The Fantasy Fan, Volume 1, Number 9, May 1934

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Title: The Fantasy Fan, Volume 1, Number 9, May 1934 - The Fan's Own Magazine
Author: Various
Language: English
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9, MAY 1934 ***

THE FANTASY FAN

THE FANS' OWN MAGAZINE

Published
Monthly

Editor: Charles D. Hornig
(Managing Editor: Wonder Stories)

10 cents a copy
$1.00 per year

137 West Grand Street,
Elizabeth, New Jersey

Volume 1
May, 1934
Number 9

[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

OUR READERS SAY

"I was very pleased to note the increased space allotted to Lovecraft's
'Supernatural Horror in Literature.' This unique and fascinating
treatise, scholarly and well written, gives evidence of studious
research and careful compilation. It is an authoritative review of
a most alluring subject and should prove interesting and pleasantly
instructive to every lover of the weird."--Richard F. Searight

"'The Ancient Voice' rings with laughter all over the pages of the
April issue, and although not strictly and convincingly weird, Eando
Binder's tale is, nevertheless, a joyous relief to one who has just
emerged from a long literary swim in that channel where waters
flow and lap afresh and anew with the many 'eloquent tongues in
cheeks'."--Robert Nelson

"Robert E. Howard's story 'Gods of the North' in the March issue was
right up to his standard, although it was a bit too short. Clark Ashton
Smith certainly outdid himself in the poem 'Revenant.' The March number
is the best one to date."--F. Lee Baldwin

"'The Ancient Voice' is a splendid tale, with overtones of subtle
terror and macabre suggestion that lingers disquietingly in one's
memory. It is certainly refreshing to see the shades of opinion
represented in the 'Your Views' department and I feel sure that this
discussion will be much more intellectually fruitful than the earlier
type with its occasionally sharp personal digs. Smith's 'Chinoiserie'
is exquisite."--H. P. Lovecraft

"'Side Glances' is interesting. The increased length of Lovecraft's
article is relished pleasurably. The diversified views of the section
devoted to the display of one's thoughts on various subjects is worth
while."--Kenneth B. Pritchard

"The March number is certainly distinguished by Howard's fine
imaginative piece, 'Gods of the North,' a story full of auroral
splendors, with more than a touch of unearthly poetry. I must also
commend Hoy Ping Pong's instructive article, the diverting robot
yarn by Mr. Ackerman, and Barlow's bibliographical note on 'The Time
Machine.' I missed the 'Annals of the Jinns,' however, and trust that
this series will be resumed shortly."--Clark Ashton Smith

"Smith's poem in the March issue was splendid, as always. By all
means, publish as many of his poems as possible; I would like to see
more by Lumley, and it would be a fine thing if you could get some of
Lovecraft's poetry."--Robert E. Howard

"Just finished the last FANTASY FAN and in it find an answer to my
query. Does Mr. Ackerman write? He does, and how! Enjoyed his little
article very much; a touch of humor is as odd as it is welcome in the
mostly rather sombre pages of weird and fantastic fiction."--Natalie H.
Wooley

"Apparently, the only well-known weird tale authors that appear in your
columns are Smith and Lovecraft. Surely with these two as a nucleus, a
much larger following of authors should have been built up during your
seven months of existence. If you cannot contact the horror mags, you
surely should be able to get results from the authors."--William S.
Sykora

We have several weird authors contributing to THE FANTASY FAN besides
Smith and Lovecraft, among which are August W. Derleth, Robert E.
Howard, R. H. Barlow, and Richard F. Searight.

"I especially enjoy articles such as the one by Miss Ferguson, and that
written by The Spacehound, which I was sorry to see, did not appear in
the following issue. Barlow's stories have more good thought material
behind them than some of those published by better known authors in
your publication. Here's to everlasting success!"--J. Harvey Haggard

"The April number is excellent in both appearance and contents, issuing
in, as it does, several new features, the 'Prose Pastels,' a new
weird writer, Eando Binder, and the larger instalments of Lovecraft's
article."--Duane W. Rimel

"Just a note to tell you how much I enjoyed this THE FANTASY FAN.
Miraculously, it continues to improve. I don't see how you do it!
'Prose Pastels' by Clark Ashton Smith was a very beautiful bit of
word-painting. He has a deftness with the pen that seems to conjure up
visions and make the paper seem alive with scenes he describes."--F.
Lee Baldwin

As you will notice, readers, we have considerably shortened the
readers' letters in this issue, due to the large amount of excellent
material we have on hand and our limited space. It will continue to be
about this length unless we receive many very strenuous objections.

* * * * *

CELEBRITIES I'VE MET

by Mortimer Weisinger

Henry J. Kostkos, who permits his charming wife to okay his stories,
and if the yarn is mediocre, it's "Quick, Henry, the Flit."

