1 25 532 http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/de33c16fc54282df69049f95f4d096c1.pdf 01c37a366b041eedba3ec60b9dce7e4d Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Perspectives: Volume 24, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Kiosk Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource This PDF file of the Perspectives contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ponder, Marcie Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2013-01-13 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-12-11 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-11 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF 7.29 MB 56 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Perspectives-Vol24-No01_KDC_1965_01-01_01.pdf Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger PDF Text Text · ARCHIVES 810.8 P432 1965 c.2 - �ARCHIVES 810.8 P432 Perspectives (Morningside College). �PERSPECTIVES VOLUME XXIV SPRING 1965 NUMBER 1 Staff Editor ................................................................................... _ ............................. Judith Abbott Business Manager ................. _................................................................. Sharon Nelson Art Consultant .................................................................. Mr. William Zimmennan Faculty Advisor ..............................................._ ..................._ Dr. Howard Levant ..... PERSPEOTIVES is published by the students of Morningside College Sioux City, Iowa ��TI-te Generation Of Leaves Judith H. Abbott She closed her eyes again, obliterating the morning light that filtered into the room through the half drawn Venetian blinds which cast long shadows on the barren gray walls. Soon the stillness of the slumbering hospital would be .stirred into the living motions of this day. Sterile nurses in odorless starched white uniforms with "good morning, time to get up" smiles, would be disturbing her and pressing her with "how are you feeIing'1 questions to which they sought nor awaited an answer~ If only this morning she might rest in peace, foregoing the process of being lifted from her bed into life. She would .once again sit before the window observing those who passed by on their way to work or school. She was experiencing the transformation of autumn into winter as she watched the leaves one by one descending from their height to the earth. "Good morning, Mrs. Robbinson. Time to get up." The nurse crossed her room to the windows and opened the blinds . letting the full brightness of the day flood the room. From her bed she could see only the blue sky and the top of the oak tree whose leaves in summer nearly blinded her view of the outside woTld. "lV[y, it is a lovely day after the wicked storm we had last night. Did you hear it blow? It certainly won't be long · now before we see the first snow fly, will it, Mrs. Robbinson?" ·. No, it won't be long now. She lay watching the rhythmic movement of the nurse as she cranked the bed upward so that she sat almost upright in the bed. Rooftops and barren trees could now be seen from her bed. She searched the branches looking for some .sign of life, but there were no leaves. Had every leaf fallen while she lay sleeping? The lifeless barren branches swayed in the wind like fleshless bony hands reaching out for help. But she lay there helpless. Yesterday there had still rem'ained a few. Perhaps when she was near the window she would be able to spy a leaf that still had not given in to the wind. If there were no leaves to watch, autumn was no longer and there would be no need for her to sit before the window. She could lay in peace here now. "Morning, Mrs. Robbinson. Your favorite orderly is here to put you into your throne. How is the old queen feeling today?" 