Reality peeled away in narrow strips beneath them, peeled away wherever and whatever they touched, and as they neared, Brian realized that they were unzipping more than the world — they were opening all the depths of forever.
- by me, Kerry Wayne Burgess, posted by me: 06:12 AM Pacific-timezone USA Thursday 05/08/2025