Frank R. Paul, who, when asked to be interviewed, modestly answered:
"There's not much about me to interview."

Conrad H. Ruppert, whose favorite expression, "Shut up, Weisinger,"
became a threat to have my scalp when I promised to mention him here.
And he claims he isn't modest. Goodbye scalp, maybe I can do without
it.

* * * * *

Phantom Lights

by August W. Derleth

Of the four men sitting in the captain's cabin on the _S. S. Maine_,
three were listening to Captain Henderson, who was talking of storms in
general, an apt topic, since the _Maine_ had been driven head on into a
raging tropical gale, and was at the moment making very little headway.
The four of them, including the captain himself, were somewhat bored,
though none of them showed it. Wembler, the business man, had begun to
toy with his spectacles, taking them off, folding them, and putting
them back on. Allison, the tall, dark man who was ostensibly a writer,
occasionally whispered in an undertone to his companion, whose name had
been given as Talbot.

It was Wembler who broke suddenly into the captain's monologue, "Have
we stopped? Doesn't seem as if we were moving at all."

The captain shook his head. "No, we've been going very slowly on
account of the gale." Then he stopped talking abruptly. "We _have_
stopped," he said, and got up.

At the same moment, a sharp rap on the cabin door brought the other
three men to attention. The Captain shouted "Come!"

A tousled head of red hair first appeared in the small opening, and
after it a youngish face that seemed to emerge from the hair.

"What is it, Munro?" asked Captain Henderson.

"The anchor's gone out, sir--torn out of its holdings by the storm.
We can't seem to be able to draw it back. Attached to something, most
likely."

The captain pondered this a moment, then he made an abrupt gesture with
his hand. "Well, leave it until this infernal storm has passed--we
weren't making time, anyway. Give the order to shut down the engines.
Then try to find out just about where we are, and report back to me."

"Very well, sir."

The captain sat down again. "Happens once in a lifetime," he explained.
He shrugged his shoulders and tried to smile genially; his mood was not
for it. "There's nothing to be done."

His listeners nodded sympathetically. Then the four of them sat in
silence until another rap on the cabin door brought them again to
alertness.

Again Munro appeared in response to the captain's call. "I've inquired
of the first mate, sir," he said, "as to our bearings. He has no idea
where we are. He's asked the radio operator to broadcast to see what
he can get. We are somewhere about the Moluccas, he thinks, or more
probably Java. Seems to be something wrong with our compasses, sir."

The captain nodded ponderously. "Most likely the storm, or some other
magnetic influence. You may go, Munro, but if anything crops up,
report to me immediately."

Munro vanished, drawing the cabin door shut behind him. The captain
shook his head dolefully and waited to see whether one of the other men
might say something. No one ventured; so he began once more. "I didn't
think we had got as far as Java," he said. "But you can't ever tell--"

Wembler looked up suddenly and spoke. "Say, isn't this the
twenty-seventh of February?"

"No, the twenty-sixth," said the captain evenly. He looked at his clock
for verification, but found it not. "I'm sorry," he said at once, "it
_is_ the twenty-seventh. I had no idea it was after midnight."

Wembler nodded. "A year ago this morning the _Cumberland_ went down off
the coast of Java."

Captain Henderson snatched at the change of subject. "That was quite a
mystery, as I remember it. There were only a few survivors, I think."

Wembler said, "only one--the first mate. They got some ugly rumours out
about him shortly after he appeared. Said he'd blown up the ship during
the storm."

"His wife went down, too, if I'm not mistaken," said the captain, as if
questioning Wembler's suggestion.

Wembler nodded. "They said it was partly because of her that he did it.
There was another man on board, and I understand there'd been bad blood
between the mate and this man on account of his wife. Then, too, the
first mate had had a terrible time with the captain, and wanted to get
even with him. Did the thing in a moment of madness."

The captain looked at him for a moment without seeming to see him.
Talbot spoke suddenly. "All of which goes to show how oddly unfounded
rumours come up. We know that no one but that first mate survived the
disaster--and yet someone got out those rumours about him."

The captain nodded. "You speak about it as if you had seen it all," he
said, turning to Wembler.

Wembler laughed. "I knew the first mate pretty well, and I knew what
he was capable of doing when he got jealous. His wife was a most
attractive woman."

"You think he really sent the _Cumberland_ down, then?" asked the
captain.

"I know he did," said Wembler shortly.

"Nonsense!" snapped Talbot with unexpected sharpness. "Only the first
mate would know that--and unless he's told you, you couldn't know."

Wembler looked at him curiously. "He didn't tell me--but his wife did."

