DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Fantasy Fan, v. 2, issue 5, whole no. 17, January 1935

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Fantasy Fan, v. 2, issue 5, whole no. 17, January 1935

Page 77

January, 1935, THE FANTASY FAN     77

The maggots swarm in his rotten flesh,
And he howls in mad despair;
He shrieks and moans and rages
And tears his gristly hair.

He rages thus each night
From midnight until one;
And the maggots swarm and wiggle,
And have their hellish fun.

THE DEAD WORLD

by Richard F. Searight

I dreamed I stood atop a craggy verge
And scanned long miles of dreary, jumbled waste
That stretched, sharp-etched in airless, frozen surge
Beneath the sable, star-strewn vault it faced.

Black empty mouths of craters, grim and cold,
Yawned bottomless, abysmal pits of slag
Amid the desert stretching fold on fold
To distant jagged peak and sharp-thrust crag.

The desolation flooded through my soul--
No living thing relieved the dismal rifts
Of long-past cataclysms; the bleak roll
Of upflung ridge and tangled lava drifts.

It was as if a Titan band had played
With this dead world when it was young and fair,
And tired of the sport when they had made
A ruin and a wreckage past repair.

The cold of outer voids lay like a blight
Of cosmic hate across the planet's face;
And from the riven features I took flight
To seek relief in fairer realms of space.

Saving...

January, 1935, THE FANTASY FAN 77 The maggots swarm in his rotten flesh, And he howls in mad despair; He shrieks and moans and rages And tears his gristly hair. He rages thus each night From midnight until one; And the maggots swarm and wiggle, And have their hellish fun. THE DEAD WORLD by Richard F. Searight I dreamed I stood atop a craggy verge And scanned long miles of dreary, jumbled waste That stretched, sharp-etched in airless, frozen surge Beneath the sable, star-strewn vault it faced. Black empty mouths of craters, grim and cold, Yawned bottomless, abysmal pits of slag Amid the desert stretching fold on fold To distant jagged peak and sharp-thrust crag. The desolation flooded through my soul-- No living thing relieved the dismal rifts Of long-past cataclysms; the bleak roll Of upflung ridge and tangled lava drifts. It was as if a Titan band had played With this dead world when it was young and fair, And tired of the sport when they had made A ruin and a wreckage past repair. The cold of outer voids lay like a blight Of cosmic hate across the planet's face; And from the riven features I took flight To seek relief in fairer realms of space.