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Spaceways, v. 4, issue 2, January 1942
Page 14
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14 SPACEWAYS GODDESS ON HIS ARM by EARL SINGLETON It always seemed to him that he lived in the stories he wrote. As he sometimes told himself, his regular existence could hardly be called "life"--up at six-thirt, a dreary day of routine, off at five in the afternoon. He could see no way to circumvent this deadly monotony--and at the same time, he knew why he couldn't. It was lack of courage. "Someday," he thought, "I shall find a way to break away from it all; someday--but in the meantime I must eat--" And so he sought refuge in his stories. At night, when his work was done, he would sit at his desk and write. At night he took strange excursions to fabled lands of his imaginings; at the head of camel caravans he rode across the desert to Carthage with court and tribute for Dido; as the master of fleets of triremes he sailed to Tyre with booty from a thousand bloody battles. One night in Babylon beyond the seas he stroke from the temple of Ishtar with the goddess on his arm; and gain he ruled the gilded city of Persepolis with Helen as his queen. Later he went farther. In dream journeys to alien planets in forbidden dimensions he saw crystal cities whose jeweled minarets and spires of jade pierced the purple vaults of sunless skies; and from the tesselated terraces of the cities he saw talonedmonstrosities, cat-eyed, with fanged beaks, hovering high over-head on inky membraneous wings--hovering, watching cat-eyed--waiting for the dark to close in.... He lived in the stories he wrote; and yet he knew the stories were not real. And so, too, he knew that his escape from existence was, as a consequence, only a partial escape. He tried to think of a way to escape completely, and because his thinking held exactly the right amount of courage, he finally hit upon the obvious solution; and he began to strive for realism in his stories. "If I ever wrote a really true story," he told himself, "then I shall be free." And thus it was that one evening he sat down as usual to write The story he told was a story of despair--the story of a man who was beaten by environment and fate from the very beginning, trapped in a net of circumstance and ordinariness, and driven finally to the end which isthe end of all such men who possess exactly with the correct degree of courage. As he wrote, he noticed the unaccustomed eas with which the whole words came into his mind, and thence spread themselves on the paper, so that he became afraid, and was half minded to desist. But he knew that the story was real, and his desire for realism drove him on; and to be sure, his fear was not a very great nor tangible thing. And in this way he came finally to the suicide which was the end and climax of the story. As he finished the story, a mingled wave of feeling swept over him. Combining with his vague sense of unease was the queer simultaneous pseud-memory that he had written this same ending before and many times before, long and long ago. And then he began to forget the writing, but to remember the story in an ordered sequence of events from the very beginning, in the same way that it seemed to him he had remembered it countless times before. And he remembered it not as a story which he had written, but as a life which he had lived. Until at last, as he came to a point very near the end of the story, his memories became not memories but the pseud-memories that accompany and haunt events. And then he screamed, for the dagger that dropped from his hand was crimsoned with blood; but the finish of the scream was a gurgle, as he clasped both hands to his throat and his head fell slowly and shudderingly forward to come at last to rest upon the table. Editor's note: "What They Are About", by J. Michael Rosenblum, will resume its regular appearance in the next issue of this magazine. The reviews needed for its continuation were received a few days too late to permit its inclusion in this issue.
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14 SPACEWAYS GODDESS ON HIS ARM by EARL SINGLETON It always seemed to him that he lived in the stories he wrote. As he sometimes told himself, his regular existence could hardly be called "life"--up at six-thirt, a dreary day of routine, off at five in the afternoon. He could see no way to circumvent this deadly monotony--and at the same time, he knew why he couldn't. It was lack of courage. "Someday," he thought, "I shall find a way to break away from it all; someday--but in the meantime I must eat--" And so he sought refuge in his stories. At night, when his work was done, he would sit at his desk and write. At night he took strange excursions to fabled lands of his imaginings; at the head of camel caravans he rode across the desert to Carthage with court and tribute for Dido; as the master of fleets of triremes he sailed to Tyre with booty from a thousand bloody battles. One night in Babylon beyond the seas he stroke from the temple of Ishtar with the goddess on his arm; and gain he ruled the gilded city of Persepolis with Helen as his queen. Later he went farther. In dream journeys to alien planets in forbidden dimensions he saw crystal cities whose jeweled minarets and spires of jade pierced the purple vaults of sunless skies; and from the tesselated terraces of the cities he saw talonedmonstrosities, cat-eyed, with fanged beaks, hovering high over-head on inky membraneous wings--hovering, watching cat-eyed--waiting for the dark to close in.... He lived in the stories he wrote; and yet he knew the stories were not real. And so, too, he knew that his escape from existence was, as a consequence, only a partial escape. He tried to think of a way to escape completely, and because his thinking held exactly the right amount of courage, he finally hit upon the obvious solution; and he began to strive for realism in his stories. "If I ever wrote a really true story," he told himself, "then I shall be free." And thus it was that one evening he sat down as usual to write The story he told was a story of despair--the story of a man who was beaten by environment and fate from the very beginning, trapped in a net of circumstance and ordinariness, and driven finally to the end which isthe end of all such men who possess exactly with the correct degree of courage. As he wrote, he noticed the unaccustomed eas with which the whole words came into his mind, and thence spread themselves on the paper, so that he became afraid, and was half minded to desist. But he knew that the story was real, and his desire for realism drove him on; and to be sure, his fear was not a very great nor tangible thing. And in this way he came finally to the suicide which was the end and climax of the story. As he finished the story, a mingled wave of feeling swept over him. Combining with his vague sense of unease was the queer simultaneous pseud-memory that he had written this same ending before and many times before, long and long ago. And then he began to forget the writing, but to remember the story in an ordered sequence of events from the very beginning, in the same way that it seemed to him he had remembered it countless times before. And he remembered it not as a story which he had written, but as a life which he had lived. Until at last, as he came to a point very near the end of the story, his memories became not memories but the pseud-memories that accompany and haunt events. And then he screamed, for the dagger that dropped from his hand was crimsoned with blood; but the finish of the scream was a gurgle, as he clasped both hands to his throat and his head fell slowly and shudderingly forward to come at last to rest upon the table. Editor's note: "What They Are About", by J. Michael Rosenblum, will resume its regular appearance in the next issue of this magazine. The reviews needed for its continuation were received a few days too late to permit its inclusion in this issue.
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