Talbot looked as if he might explode; then abruptly he said, "Oh, I
see--spiritualism." And thus he dismissed the subject.

The door of the cabin opened suddenly, and Munro looked in. "Something
wrong, sir," he said.

"Eh? What is it?" asked Henderson.

"Lights on the water. Looks like a ship sinking, or else we're close to
Java." Munro paused. "Will you come, sir?"

The captain nodded shortly and turned to his companions. "If you
gentlemen would care to come along--? This promises to be interesting.
There are greatcoats in the closet over there."

Munro led the way to the upper deck; the four men followed after him,
bracing themselves against the gale. On the upper deck they were met by
the first mate.

Captain Henderson raised his binoculars and stared vainly into the
pall of darkness broken every few minutes by vivid, jagged flashes
of lightning. Huge waves obstructed his vision at regular intervals.
"Can't see a thing," he shouted. Then he swept the raging sea and sky
once more. Abruptly, lights on the water came into view.

"There they are," shouted the first mate.

"Java lights," said the captain.

The first mate shouted again. "No, no, not Java, sir; they wouldn't bob
about like that."

The lights were coming closer now. The first mate raised his binoculars
and fixed them on the approaching lights. "That's a ship, sure," he
said.

"Any distress signal?" asked the captain.

"No."

"Odd. Ship's in distress--plain as a pikestaff."

Munro had been peering through his glasses in silence; he lowered them
suddenly and turned to the captain. "Some lettering just now, sir. I
saw it quite clearly. An 'm' and the end of a word, which I took to be
land."

"English ship, then," shouted the captain. "'M'--yes."

The first mate raised his glasses. "I can see lettering, but I'm damned
if I can make it out."

A man came along the deck toward the little group, breasting the
furious wind. It had stopped raining, now, and the lightning flashes
were not as frequent as they had been. Even the wind had lessened
considerably.

Munro saw the oncoming man and shouted to the captain, "here's our
distress signal, sir."

The man came up to them, and handed a tightly folded slip of paper to
the captain. Henderson opened the paper, and with the aid of the first
mate's flash light, read:

"_H. M. S. Cumberland_ calling. Send Harry to us."

"What's this?" shouted the captain.

"Mr. Rogers got only those words, sir; nothing more."

"Must be some mistake!"

"No mistake, sir. I heard that come in myself."

The first mate shouted suddenly. "The lights have vanished." Even as he
spoke, there came a sudden brilliant flash in the sky, a flash that was
not made by lightning, followed by a thunderous detonation.

Then came a sound that held them, fascinated them--a sound fraught with
terror--a woman's voice, clear as a bell, calling from where the lights
had been, the voice distinct above the roar of the wind.

"_Harry ... Harry ... Harry...._"

The wind brought the sound to them, magnifying it, subduing it.
Immediately after, came a chorus of voices, calling as if from a great
distance, "_Harry ... Harry ... Come to us ... Come ..._" the woman's
voice yet strong above them all.

The captain muttered something incoherent. Then he turned to the three
men who had followed him from the cabin and shouted, waving the message
from the radio operator, "_Cumberland_ calling! Something's wrong."

One of the three launched himself suddenly forward, striking Captain
Henderson, and pushing him violently aside. He sprawled on the deck,
but felt hands helping him to his feet almost immediately. At the same
moment the voice of Munro came to him, shouting, "Man overboard--Man
_overboard_!"

"Good God!" shouted the captain. "Shut up, Munro. We can't send any
one out there to look for him." He swung about and looked at the men
grouped about him; almost at once he saw that the man named Allison was
missing.

Wembler pushed himself forward, his face white and drawn. "You wouldn't
find him, Captain," he said, shaking his head. "You'd never find him.
Harry Allison was first mate on the _Cumberland_ a year ago--he wasn't
'Allison' then. And he was my brother-in-law!"

The captain waved his arm toward the place where the lights had been.
"And that?" he shouted frenziedly. "What was all that?"

Wembler's hand closed over Henderson's arm. "You heard, Captain. It
was the _Cumberland_ sinking, just as she did a year ago when that
blackguard blew her up. And I heard my sister's voice calling to
Allison--and the others. The souls of those people he killed in his
devilish jealousy came back for him!"

* * * * *

SCIENCE FICTION IN ENGLISH MAGAZINES

Series Five

by Bob Tucker

The first two issues of "Scoops," England's new all-stf weekly, carries
"Master of the Moon," "The Striding Terror," "The Rebel Robots,"
"Rocket of Doom," "The Mystery of the Blue Mist," "Voice from the
Void," "The Soundless Hour," "The Battle of the Space Ships," "Z-2--Red
Flyer," and "Space!"

