Futurist Stories Part 1

Futurist Stories.

by Margery Verner Reed.

MOONBEAMS [_To V. Z. R._]

IT was a glorious winter's night. Through a blue haze one saw the ground, covered with snow, s.h.i.+ning under the magical moon. And the trees of the forest were also covered with snow; great cl.u.s.ters glistened in their branches. Almost as light as day. Not a bleak light, but an enchanting one, which dazzled in the cold, brisk air. Into the woods walked the Spirit of Art. As he gazed at the surrounding beauty he grew sad, and wondered why he had never reproduced such splendor--the moon--the snow--Oh, he must try again--Tomorrow he would do better.

Then came the Spirit of History and he too grew sad as he gazed into the quietude of the night. His hands were soiled with blood, with dark hideous crimes. And he asked why he had committed such deeds--with all this beauty around him. Why could he not have likened history to these woods where the snow was white. Tomorrow he would do better.

And then came the Spirit of Philosophy and like the others he wondered why he had never been under the spell of the Moonbeams before--why had he filled the minds of men with entangled ma.s.ses of dark thought, instead of teaching them the beauty, the enchantment of a night like this. Tomorrow he would do better.

The three Spirits met and talked together. They would go back to the cities and begin anew. They would bring the spell of the woods back with them and teach men unknown things.

A NEW Era was about to be born.

MORNING dawned cold and raw, a bleak gray light shone in the deserted streets. The three Spirits returning from their wandering all too soon forgot the magic spell of the woods--the snow--the Moon--and fell to work once more among the sordid things of the day; making Art and History and Philosophy only grayer--darker--

AND in the woods where all was beauty, the Moonbeams shone only for the fairies as they danced under the trees, and now and then for a wistful human soul that had strayed into the splendor of the night.

THE DREAM m.u.f.f [_To I. K. McF._]

ONE more day of horror had ended for Russia. At this hour once the lamps along the Neva would have been lighted, the laughter of sleigh-riders would have resounded over the snow. But now the streets were dark--deserted save by some wandering homeless people, seeking refuge in the night.

NO one seemed to know exactly what had happened--or the cause--

THERE was no ruler--no order--

DARKNESS and chaos.

A GIRL, perhaps of twelve, sat huddled in a ragged shawl on the steps of a closed church.

THERE had been a time when a fire burned--

A MOTHER--a father--

BROTHERS--

THEY had gone--no one knew where. The mother was royalist.

SHE used to sew for a great lady--a Princess.

PERHAPS the jailers of a prison could tell where she was.

ONCE--in the life that was only a memory--was it real--or was the biting cold--was the hunger what had always been--her mother had taken her to the house of the great lady--

HER eyes had opened in childish wonder, as the Princess took her from room to room.

ON a great couch of palest blue, among cus.h.i.+ons that were all lace and blue and pink--a m.u.f.f.

IT had been carelessly thrown down--she had loved it.

HER greatest desire had been to touch it--to feel the soft gray fur on her face.

A PIERCING wind blew from the frozen river--the m.u.f.f--if it would come it would keep her warm--

SHE would put her hand in it and hold it to her heart.

THROUGH half-closed lids she saw the m.u.f.f--curving and swaying in the air--like a gray bird.

IT was looking for her--there were so many freezing children in the streets--she was small for her age--

HOW warm--how kind of the Princess to send the m.u.f.f.

MAYBE mother will soon be home from work--we can have supper--

BORIS will come from school--

BUT Boris lay dying--prisoner in the enemy's land.

WHEN a pale sun struggled to s.h.i.+ne down on the dirty streets--on the confusion and sorrow of that Russian city--an old Priest--dying with all the rest--of sorrow for his land--found the frozen body of a little girl--with hands clasped over her heart--a faint smile on her upturned face.

ROSE PETALS

THIRTY years had pa.s.sed.

THIRTY years that I had spent in vainly trying to overcome the love and hatred which consumed me. However occupied I was with the pressing affairs of my almost over-filled life I was conscious of an undercurrent of despair--the despair that I had felt when Eve told me she no longer loved me.

WE were engaged.

WHETHER she really loved me, or whether it was only a girlish fancy I could not tell. But the day was set for our wedding and was not far off when one Sunday afternoon I went to her house for tea.

THE mahogany table in the library was covered with fallen rose petals--the roses he had sent her. Although no other detail of the room has remained in my memory, I still can see the rose petals covering the polished surface. By some inexplicable phenomenon those pink petals were fixed forever in my mind.

I LEFT that part of the country and eventually lost all trace of Eve.