DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Jinx, v. 1, issue 2, whole no. 2, March 1942

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Jinx, v. 1, issue 2, whole no. 2, March 1942

Page 6

"The Little People"  JINX  page 6
that no matter what tongue he now spoke, it might be as native a tongue to him as English had formerly been, and therefore he didn't really know whether it was English or not.
But those other voices, now. He hurried forward -- and paused, aghast.
He could see them now. Purple monsters against an orange background. Human monsters, enormously overgrown and towering above him taller than trees. Human monsters wearing: clothes! The thought suddenly terrified him. For the clothes, while garishly colored, were netherless quite ordinary clothes. The man wore a coat, a vest, and trousers of conventional pattern. The girl was dressed as girls had been dressed only a few hours ago -- or a few million years ago -- when he had -- had worn the same kind of clothes as that man wore.
He wasn't dead, he groaned to himself. He was only small. And he saw thing, he now knew, in a different manner than from what they were seen in larger -- larger beings.
He was small. He  trod on an acid fungoid moss. The swordlike fronds about him were in reality sparse blades of grass.  He was small!
"Small!" he bleated in frightened realization, and although the noise could have been no more than an insect-like chirp to human ears, the girl swung toward him. Her mouth opened, and her eyes, as big around as dinner-plates, almost, met his own upward, horrified gaze.
"Harry!" she cried,clutching her escort's arm and pointing. Instantly, realizing that all might not be well should a naturally suspicious male see him, the miserable dwarf plunged into the concealment of a nearby thicket of tough, resisting growth.
"A little man!" the girl cried unbelievingly. "A little green man!"
Her voice sounded like the roar of Niagara to the one who scurried still further into hiding, driven by some instinctive compulsion as powerful as the will to live, some inner voice which told him positively and with certainty that never, never must he permit himself to be seen, or taken, by humans.
He heard a terrific clapping sound, and knew it to be Cyclopean laughter. He could distinguish the words:
"Oh, Mary -- it's just the Irish in you. Only the Irish could see the Little People -- "and again the booming, retreating sound of human laughter.
The unhappy once-mortal refugee paused and leaned weakly against a rock. Why had he run away from his only chance for companionship? Maybe those people could have done something for him. If they would have done something. Somehow, he knew the answer there. Men were not now his enemies, yet some universal law forbade his association with them. Some instinct, new born but as powerful as hunger, warned him that his ways would henceforward be in the paths of night and in panic flight.
An apologetic cough, a quite normally tuned cough, sounded behind him.
He whirled, prepare for flight, but stood as he saw a small man, as violet as himself, standing there. Queerly clothed, but a man netherless. The man smiled, revealing black teeth. "You're new here, aren't you?" He gestured at the evidences of nudity quite apparently the source of his deduction. "We'll have to get you some clothes before we get to the community cave. Did you just -- come over?"
The newcomer nodded, dumbly.
"You know the laws of the place --?"
The newcomer nodded again.
"But of course you do. They are natural laws instilled simultaneously with the passing over from -- over there. You are now of the Little People. Come with me, friend."
He beckoned with a crooked finger, and side by side, the two walked away. The newcomer, with sudden understanding, knew all that it was needful for him to know of this existence. He was in the Second Cycle.
THE END
"Victory,
A Cinquain"
Paul Beach Wynburn
O Death,
You bore away
The Thing for which I lived,
But, Shadow, you must come again
For me.

Saving...

"The Little People" JINX page 6 that no matter what tongue he now spoke, it might be as native a tongue to him as English had formerly been, and therefore he didn't really know whether it was English or not. But those other voices, now. He hurried forward -- and paused, aghast. He could see them now. Purple monsters against an orange background. Human monsters, enormously overgrown and towering above him taller than trees. Human monsters wearing: clothes! The thought suddenly terrified him. For the clothes, while garishly colored, were netherless quite ordinary clothes. The man wore a coat, a vest, and trousers of conventional pattern. The girl was dressed as girls had been dressed only a few hours ago -- or a few million years ago -- when he had -- had worn the same kind of clothes as that man wore. He wasn't dead, he groaned to himself. He was only small. And he saw thing, he now knew, in a different manner than from what they were seen in larger -- larger beings. He was small. He trod on an acid fungoid moss. The swordlike fronds about him were in reality sparse blades of grass. He was small! "Small!" he bleated in frightened realization, and although the noise could have been no more than an insect-like chirp to human ears, the girl swung toward him. Her mouth opened, and her eyes, as big around as dinner-plates, almost, met his own upward, horrified gaze. "Harry!" she cried,clutching her escort's arm and pointing. Instantly, realizing that all might not be well should a naturally suspicious male see him, the miserable dwarf plunged into the concealment of a nearby thicket of tough, resisting growth. "A little man!" the girl cried unbelievingly. "A little green man!" Her voice sounded like the roar of Niagara to the one who scurried still further into hiding, driven by some instinctive compulsion as powerful as the will to live, some inner voice which told him positively and with certainty that never, never must he permit himself to be seen, or taken, by humans. He heard a terrific clapping sound, and knew it to be Cyclopean laughter. He could distinguish the words: "Oh, Mary -- it's just the Irish in you. Only the Irish could see the Little People -- "and again the booming, retreating sound of human laughter. The unhappy once-mortal refugee paused and leaned weakly against a rock. Why had he run away from his only chance for companionship? Maybe those people could have done something for him. If they would have done something. Somehow, he knew the answer there. Men were not now his enemies, yet some universal law forbade his association with them. Some instinct, new born but as powerful as hunger, warned him that his ways would henceforward be in the paths of night and in panic flight. An apologetic cough, a quite normally tuned cough, sounded behind him. He whirled, prepare for flight, but stood as he saw a small man, as violet as himself, standing there. Queerly clothed, but a man netherless. The man smiled, revealing black teeth. "You're new here, aren't you?" He gestured at the evidences of nudity quite apparently the source of his deduction. "We'll have to get you some clothes before we get to the community cave. Did you just -- come over?" The newcomer nodded, dumbly. "You know the laws of the place --?" The newcomer nodded again. "But of course you do. They are natural laws instilled simultaneously with the passing over from -- over there. You are now of the Little People. Come with me, friend." He beckoned with a crooked finger, and side by side, the two walked away. The newcomer, with sudden understanding, knew all that it was needful for him to know of this existence. He was in the Second Cycle. THE END "Victory, A Cinquain" Paul Beach Wynburn O Death, You bore away The Thing for which I lived, But, Shadow, you must come again For me.