The first, fourth, eighth and tenth are interplanetary; the second is
about a human King Kong, fifty feet tall. "The Blue Mist" tale is of
invisibility, and the rest are self-explanatory. "The Soundless Hour"
tells of an hour of silence, produced by artificial means.

The "Modern Boy" magazine carried another scientific "Captain Justice"
tale, "Siege of the Sea-Eaglet" in their latest number.

"The Skipper," in a late March issue, features a story of a youth who
slept 100 years. He awakens to the super-modern world of tomorrow and
is promptly clanked behind bars and put on exhibition! "The Death
Dust," another story in the same issue, is, as the title indicates, an
artificial dust that kills.

This column can't resist a modest smirk, and remind you that an all-stf
mag, such as "Scoops," was brought up twice before here.

* * * * *

We hope to present another article in this series very soon.

* * * * *

SUPERNATURAL HORROR IN LITERATURE

Part Eight

by H. P. Lovecraft

The Gothic novel was now settled as a literary form, and instances
multiply bewilderingly as the eighteenth century drew toward its close.
"The Recess," written in 1785 by Mrs. Sophia Lee, has the historic
element, revolving round the twin daughters of Mary, Queen of Scots;
and though devoid of the supernatural, employs the Walpole scenery and
mechanism with great dexterity. Five years later, and all existing
lamps are paled by the rising of a fresh luminary of wholly superior
order--Mrs. Anne Radcliffe, (1764-1823) whose famous novels made
terror and suspense a fashion, and who set new and higher standards
in the domain of the macabre and fear-inspiring atmosphere despite a
provoking custom of destroying her own phantoms at the last through
laboured mechanical explanations. To the familiar Gothic trappings of
her predecessors, Mrs. Radcliffe added a genuine sense of the unearthly
in scene and incident which closely approached genius; every touch
of setting and action contributing artistically to the impression of
illimitable frightfulness which she wished to convey. A few sinister
details like a track of blood on castle stairs, a groan from a distant
vault, or a weird song in a nocturnal forest can with her conjure
up the most powerful images of imminent horror, surpassing by far
the extravagant and toilsome elaborations of others. Nor are these
images in themselves any the less potent because they are explained
away before the end of the novel. Mrs. Radcliffe's visual imagination
was very strong, and appears as much in her delightful landscape
touches--always in broad, clamorously pictorial outline, and never
in close detail--as in her weird phantasies. Her prime weaknesses,
aside from the habit of prosaic disillusionment, are a tendency toward
erroneous geography and history and a fatal predilection for bestrewing
her novels with insipid little poems, attributed to one or another of
the characters.

Mrs. Radcliffe wrote six novels: "The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne,"
(1789) "A Sicilian Romance," (1790) "The Romance of the Forest," (1792)
"The Mysteries of Udolpho," (1794) "The Italian," (1797) and "Gaston
de Blondeville," composed in 1802 but first published posthumously in
1826. Of these "Udolpho" is by far the most famous, and may be taken
as a type of the early Gothic tale at its best. It is the chronicle of
Emily, a young Frenchwoman transplanted to an ancient and portentous
castle in the Apennines through the death of her parents and the
marriage of her aunt to the lord of the castle--the scheming nobleman
Montoni. Mysterious sounds, opened doors, frightful legends, and a
nameless horror in a niche behind a black veil all operate in quick
succession to unnerve the heroine and her faithful attendant Anette;
but finally, after the death of her aunt, she escapes with the aid
of a fellow-prisoner whom she has discovered. On the way home, she
stops at a chateau filled with fresh horrors--the abandoned wing where
the departed chatelaine dwelt, and the bed of death with the black
pall--but is finally restored to security and happiness with her lover
Valancourt, after the clearing-up of a secret which seemed for a time
to involve her birth in mystery. Clearly, this is only the familiar
material re-worked; but it so well re-worked that "Udolpho" will always
be a classic. Mrs. Radcliffe's characters are puppets, but they are
less markedly so than those of her forerunners. And in atmospheric
creation she stands pre-eminent among those of her time.

