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Xenon, v. 1, issue 1, March 1944
Page 4
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Page four March 1944 THAT OLD PIANO - (con't) it returns--that smell, I mean. The woodbox--it must be in there; I open the lid but only wood is in there, no dead cats. I must find that smell; it's getting worse as I stand here quivering. Wish there were something to read...have to keep my mind busy. It is getting worse--that stench...rotten meat...must be a dead skunk in here somewhere. Under the chair--no. I'm getting sick. Under the piano--no. It's getting worse. Under the stairs--no. I'm going mad. The fire...it's getting hot in here, stuffy, smoky, smelly; the window, yes, open it, open it. I clamber over the piano and madly shatter the remaining panes with my fists, cutting deep grooves into the flesh. The wounds hurt...no blood. What goes on, anyway? My lungs gasp in the cmaly air, the heat and smoke dissipates a bit--but the stench...Pheww! Crawling back over the piano, my foot again strikes several keys which vibrate dully as if stuffed with rags. With rags...the piano. The odor, that awful stench permeating the air, driving me insane, must be coming from that old piano. I clutch the cumbersome black lid, raise it to peer in. One or two (I don't remember which) corpulent green flies brush past my face; little dark bugs and large white bugs craw back into the shadows. I am looking into the face of my body. THE END I would like to exchange copies will all existing Fan-mags. How about it. --Ed.
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Page four March 1944 THAT OLD PIANO - (con't) it returns--that smell, I mean. The woodbox--it must be in there; I open the lid but only wood is in there, no dead cats. I must find that smell; it's getting worse as I stand here quivering. Wish there were something to read...have to keep my mind busy. It is getting worse--that stench...rotten meat...must be a dead skunk in here somewhere. Under the chair--no. I'm getting sick. Under the piano--no. It's getting worse. Under the stairs--no. I'm going mad. The fire...it's getting hot in here, stuffy, smoky, smelly; the window, yes, open it, open it. I clamber over the piano and madly shatter the remaining panes with my fists, cutting deep grooves into the flesh. The wounds hurt...no blood. What goes on, anyway? My lungs gasp in the cmaly air, the heat and smoke dissipates a bit--but the stench...Pheww! Crawling back over the piano, my foot again strikes several keys which vibrate dully as if stuffed with rags. With rags...the piano. The odor, that awful stench permeating the air, driving me insane, must be coming from that old piano. I clutch the cumbersome black lid, raise it to peer in. One or two (I don't remember which) corpulent green flies brush past my face; little dark bugs and large white bugs craw back into the shadows. I am looking into the face of my body. THE END I would like to exchange copies will all existing Fan-mags. How about it. --Ed.
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