3 �"I don't, ~ant to. get · up today." "Now that's what you say everyday. How would your children feel if they knew you didn't want to sit in this new wheelchair they bought for you? Come on now, where would you like to sit? In front of the Window?" Sitting by the window, all of her world was again befO're her. The school children were strolling by now, kicking the dead leaves with their feet. Each day she had watched these leaves as the life went O'ut of them. At first the fading autumn colors had seemed sO' beautiful, but as each leaf withered and turned brown, relinquishing its place upon the tree, all beauty perished with the leaf. They did nO't all go at once; some drifted down easily, almost willfully. Others clung to the branches as if it were within their power to live eternally. But were there no leaves left now? She leaned forward in her wheel chair to obse'r ve the oak tree beneath her window. Perhaps there were still some leaves that were not apparent to her. They were hiding from her. She pressed her head to the cold window pane, and from here she beheld one leaf that hung nobly upon the tree. How odd and out of place it looked. Fragile and unprotected, it gave no beauty or life to the tree, nor did the tree give life to it. Yet this one leaf hung to the tree. "Here's your breakfast, lVlrs. Robbinson. Perhaps I should wheel you over here." "No, let me be." "But Mrs. Robbinson, you have to eat your breakfast before it gets cold." Leaning back in her chair, she looked at the young nurse who held her tray. "Just set my tray on my bed table, and I'll eat it in a moment. I'm busy now." "Busy? I think you had better eat right now, Mrs. Robbinson, and be busy after breakfast." "Don't move this chair. I have to watch now. I'll eat later." "All right, Mrs. Robbinson. If you pr.omise to be only a few minutes. I'll be back in a few minutes, and then you better have eaten all your breakfast." How could she escape from her vigilance? She had to watch; they would just have to understand. Again she rested her head against the window pane; relaxing now she could see 4 �the leaf hanging there. The cQldness Qf the windQw pane had gQne, and she remained there watching. "Mrs. RQbbinsQn, yQU had better eat nQW. YQU prQmised yQU WQuld." But there was nO' reSPQnse. The leaf was drifting to' the ground unobserved. Three In The Dark Judith H. Abbott It seemed suffocatingly hot. The sound of their dun rhythmic breathing gave each of them consciousness Qf their Qwn existence. Their future was precariQus; in fact, their present state had been questioned by each Df them individually. Perhaps they were fooled by their own senses, and nQW were a part of non-existence, Qf death. The bleak blackness of the mine enveloped them. The lack of light seemed to take from them their full state of consciousness. "HO'W long do you think we've been down here now?" Rod had continually asked this questiQn, for he knew that he would be able to have a definite answer. Eric lifted his arm and looked at the face of his fluorescent watch. It had been a gift frQm his family, and they thought it particularly appropriate for him, because he would he able to' use it in the dark mines. Eric gazed at his watch, for this was the only thing they had been able to IOQk at and see, yet what did this tell them? The time, ten to two; but ten to two had comes and gone so many times that he could no IDnger comprehend it. It was shortly after two when the cave-in occurred. He did not remember what time, or how long he had been lying underneath the rocks before he was conscious Qf his situatiQn. He had hollered for help, but heard nQthing. Then Al had responded; he was alive but CQuld feel nothing, and could move nothing. RQd had not responded, and they had thought him de'ad, but as they lay quietly they became aware of the breathing of a third perSQn. It was Eric who began to struggle to free himself, but befO're he had succeeded, Rod regained cDnsciousness. He was able to mDve, and was not: pinned under any rocks, and he began to' crawl toward Eric. "Hey, Eric, I asked yQU what time, it is." "Almost twO' o'clock." 5 �"How long does that make it 1" "Too long." Eric ran his hands over his aching cold body. He hesitated when his hands came to his legs. They were broken. Rod had had to drag him through the darkness and over the rocks to the corner where he had been, that was somewhat free from rubble. Then he had sat and listened as he had gone over to help AI. But he could not remove the rocks alone. "It must be about two days or so. Sure do think we should have heard them . digging or something. It's this horrible stillness and blackness that really is getting to me." "Shut up, Rod." Eric closed his eyes and seemed relieved. But he did not dare to stay this way, for he would fall asleep again. Before when they had had the strength, they had passed the time away by exploring their situation. Rod had crawled 