Of Mrs. Radcliffe's countless imitators, the American novelist
Charles Brocken Brown stands the closest in spirit and method. Like
her, he injured his creations by natural explanations; but also like
her, he had an uncanny atmospheric power which gives his horrors a
frightful vitality as long as they remain unexplained. He differed
from her in contemptously discarding the external Gothic paraphernalia
and properties and choosing modern American scenes for his mysteries;
but this repudiation did not extend to the Gothic spirit and type of
incident. Brown's novels involve memorably frightful scenes, and excel
even Mrs. Radcliffe's in describing the operations of the perturbed
mind. "Edgar Huntly" starts with a sleep-walker digging a grave,
but is later impaired by touches of Godwinian didacticism. "Ormond"
involves a member of a sinister secret brotherhood. That and "Arthur
Mervyn" both describe the plague of yellow fever, which the author had
witnessed in Philadelphia and New York. But Brown's most famous book
is "Wieland; or, the Transformation," (1798) in which a Pennsylvania
German, engulfed by a wave of religious fanaticism, hears "voices" and
slays his wife and children as a sacrifice. His sister Clara, who tells
the story, narrowly escapes. The scene, laid at the woodland estate
of Mittingen on the Schuykill's remote reaches, is drawn with extreme
vividness; and the terrors of Clara, beset by spectral tones, gathering
fears, and the sound of strange footsteps in the lonely house, are all
shaped with truly artistic force. In the end, a lame ventriloquial
explanation is offered, but the atmosphere is genuine while it lasts.
Carwin, the malign ventriloquist, is a typical villain of the Manfred
or Montoni type.

(Next month Mr. Lovecraft takes up "The Apex of the Gothic Romance.")

* * * * *

SIDE GLANCES

by F. Lee Baldwin

Frank B. Long, Jr. has studied at New York University and Columbia
College. Writing is his sole occupation and he lives with his father
and mother, the former being a dentist. Long Jr. is 31.

* * * * *

E. Hoffman Price is 35, a World War veteran, a West Pointer, and
a former cavalry officer; also superintendant of an acetylene gas
machinery plant until 2 years ago. He now has a garage in Pawhuska,
Okla., and writes fiction at leisure.

* * * * *

WEIRD WHISPERINGS

by Schwartz and Weisinger

Seabury Quinn has been so busy with his magazine, _Casket and
Sunnyside_, that he hasn't written a story since last September--which
is bad news for the Jules de Grandin enthusiasts.... Jack Holt will
star in a weird picture of voodooism, taken from the story "Haiti
Moon," and titled for screen purposes, "Black Moon".... Donald Wandrei
will break into print in _Weird Tales_ again with "The Destroying
Horde".... His brother Howard, who is also an excellent illustrator,
is due in _Weird_ also with "The Vine Terror".... Elliott O'Donnell's
weird ghost stories are broadcast every Wednesday evening over the WEAF
NBC chain.

H. P. Lovecraft and Clark Ashton Smith, though living on opposite sides
of the continent, are intimate friends.... Incidently, one of the
characters in Lovecraft's bizarre "Whisperer in Darkness" was named
Klar-Kashton.... Eli Colter, popular weird author, is a woman!... And
Mary Elizabeth Counselman, _Weird's_ new sensational author is only
19!... C. L. Moore, who is creating a hit with the 'Northwest' Smith
stories in W T, is also a woman!... There have been three unsuccessful
attempts to plagiarise Arthur J. Burks' "Vale of the Corbies," an old
_Weird Tales_ yarn of his.... Incidentally, Burks' "Bells of Oceana,"
the recent _Weird_ reprint, is actually based on the tingling of bells
that Burks heard on one of his trans-Atlantic voyages.

Robert E. Howard sustained some very painful injuries, severe cuts,
crushings and wrenchings in an auto accident a few months ago, when he
and two friends ran into a dark-painted and almost invisible flagpole
in the center of a poorly lighted village square. It would have
killed anybody less tough than Howard, but what with his iron-clad
constitution, our favorite slaughter specialist has recovered from his
injuries and is virtually as good as ever.... Hugh Davidson, author of
the recent _Weird Tales_ serial, "The Vampire Master," is the pseudonym
for a well known WT author who has had more than 30 stories published
there!... Paul Ernest's forthcoming serial in _Weird_ describes a
journey thru space that takes millions of years, and tells what the
time travelers find here on their return.

Seabury Quinn got $17 for English reprint rights to his "House of
Phipps".... But didn't get a cent for his most famous story, "The
Phantom Farmhouse," published in WT when they were bankrupt.... August
W. Derleth's recently published novel, "Murder Stalks the Wakely
Family" was written on a bet that he couldn't write it in seven
days.... He did!... Edmond Hamilton's own favorite stories are "The
Monster-God of Mamurth" and "Pigmy Island".... David H. Keller's is
"The Thing in the Cellar".... H.P. Lovecraft chooses "The Colour Out of
Space".... Clark Ashton Smith picks "The Double Shadow".... And Donald
Wandrei maintains that "The Red Brain" is his best.... Williamson
cops the June WT cover.... "Trail of the Cloven Hoof" gets the July
cover.... We'll be back next month....

