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Fanfare, November 1950

Page 16

crouched up against the farthest wall in the room.
"Oh, you poor dear," she sighed, slightly relieved, "you must have Jungle Rot!"
"Slub!" It echoed.
"For a moment I thought you were the brother of that mess I saw, or thought I saw, out in the forest last night."
It squirmed, part of Its right foot turning into bloody red muck.

She ran downstairs fast as her feet would carry her, where she was met by the Sheriff.
"Sheriff, come quickly. Something's dreadfully wrong with John."
But when they got up to John's room, they found him to be gone. They saw only a solid mass of muck sliding out the window.
"He's gone, Mrs. Smith. I'd better go out and look for him."

A few minutes later, she heard a few shots, then silence, in the forest.
Not long after that, she noticed that her hands had turned into slimy chunks of muck. Then her legs, and her body, and her face.
She must have caught the disease from 'John.'
She/It staggered out of the house and into the forest.
Not going far, she found It/John crouching on the ground, dying.
"Blood," It thought. "I am actually bleeding---just like a human, almost. Only they have red blood. Mine is black."
She/It felt a stunning sensation throughout her, like bullets passing through her body.
The Sheriff levelled the rifle and fired again and again...
She/It fell dead beside her lover, her hand catching his.
Over the swampland there fell a vast silence. Silence, and the rank odor of stagnant waters, where tomorrow the sunheat would come again...
page 16           The End
TOMORROW'S CHILDREN
by Keran O'Brien
The wind stroked the trees with gentle fingers, for
They were fragile and like to break, crackling the hoar
The cold had lined them with; and every branch in the forest,
Crystal and Silver, the work of Ruggedo's florist.
A cave-mouth at the foot of a hill glowed redly,
Like a dragon's maw, where singing a strange mad medly,
Hunched up, bent-over men, crooked men danced
A crooked dance in the crooked light, and glanced
Askance at the dancing flames, holding back the dark
Forest, where eyes gleamed out of the brittle bark.

But these were not, could not, be men. For long
Ago, men had reached for the stars with strong
Eager fingers, tore them from their settings,
Moved on, lured by the next world's pirouettings.

The dancer's chanting twists along the ear;
"Didgyre and gimbel in the wabe,"
The wind scatters the sound, afraid to hear;
"... outgrabe."
The stars fall one by one
Into the cup of Dawn,
The Night his course has run
And Day's sheep must be shorn.
Tomorrow's child must ride
Alone and in the rain,
From his stand in the wild bull's hide,
To love and light and pain.
16

Saving...

crouched up against the farthest wall in the room. "Oh, you poor dear," she sighed, slightly relieved, "you must have Jungle Rot!" "Slub!" It echoed. "For a moment I thought you were the brother of that mess I saw, or thought I saw, out in the forest last night." It squirmed, part of Its right foot turning into bloody red muck. She ran downstairs fast as her feet would carry her, where she was met by the Sheriff. "Sheriff, come quickly. Something's dreadfully wrong with John." But when they got up to John's room, they found him to be gone. They saw only a solid mass of muck sliding out the window. "He's gone, Mrs. Smith. I'd better go out and look for him." A few minutes later, she heard a few shots, then silence, in the forest. Not long after that, she noticed that her hands had turned into slimy chunks of muck. Then her legs, and her body, and her face. She must have caught the disease from 'John.' She/It staggered out of the house and into the forest. Not going far, she found It/John crouching on the ground, dying. "Blood," It thought. "I am actually bleeding---just like a human, almost. Only they have red blood. Mine is black." She/It felt a stunning sensation throughout her, like bullets passing through her body. The Sheriff levelled the rifle and fired again and again... She/It fell dead beside her lover, her hand catching his. Over the swampland there fell a vast silence. Silence, and the rank odor of stagnant waters, where tomorrow the sunheat would come again... page 16 The End TOMORROW'S CHILDREN by Keran O'Brien The wind stroked the trees with gentle fingers, for They were fragile and like to break, crackling the hoar The cold had lined them with; and every branch in the forest, Crystal and Silver, the work of Ruggedo's florist. A cave-mouth at the foot of a hill glowed redly, Like a dragon's maw, where singing a strange mad medly, Hunched up, bent-over men, crooked men danced A crooked dance in the crooked light, and glanced Askance at the dancing flames, holding back the dark Forest, where eyes gleamed out of the brittle bark. But these were not, could not, be men. For long Ago, men had reached for the stars with strong Eager fingers, tore them from their settings, Moved on, lured by the next world's pirouettings. The dancer's chanting twists along the ear; "Didgyre and gimbel in the wabe," The wind scatters the sound, afraid to hear; "... outgrabe." The stars fall one by one Into the cup of Dawn, The Night his course has run And Day's sheep must be shorn. Tomorrow's child must ride Alone and in the rain, From his stand in the wild bull's hide, To love and light and pain. 16