'around in their enclosure groping to discover if there was a way out. The exit was not completely sealed off, so he had tried to move some rocks and boulders. The hopelessness of this effort soon became apparent, for the rocks he could move, he found no place to push them without endangering their own situation. And the rest of the blockade was immovable to him. It was particularly difficult for him to move around, because he had to move like an animal on all fours; but he' lacked the agility of the common animal. He had tried to search for the so-called emergency kit, but it obviously was lost beneath the rubble. At first they had talked confidently about someone finding them, of help reaching them in time. But as the time stretched into oblivion, their infinite child-like hope dwindled. Eric and Rod took turns sleeping, and Rod would crawl over to where Al lay, and talk with him. Perhaps Al had lost consciousness, or hope, he did not know, but he would not speak or reply to his questions, so Al did not go over to him. He remained propped up against the wall next to Eric. It was becoming more and more difficult to remain awake while the other one slept. Rod was dozing when he was awakened by the rasping voice of AI. "Jesus, I'm thirsty." He was alive, and was at least exerting his will to live. Rod felt hope surge within himself at this. But Eric cut into his hope. "Don't talk, and you won't notice it so damn much. Save your strength." Eric was attempting to be sympathetic, but there was a tone of irony in his voice. "Take it easy on him, he's dying, but at least he is strug6 �gling." Rod was leaning tO'ward Eric and whispering. But Eric replied loudly. "God, don't you think I know that? And we're going to' die, too. We haven't heard a sound but O'ur own gasping since we've been down here. Sure, they're looking for us, but there are probably plenty of others buried in here, and they'll dig them O'Ut first. We're way down deep, remember? How much IO'nger do you think we can hang on? Aren't YO'U hungry? If yO'u're thirsty, why don't yO'U come feel the blood on my legs . . . " , "Shut up!" Rod lurched forward and began to crawl toward AI, follO'wing the gasping vO'ice which lay buried there. His whole body ached and was cold, but before he had gone very far, he stopped. There was nO' sO'und to' guide him. Al was silent. As if frozen, he remained crouched down. "AI ?" Mat wanted to' cry out his name again, but knew that there would never be a response. "Well, we might as well face it. Try to' find him and get his jacket. It'll at least help in warming us up." Eric was trying to' sO'und steady and sure, but he revealed his own fear. "Get it yO'urself. I'm nO' buzzard." The silence that fO'IIO'wed was deathly, and finally RO'd crawled back in the cO'rner and huddled up in order to' find sO'me warmth in his CO'ld body. "Mat, you asleep?" "NO'." "We shO'uld try to' stay awake." There was a silence befO're Mat responded. And then it wa.s his turn. "Why?" "DO'n't be sO' damn stupid. You know why!" "I'd rather die in my sleep." "NO'W look WhO"S giving up ! We shO'uld at least try " Mat interrupted him with a forceful cry that summO'ned all his remaining strength. "GO'd help us . . . " 7 �Sunday Is For Satan Duane Brundevold Groan! Every Sunday, this same process. Eight o'clock and time to get the wife and kids up and ready for church. Why did the Worship Commission ever decide that a nine-thirty service was needed in addition to the original eleven o'clock service '? The size of the congregation hasn't increased much lately. And besides, no one is going to listen any better at an earlier hour anyway. But the wife and kids insist on going to the early service so that the pews won't look so empty. I doubt if that really improves the sermons. "C'mon, Honey, up and at 'em. Start the oatmeal cooking and I'll round up the kids." No sense in treading lightly down the hall here. The kids know I'm coming and they're probably in the midst of preparing a sneak attack for me. Suzie's room; better open the door slowly. Sure enough, she's pretending to be asleep again. It's too bad that certain persons who sit in the back pews aren't as perceptive with their eyes open as Suzie is right now with her eyes closed. She knows, and understands, what is going on. "Let's go, sleepyhead. I know you're awake." "Aw, Daddy, how could