* * * * *

YOUR VIEWS

"Mr. Lovecraft has stated very lucidly and succinctly the essential
value and validity of the horror story as literary art, and there is
no need to recapitulate his conclusions. It has often occurred to me
that the interest in tales of horror and weirdness is a manifestation
of the adventure impulse so thoroughly curbed in most of us by physical
circumstances. In particular, it evinces a desire--perhaps a deep-lying
spiritual need--to transcend the common limitations of time, place, and
matter. It might be argued that this craving is not, as many shallow
modernists suppose, a desire to escape from reality, but an impulse
to penetrate the verities which lie beneath the surface of things; to
grapple with, and to dominate, the awful mysteries of mortal existence.
The attitude of those who would reprehend a liking for horror and
eeriness and would dismiss it as morbid and unhealthy, is simply
ludicrous. The true morbidity, the true unhealthiness, lies on the
other side."--Clark Ashton Smith

"Down through the ages from the birth of romance, and the first
emergence of story-telling, comes the horror tale. An inheritance from
the age of the birth of romance, a legacy from our savage forefathers
whose lives were saturated with spirits and beings, is our attraction
to the horror tale. I do not think that people read them because they
are an art; the reading public's first desire is to be entertained,
and in many cases, this is the first and last aim of reading them.
Entertainment!--of the same sort their forefathers had who crouched
around primitive fires, surrounded by invisible conflicting elementals
and unearthly personalities--a heritage from the past! First of all
it must be entertaining, and to be truly entertaining, it must be
'genuine' and 'powerful', as Mr. Lovecraft says, and in this sense it
will be classified as an art."--J. Harvey Haggard

"I should say that weird fans who have a taste in liking the outre
in literature have a superior taste, rather than a morbid one, a
sign of an inquiring mind, that is not satisfied with Wild West,
Gangster, or sickly mediocre love stories. But to explore the hidden
corners of things, whether it be the universe, the mind, or the
supernatural, is proving that one's mind is not smug or narrow. If this
be madness, insanity, or morbidity, glory in it, you weird and fantasy
fans."--Natalie H. Wooley

"There are at least three weird story authors I could list as my
favorites ... Merritt, Lovecraft, Smith. The only way I can settle
the problem as to which of these three is my favorite is to say that
I choose Clark Ashton Smith because of the quantity of consistent
high-quality stories he puts out. His stories are readable, and I might
go so far as to say, livable. The quality of making his yarns livable
to the reader is an outstanding one."--Kenneth B. Pritchard

We would like to know your views on any phase of weird fiction. After
all, this is _your_ magazine and we want your opinions to be put before
other fans. However, we must ask you to limit your comments to less
than 100 words, due to the small space available.

* * * * *

The Flower God

by R. H. Barlow

Annals of the Jinns--6

Alair, the ruler of Zaxtl, sent a present unto his enemy, the
neighboring King Luud. Now such an act was unlike Alair, and had not
pleasant omens. For more than a decade they had waged bitter warfare,
and therefore Luud was not a little surprised to see the crimson lotus
on a field of _argent_ displayed before his gates. The messengers
came unguarded in their glittering robes, and when the portcullis
was withdrawn, they ascended the steps before the throne and made
obeisance. The guards of Luud would have fain drawn wary swords,
but the king signalled withdrawal, that he might hearken onto the
emissaries.

Their gift was brought in by swarthy slave men. It proved a
mani-colored flower of alien aspect, whose aromatic perfumes spread
langorously through the room. Alair had sent no message save to state
cryptically that here was the ruler of plants, the Flower-God, and Luud
preferred not to ask the reason for this strange and lovely gift. So
it was he made a long and eloquent speech of surpassing insincerity,
claiming friendship between the countries, and when they had left,
he set artizans constructing a dais. When this had been done, the
Flower-God was set upon it in a jewel-encrusted trough; where he might
lift his eyes from affairs of state and gaze upon it. And it was
admired by the entire court. Only Gra, the counsellor, would have been
unwilling to accept it, but he was not heeded.

But the land soon found there was something amiss, for gossip spread
thru-out that a madness had come upon the king. He would lock himself
in with the flower for days in succession and be oddly exhilarated
upon resuming his customary life. Whispers were that he was drugged
or hypnotized by the strange plant, that he performed odd and ancient
rites before it--rites that were not good and were avoided by even
necromancers. Truly, he had developed an abnormal passion for it, and
there were obviously mysterious happenings afoot. In time, he was
observed to make unwise decisions after he had been alone with the
Flower-God, and he would pause in the midst of trite affairs and go
over to it, lovingly strolling the tendrils and closing his eyes as if
listening. But there was nothing audible save the rustle of the vibrant
petals.

The country did not improve through these unusual activities. Affairs
assumed a turbulent state; lawlessness prevailed. After a time, the
traitorous openly denounced Luud, and there were few who did not
sympathize. Those bolder even went so far as to suggest that Alair,
the adjacent ruler, rule in his stead. But the king seemed entirely
apathetic regarding this, or anything save the Flower-God and its
unholy lure.

