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Milty's Mag, December 1944
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MILTY'S MAG _________________________ Camp Crowder, Missouri December, 1944 A TS Publication The Fantasy Amateur Press Association __________________________ RIPENING The city was Senn, on the planet Andradeel, of the star Alcon IV. It was evening and the bright colored lights of the street were hot against the blue sky. He was Jed Grey, and as he walked along that street, going nowhere, he was nineteen years of age. Inside doors there were dim places where people drank, bright places where men and women struggled sweatingly to jazzy tunes, but he walked alone on the outside. He searched the faces of the ones he passed, but they were all masks of no understanding and among them he felt alone. A razz of music jarred at him from a suddenly opened door, and because inside him there was a need for great, noble, beautiful music, he made an expression of repulsion and disgust. Because he felt in himself something great and noble, he carried himself erect, with pride, looking into the faces of the people, and failing to find magnificence in them. The world should have been magnificent, its cities beautiful, its people fine, and its civilization worthy of the two thousand years that had passed since the beginning of space flight. But instead it was cheap, tawdry, dirty, in body and in spirit, and that caused him to be tense with rage as he walked down the street. He thought. Furiously, angrily, fists clenched, striding long-legged, grimly. Cheap. . . cheap . . . Miserable cheap people spending their cheap time without a thought in their empty heads about what's going on.
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MILTY'S MAG _________________________ Camp Crowder, Missouri December, 1944 A TS Publication The Fantasy Amateur Press Association __________________________ RIPENING The city was Senn, on the planet Andradeel, of the star Alcon IV. It was evening and the bright colored lights of the street were hot against the blue sky. He was Jed Grey, and as he walked along that street, going nowhere, he was nineteen years of age. Inside doors there were dim places where people drank, bright places where men and women struggled sweatingly to jazzy tunes, but he walked alone on the outside. He searched the faces of the ones he passed, but they were all masks of no understanding and among them he felt alone. A razz of music jarred at him from a suddenly opened door, and because inside him there was a need for great, noble, beautiful music, he made an expression of repulsion and disgust. Because he felt in himself something great and noble, he carried himself erect, with pride, looking into the faces of the people, and failing to find magnificence in them. The world should have been magnificent, its cities beautiful, its people fine, and its civilization worthy of the two thousand years that had passed since the beginning of space flight. But instead it was cheap, tawdry, dirty, in body and in spirit, and that caused him to be tense with rage as he walked down the street. He thought. Furiously, angrily, fists clenched, striding long-legged, grimly. Cheap. . . cheap . . . Miserable cheap people spending their cheap time without a thought in their empty heads about what's going on.
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