you tell? I can never fool you. Next Sunday I'll try harder!" I know she will. Next Sunday her eyes will be shut even tighter than they were just a moment ago. Little girls are so innocently unaware, but they try so hard. How unlike their elders! Now I need a little less tact and a little' more technique. The boys are probably planning a flying-pillow ambush down at the corral, which will require a sneak attack on my part. Let's see now; if I get down on all fours thusly . . . throw open the door . . . rush in . . . thud! I knew they'd aim high and hit the door. But this position of mine m'akes me somewhat akin to a horse. There is the familiar "Hiyo Silver" and in a flash two riders are avidly jabbing me with their spurs in order to get some action out of the old steed. "All right, twice around the room. But then you two had better hurry up and get ready for church." Well, that takes care of the roughest part of the Sunday morning "ritual." Now to shave, dress, and eat. I hope that 8 �mirror is deceiving me; my mask couldn't really IQQk that bad, could it? People wear such funny masks to church. They're sn afraid of being themselves that they have to hide the unique individuality that is theirs. They present the picture of perfect understanding and humility, but inside them is a disarray of disgust, bias, and misinformation which clashes like the many colors on a palette before they are wQrked into a unified whole by the artist. These people don't want the church to be the artist; they want to do it themselves; and their inexperience is obvious. "Good breakfast! Thanks, honey! The kids are about ready to go." She's a great wife. Wonder how I ever found that gem '! "Hold still, you two! I'm just going to straighten your ties. Better tie your shoes again, Jimmy. Suzie, put the paper down until after church. All right nnw, Jet's line up by the door SQ we can leave. C'mQn Jean, we're all ready." Walking this Qne short block every Sunday is like taking a weekly walk to the execution chamber. We'll be met at the door of the church by a pair Qf smiles plastered on a couple of faces; a very effective mask, but SQ empty. Then, as the rest of the cO'ngregatiO'n arrives, we'll be under clQse scrutiny as though some sort Qf perfection were expected of us. Gossip will be flowing forth freely like water, as though the reservO'ir Qf sin had to be drained before O'ne cO'uld enter, sinless, into the service. After the introductory gymnastics Qf rising for the hymns are completed, the people will comfortably arrange themselves- if that is possible in those pews-and will piously bow their heads in a moment O'f rest; at this point, rest will become indistinguishable frQm sleep. A passive atmosphere will reign until the sermon has been completed; the sudden chords of the organ will rouse them into a final burst of activity-preparation for the mass exodus. The dust Qf inspiration which might have fal1en O'n them during the service will be casually brushed off as they pass through the doorway. And then, once free from the environs of the church, they'll begin to criticize the sermon. It was too 100ng; it didn't say enough; it didn't apply tQ life situations; toO' much fire and brimstone. But then I wQnder: just what kind of sermon should be given? What must the minister dQ in Qrder to please, instruct, entertain (?), and imprQve his disinterested flock Qf sheep? Should he put the blade down where it will cut the hay? 9- �Or should he put it up higher where more havQc will be created '! Well, there is the church. If my guess is right, Mrs. Holmes is waiting just inside the door; waiting for SQme Qf her other elderly friends to 'a rrive. She's getting on in years but hen dedication and regular attendance is hard to match. The doors are wide open; not like welcoming arms, but rather like claws waiting to entrap some victims for an hQur Qr so. "Good morning. Nice to. see you this morning." I hope this morning's sermQn shatters those phony smiles. I hope Hell breaks 10Qse! "GQQd morning, Mrs. Holmes. You're looking cheerful today." "Thank you, Pastor. I so enjQy your sermQns. They m'a ke me feel so good." To The Frosh Arlie Daniel What CQuld a high school senior possibly have to. say to a bunch Qf idiotic freshmen in an asse'm bly? What would an: intellectual like me have in common with thQse dQpes? When you're given the assignment Qf greeting the freshmen in the first assembly program you'll understand what I mean! It's a mQst difficult task just deciding on a topic, but then what do. most kids talk about anyway? Why the teachers, Qf course. Why nQt talk about the teachers? I could begin: "Members Qf the faculty, students and friends." Then I could tell them a jQke or do something to get them to. laugh.