Meanwhile, Alair waited, smiling.

Had not the venerable Chancellor, Gra, chosen to intervene, the land
would have fast gone to ruin. But he was wise, and took heed of the
ultrasensual lure the blossom held for his ruler. Therefore, he saw the
futility of attempting to restrain or interfere in any ordinary manner,
and consequently resolved upon action that would forever break the
reign of the unholy plant. In fine, he determined to destroy the Lord
of Flowers.

Having made his plans, the following day he noiselessly entered the
throne-room, with a long grim knife concealed beneath his scarlet
robe. The king did not heed him, for he was enthralled, beyond human
affairs. But the plant sensed the presence of the intruder, and perhaps
it half-knew his purpose, for the fleshy leaves writhed animatedly,
and the green spines stood erect. Yet it did not arouse the entranced
supplicant, and the hundred little viper tongues could not ward off the
blows of the blade that Gra wielded so judiciously. The swollen blossom
was rent and gashed in numberless places before the emperor became
aware of it. It was too late then, for great yellow drops of sickening
ickor slowly coursed down the drooping vines and the bloom itself was
purpling fast.

Then it was the king staggered a moment and stared long at his
Chancellor in a dazed manner. And Gra was thankful, for the light of
madness was dying out, even as the plant faded.

The Flower-God was dead.

* * * * *

PROSE PASTELS

by Clark Ashton Smith

_2. The Mirror in the Hall of Ebony_

From the nethermost profund of slumber, from a gulf beyond the sun and
stars that illume the Lethean shoals and the vague lands of somnolent
visions, I floated on a black unrippling tide to the dark threshold
of a dream. And in this dream I stood at the end of a long hall that
was ceiled and floored and walled with sable ebony, and was lit with a
light that fell not from the sun or moon nor from any lamp. The hall
was without doors or windows, and at the further extreme an oval mirror
was framed in the wall. And standing there, I remembered nothing of
all that had been; and the other dreams of sleep, and the dream of
birth and of everything thereafter, were alike forgotten. And forgotten
too was the name I had found among men, and the other names whereby
the daughters of dream had known me; and memory was no older than my
coming to that hall. But I wondered not, nor was I troubled thereby,
and naught was strange to me: for the tide that had borne me to this
threshold was the tide of Lethe.

Anon, though, I knew not why, my feet were drawn adown the hall, and I
approached the oval mirror. And in the mirror I beheld the haggard face
that was mine, and the red mark on the cheek where the one I loved had
struck me in her anger, and the mark on the throat where her lips had
kissed me in amorous devotion. And, seeing this, I remembered all that
had been; and the other dreams of sleep, and the dream of birth and
of everything thereafter, alike returned to me. And thus I recalled the
name I had assumed beneath the terrene sun, and the names I had borne
beneath the suns of sleep and of reverie. And I marvelled much, and was
enormously troubled, and all things were most strange to me, and all
things were as of yore.

* * * * *

THE WEIRD TALE

(A Diaglogue)

by Robert Nelson

Gerald: So you say that science fiction has fallen into decay?

Sidney: Precisely. By its own outlandish and inflated ridiculousness it
has been reduced to the tedium and monotony of everyday life.

Gerald: Oh, but you make me laugh, Sidney! What of weird fiction? How
can any one endure these everlastingly infernal vampire stories with
their borish waving of crosses to defy and fight off the vampire! I
dare say that if I should fling a putrid tomato at one of the accursed
things it would run helter-skelter!

Sidney: It is very true. Vampire stories are a bit worn, and deserve to
have gone out of existence long ago. But it is the weird tale, Gerald,
the sort of tale as produced by Lovecraft and Smith, that truly makes
weird literature something far more noble and beautiful than most
modern fiction, with its silly tea-lady romances, modern love, and high
society twaddle.

For an illustration of weird fiction, Gerald, let us take Clark Ashton
Smith's most superb tale, "The Double Shadow." Here we have one of the
most beautiful weird tales in the English language. When we read it we
experience the sensation of a sweeping and stirring symphony. We read
of Pharpetron, "the last and most forward pupil of the wise Avyctes,"
and how he and his master live in the marble house above the "loud,
ever-ravening sea." We see the wind-swept sea, the white towers, the
eerie demonisms and necromancies, the Double Shadow. It creates for
us a life which we would wish to live, and fills us with a sense of
eternal, majestic beauty of which we have been ignorant. All of this is
so beautifully weird. Is not this more appealing than science fiction?

