DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Shangri-LA, issue 4, January-February 1948

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Shangri-LA, issue 4, January-February 1948

Page 12

THE LAST FAN by Kenneth Bonnell

THE Last Fan stood by the side of the Next-To-The Last Fan. NTTL Fan was dying. In only a short while there would be only one fan left in the Universe.
"Give me my copy of the Last Shangri-La," the dying man gasped. "I must fire-off--" his voice rose in reverence as he uttered those old words of science fiction. "--holding a copy."
The Last Fan looked about, spotting a stray copy tucked ever so gently between two old cheese sandwiches, blew the crumbs to the floor, and using the tip of his fingers carried the priceless document to his dying compatriarch.
The Next-To-The-Last Fan clasped the stapled sheets to his bosom, and belched from the beer and crackers he had had for breakfast. He was near the point of passing, the Last Fan could tell; he had not said, "Outwithburbee!" to show that he was conscious of the act. A rattle sounded in his throat. (Probably a cracker, the Last Fan thought.) His hand tighened around the papers he held, crumpling them. The hand relaxed.
The Next-To-The-Last Fan was dead.
The Last Fan looked at the body for a long moment. Then he went to the phone and called the undertaker.
When the undertaker had carried out the remains of his friend, the Last Fan climbed to his attic storeroom that housed his collections. He ran his hands over the backs of the complete collections of Astounding, Weird Tales, the old Amazing (he wouldn't touch a Post Shaver issue, remaining true to the ideals of LASFS), Unknowns; worm eaten Startlings and Thrilling Wonders. He went into his favorite alcove where the fanzines rested. There were great stacks of Gorgons, Funows, Tympanis, Shaggies, Fantasy Advertisers, and others; a shelf of short-runs or one shots, including that dispicable thing, Forlo Kon. He wondered why he had ever kept the Forlo Kons. They would mke better kindling than any thing else.
He sat down on the floor and pulled random magazines from the shelves, reading an article here and a story there, remembering the joyful hours he had spent in the LASFS clubroom, in Slan Shack, in Tendril Towers with Tripoli, in Quadruple E's cluttered office. Those were the days. Fandom was all shot to hell now.
He got up and went down stairs, trying to pull himself out of his depression. Oh, to get away from these surroundings a little while.
Habit forced him to walk toward the corner drugstore. His eye passed over the rows of magazines: Ladies' Rocket Journal, Time Machine Weekly (dated years in the future), Plutonian Pranks, Virulent Venus Stories, all the usual periodicals. There was not one magazine for science fiction alone; science fiction was the norm, so how could fans exist, except by calling themselves fans. But because of the commonous of science fiction, the uniqueness of being a fan was lost. Only the ones who were fans "way back when" took the effort of calling themselves fans.
So the Last Fan resigned himself to a normal life.
THE END

12

Saving...

THE LAST FAN by Kenneth Bonnell THE Last Fan stood by the side of the Next-To-The Last Fan. NTTL Fan was dying. In only a short while there would be only one fan left in the Universe. "Give me my copy of the Last Shangri-La," the dying man gasped. "I must fire-off--" his voice rose in reverence as he uttered those old words of science fiction. "--holding a copy." The Last Fan looked about, spotting a stray copy tucked ever so gently between two old cheese sandwiches, blew the crumbs to the floor, and using the tip of his fingers carried the priceless document to his dying compatriarch. The Next-To-The-Last Fan clasped the stapled sheets to his bosom, and belched from the beer and crackers he had had for breakfast. He was near the point of passing, the Last Fan could tell; he had not said, "Outwithburbee!" to show that he was conscious of the act. A rattle sounded in his throat. (Probably a cracker, the Last Fan thought.) His hand tighened around the papers he held, crumpling them. The hand relaxed. The Next-To-The-Last Fan was dead. The Last Fan looked at the body for a long moment. Then he went to the phone and called the undertaker. When the undertaker had carried out the remains of his friend, the Last Fan climbed to his attic storeroom that housed his collections. He ran his hands over the backs of the complete collections of Astounding, Weird Tales, the old Amazing (he wouldn't touch a Post Shaver issue, remaining true to the ideals of LASFS), Unknowns; worm eaten Startlings and Thrilling Wonders. He went into his favorite alcove where the fanzines rested. There were great stacks of Gorgons, Funows, Tympanis, Shaggies, Fantasy Advertisers, and others; a shelf of short-runs or one shots, including that dispicable thing, Forlo Kon. He wondered why he had ever kept the Forlo Kons. They would mke better kindling than any thing else. He sat down on the floor and pulled random magazines from the shelves, reading an article here and a story there, remembering the joyful hours he had spent in the LASFS clubroom, in Slan Shack, in Tendril Towers with Tripoli, in Quadruple E's cluttered office. Those were the days. Fandom was all shot to hell now. He got up and went down stairs, trying to pull himself out of his depression. Oh, to get away from these surroundings a little while. Habit forced him to walk toward the corner drugstore. His eye passed over the rows of magazines: Ladies' Rocket Journal, Time Machine Weekly (dated years in the future), Plutonian Pranks, Virulent Venus Stories, all the usual periodicals. There was not one magazine for science fiction alone; science fiction was the norm, so how could fans exist, except by calling themselves fans. But because of the commonous of science fiction, the uniqueness of being a fan was lost. Only the ones who were fans "way back when" took the effort of calling themselves fans. So the Last Fan resigned himself to a normal life. THE END 12