DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Fantasy Magazine, v. 4, issue 4, whole no. 28, February-March 1935

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Fantasy Magazine, v. 4, issue 4, whole no. 28, February-March 1935

Page 95

FANTASY     95

the doctor said she'd be all right; no need to worry. There was no hospital, you understand; money didn't run to that; just the bedroom—rather dark and frowsy, I suspect, with a small kitchen behind a screen—with the double bed. His having to work nights made it harder for her. She was having terrible pains, but the doctor said it was all right; hell, women just went thru it, that's all. He thought maybe there should be X-ray pictures but—that's money again. Anyway, the doctor said no, what's the use of that. Then one night the landlady's little girl came running to tell him to come home and he found the girl-wife writhing in torture, the doctor working over her, and the doctor said that maybe there was a stricture interfering with the baby's birth; and all the time she was moaning and calling his name and asking him to help her, that it was more than she could stand; and it took her three hours to die, with him helpless to do a thing, and the baby cut out at the last and dead. Peritonitis, the doctors said. Yes, there was three of them by then; and a hospital that should have come before; and an autopsis showed there were adhesions from an earlier operation for appendecitis no one suspected but that a few close examinations and pictures might have revealed before it was too late. He took her home to the little country town where she was born and buried her there; then—he died. He was a silent fellow, never talked much, but in a few weeks it was all up with him. The minister didn't want to bury him next to her in the village graveyard. He left a note asking for that, but— It took a demonstration to make the "man of god" allow the poor devil's body to mingle its dust with that of his wife and child. He was just twenty-two when he died, this lover and husband, this young father and simple worker. Make out of it what you will. Murder...
I didn't write stories for magazines until 1927. When I wrote "The Machine Man of Ardathia," I remembered how he used to like reading the fantastic stories of H. G. Wells, of Julies Verne, of Edgar Allen Poe; and of Cook and other lesser known writers current in magazines; and I wanted somehow, someway to give him a little longer life than he had otherwise enjoyed; if only in name. I have never placed a flower on his grave—was too far away for me to do that—and today his grave is grass-grown and untended, but I have raised a monument to him of stories, poor tho that monument may be, and have inscribed on it his name. And in some indefinable fashion, I have linked his life, his name with mine. It gives me an actual satisfaction to know that Francis Flagg is not forgotten, that thousands see the name, read it, that his monument may last my life-time, if not beyond it.

Sleep, brother, in your untended grave,
Where salt winds blow from off the sea,
Rustling the tall weeds mournfully;—
Sleep lover, brother, soldier, slave,
Sleep dreamlessly.

Saving...

FANTASY 95 the doctor said she'd be all right; no need to worry. There was no hospital, you understand; money didn't run to that; just the bedroom—rather dark and frowsy, I suspect, with a small kitchen behind a screen—with the double bed. His having to work nights made it harder for her. She was having terrible pains, but the doctor said it was all right; hell, women just went thru it, that's all. He thought maybe there should be X-ray pictures but—that's money again. Anyway, the doctor said no, what's the use of that. Then one night the landlady's little girl came running to tell him to come home and he found the girl-wife writhing in torture, the doctor working over her, and the doctor said that maybe there was a stricture interfering with the baby's birth; and all the time she was moaning and calling his name and asking him to help her, that it was more than she could stand; and it took her three hours to die, with him helpless to do a thing, and the baby cut out at the last and dead. Peritonitis, the doctors said. Yes, there was three of them by then; and a hospital that should have come before; and an autopsis showed there were adhesions from an earlier operation for appendecitis no one suspected but that a few close examinations and pictures might have revealed before it was too late. He took her home to the little country town where she was born and buried her there; then—he died. He was a silent fellow, never talked much, but in a few weeks it was all up with him. The minister didn't want to bury him next to her in the village graveyard. He left a note asking for that, but— It took a demonstration to make the "man of god" allow the poor devil's body to mingle its dust with that of his wife and child. He was just twenty-two when he died, this lover and husband, this young father and simple worker. Make out of it what you will. Murder... I didn't write stories for magazines until 1927. When I wrote "The Machine Man of Ardathia," I remembered how he used to like reading the fantastic stories of H. G. Wells, of Julies Verne, of Edgar Allen Poe; and of Cook and other lesser known writers current in magazines; and I wanted somehow, someway to give him a little longer life than he had otherwise enjoyed; if only in name. I have never placed a flower on his grave—was too far away for me to do that—and today his grave is grass-grown and untended, but I have raised a monument to him of stories, poor tho that monument may be, and have inscribed on it his name. And in some indefinable fashion, I have linked his life, his name with mine. It gives me an actual satisfaction to know that Francis Flagg is not forgotten, that thousands see the name, read it, that his monument may last my life-time, if not beyond it. Sleep, brother, in your untended grave, Where salt winds blow from off the sea, Rustling the tall weeds mournfully;— Sleep lover, brother, soldier, slave, Sleep dreamlessly.