Gerald: Of course it all depends upon the individual. But I suppose
the weird and macabre is more appealing, and rightfully, perhaps, it
is. But you mentioned and inferred that the weird tale, as executed by
Lovecraft and Smith, is the most worthwhile of the whole. Personally, I
like Robert E. Howard the best of them all.

Sidney: My dear boy, all three are great writers. We know that, but
it cannot be denied that Smith is a truer artist, and that makes him
the greatest. Oh, Gerald, if more people could only appreciate and
understand the significance of the weird tale! And if scribes could
only emulate Smith or Lovecraft or Howard! If they would only strive
for originality and beauty! But no! We poor and insignificant readers
of the weird tale must continue to be plagued with time-worn vampires,
witches, rituals, and other weird senilities!

Gerald: Well, why don't you try to write a weird tale, Sidney? You seem
to know all its merits and demerits.

Sidney: Well, because I--er--well, I just haven't the time.

* * * * *

If you have any articles about weird or science fiction which you think
might interest the readers of TFF, send them in, we'll be glad to look
them over.

* * * * *

SHADOWS

by William Lumley

There's a city wrought of shadows
That I glimpse at fall of night,
And its streets are filled with phantoms
Flitting furtively from sight.

They are of no stable semblance
That our fancy might devise,
But a baleful light is burning
In their slanting, almond eyes.

Every brow is pale and misty,
With a thin-lipped mouth beneath,
And the grinding jaws are ratlike--
Set with long and pointed teeth.

Neither rage nor ancient evil
Nor a curse bequeaths its stain,
But each face is wryly twisted
In a silent grin of pain.

Not a sign of hope or hatred
In that dull grimace is blent--
Like the fishes four accursed,
With their pain they are content.

Mother of all elder anguish,
Mighty, sinister and fair,
Great Cathay, with woes of aeons
In the burdens that you bear,

Tell me of your wrath-built Babel
Piled up from a primal day;
Tell me, too, when late-learned mercy
Shall the shadows sweep away!

* * * * *

DRAGONS

by A. Nonymous

The lashing winged bodies, serpent-tailed
Of curious slimy monsters brilliant scaled
Writhe joyously amidst the foaming surf
Of surging oceans yet unsailed.

* * * * *

INHERITED MEMORY

(A True Experience)

by Kenneth B. Pritchard

Unexplored cells of the brain are the links to the past. So have
written some of the authors of the day in their science fiction. How
far from the truth, or how near, are they? Bear with me and you shall
see, although you may not believe what I am about to tell you.

It occurred during my first trip to the Adirondack mountains in New
York State. I was with my parents going to visit relatives there. I was
about six or seven years of age.

My mother had not been up there for a number of years; indeed, it
was years before I was born that she had gone there. Never, in the
intervening years, had a trip been made, and I had no conception
whatever of how the place looked.

We finally arrived at our destination.

Imagine, if you can, my surprise when I saw the house to which we were
going. I said to my mother in some disappointment, "We've been here
before!"

It came as a distinct shock when she replied; "No you haven't been here
before. This is the first time we have ever brought you up this far."

I had recognized the house, the big tree next to it, the porch, and
much of the interior. I had never seen the place in my life, yet it was
entirely natural to my senses that I knew it!

Does not this make it appear that sight of the past is inherited from
one generation to the next--perhaps, even into the future, so that what
seems to be coincidental in vision is merely the breaking into the
thread of the unknown tapestry of life? Who has the answer?

* * * * *

ABOUT H. G. WELLS

by Daniel McPhail

A short while ago, H. G. Wells had a dream of the future which inspired
the writing of his new semi-fantasy book, "The Shape of Things to
Come." It is an outline of the next century and a half, forecasting a
World State eventually after destructive wars. Published by Macmillan.

Wells writes in an almost invisible small hand.

A slightly demented person has been suing him for a decade, charging
that he stole his "Outline of History" from an unpublished manuscript
of his. Wells has had all the bills to pay, to say nothing of the
annoyance.

Wells and Arthur Machen were both asked to contribute to an abortive
magazine published in the '90s, and in one of the few issues appeared
Wells' "The Cone"--Machen's didn't get in because the magazine expired.
Wells' "The Time Machine," and Machen's effective horror story, "The
Three Imposters" were both quite in the limelight at the time. The
short lived magazines were somewhat of a forerunner of the modern
weird magazines. Machen was the subject of many amusing attacks, more
fully reported in his autobiographical "Far Off Things" and "Things
Near and Far," even being accused of being deliberately unpleasant by
some prudish ladies' magazine for his "Great God Pan."

The three H. G. Wells stories featured in Weird Tales during 1925 and
1926 were reprints, though not mentioned as such when published. They
were written about a quarter of a century before.

* * * * *