Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 71 — page 72: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

HARVEST Nothing, or almost nothing; an awareness in his out- stretched fingers, warmth, and an impression of something coiling in a spiral. Then fear ... like a madman trapped in his heart and pounding within leather walls for release. Smithson tries to snatch back his hands, but... up, up, past the shoulder, down the body, up, above the throat, a warmth whose twisted threads go spiralling across the lips and over the eyes—— “In the name of mercy make me wake up! You can’t, you can’t let it keep on. . . Joan . Joan...” “You wished to touch us, Smithson, and you have done sO; similarly, we have touched you many times in the only way possible to us. The rest is ended. Continue walking.” Smithson’s feet move wartly. He thinks: “Supposing this isn’t a dream; supposing I’m > here in the darkness. . . “Prepare yourself, Smith- son.” Light—blazing, searing, as i: white with fury—glare, pierc- — ing fragile eyes and biting cruelly into them. “No! I’m being blinded!’ Shielding his face, stagger- i ee : : The floor strikes him. Flinching, he squints up against the agony and sees them all around him. But they have no shape, no arms, no legs; they are nought but occasional twining of mist, elusive, irritating flickers. Once, when Smithson was young, the dark torrent of the winter sky roared over him; the decaying thunder clouds were things alive, talking in hollow voices before the breaking of the storm. The terror of long-ago returns. These creatures are cathedrals about him, tall, and suffused with dusk. “Who are you?” he whispers. He senses, then, a peculiar transformation—wine, not blood, feeds his flesh, and a conmiclsooks.Cconn