This week’s short story is Forrest J Ackerman’s The Record. It was printed in the first edition of Ray Bradbury’s fanzine Futuria Fantasia in 1939. Bradbury was in his late teens at the time, and only four issues of the fanzine were published. Other contributors included Robert A. Heinlein, Damon Knight and Hannes Bok.
This week’s album is The Cure’s The Head on the Door.
In this fantasy romance for all ages, a boy catches a glimpse of Fifika, as he flees with his family from danger, traveling with his
In my opinion, writing is the foundation of human culture. As one of the earliest means human beings created to launch their thoughts into the future, there would be no cultures on this planet today without writing. However, writing is no longer the sole means of spreading stories and knowledge. With the 20th century advent of film and television, the idea of telling stories through writing is perhaps even the most archaic form of writing today. However, there’s a magic that still exists, for me at least, in a written story. I remember as a younger man thinking that I wanted to develop a form of writing that couldn’t translate to film, that had to be read to be understood. I wanted to expose what language alone is capable of being. It’s an internal experience rather than an external experience. That’s what I want to capitalize on in the stories I tell: the fact that they exist solely in the space between my mind and the reader’s. And therein, for me, lies the current cultural value of writing—that space between the writer’s mind and the reader’s and how it allows one person to comprehend another’s unmediated, unadulterated thoughts. There’s no actor to interpret. There’s no vision to see. There’s only one mind reaching out to another.
The Allowable Rhyme By H. P. Lovecraft “Sed ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis Offendar maculis.” —Horace. The poetical tendency of the present
We tracked snow and mud over a spotless stone floor. Before an open fire stood Madame and the three children—a girl of eight years, a boy of five, a boy of three. They stared with round frightened eyes at les soldats Americans, the first they had ever seen. We were too tired to stare back. We at once climbed to the chill attic, our billet, our lodging for the night. First we lifted the packs from one another’s aching shoulders: then, without spreading our blankets, we lay down on the bare boards.