-"I accept the privilege of speaking to you tQday in all sincerity-on-humility-that's itr-humility-the topic is Qne to. challenge the mind of any deeply thoughtful-uh-uhintellectual, and who am I to. deny that I can not qualify?" NQW the meat! "I o.ffer to. you my greatest adventureand what could that be to a senio.r? My friends, my greatest adventure is-is-not education-uh-obtaining an educatiQn. And who. turns the wheels of education, my friends? Why, the teachers, of CQurse, and so my subject-like the wheels of-no'--like the wheels that turn, evo.lves around teachers." That language Qught to get them. It sounds almost prQfessiQnal no.w, think what it'll sound like when I'm finished. Now I should quote someQne--I 'could say-U-uh-Horace said-, No, Horace Greely said-NO', I believe it was Horace 10 �Mann that said, 'EducatiQn is a bDY Qn Qne end Df a IDg and a teacher Qn the Qther'." Then I eQuId say sQmething funny tQl get their attention again, like-"It is nDt the bQY, and nQt the IDg that I wish to' talk abQut tQday, but what was Qn the Qther end of that IQg, yes, the TEACHER." I'll just say what mQst kids think about teachers. Like-Qh-"TD mQst students a teacher is a mQnster! And I WQuid be-uh-inclined to' agree-uh-mQst Qf the time-Teachers tQwer abDve us-absQlute in knQwledge and authDrity. Their wQrd is law-and-their authDrity is unquestiQnable-uh-uhthis is a teacher to' SQme students." TO' Qther students he is sDmething else. Let's see-"tD SQme a teacher is a PQliceman-he keeps Drder-he makes meus-take Qff my QVerShDes in the classrDDm, and my cap as I enter the 'hallowed halls'-he sees that I dDn't run up the stairs -uh-that I dDn't slam the dDDr-that I dDn't IQiter in the halls-that my clDthes are in Drder-that my nose is clean-that I wear a belt-that I keep my hair cQmbed-that I write my papers in ink-that I eat all my lunch"-uh-uh-I guess that's abQut enDugh. I've got to' get a punch line in here sDmewhere and put in a gQQd wDrd for the teachers, Qr I may nQt make it thrO'ugh the year. I might exaggerate a lie--like-uh-"fellQw students, take pity Dn me! I'm being surrDunded by teachers! One pulls one' way and anDther pulls anDther until I'm sO' cDnfused I dDn't knO'w which way to' gO'. YQU see, my grandfather was a teacher, my grandmDther was a teacher; my mDther and father are teachers; my brO'ther is a teacher and my sister is gO'ing to' be a teacher next year, and if I turn DUt to' be the cO'IO'r my ancestors want, YDU can cDlor me a teacher, a CQld cruel mDnster!" I think I'll end the speech with a glDry and flag-waving nDt Df-uh-hQnQr- ?- to' the teachers. Something like-"And SO', to' that great, glDriDUS adventure, educatiQn, and to' the teachers that turn its wheels, may I O'ffer a-a-a small, grubbyuh-handful Df dandyliDns, a melted chDcDlate heart-a few bright autumn leaves-and-uh-a bright red highly PQlished apple!" That O'ught to' get to' bQth the teachers, fDr the gDQd grade bit, and to' the freshmen, to' let them know what they are really in fDr. I shDuld write that dQwn sO' I wDn't fDrget it-nQw hDW was I gO'ing to' start that- ?-uh-"Fellow teachers and friends-", nQ~uh-"Fellows and teachers ?"-may'be I'd better start all over. 11 �• • • " Mary Ellen Long "Young woman, come out from under my bed irrimediately!" Professor GilrDY eyed the white-c'anvased foot sticking out past the wrinkled, brown spread and wondered briefly if he had gotten the sex right. All the students dressed alike these days. A barely perceptible twitch was the only response to his command. A frown skittered across his brDw. "See here, I am not a strong man, but I will manage to' extract you forcibly if you do not come out." He had known students to do some odd things, but this was beyond his imagination. The frDwn planted itself firmly as he began to struggle with the problem of dragging a female about by her feet without losing his dignity. To his relief, the foot disappeared, and a slightly dusty arm emerged, follDwed by a mop of brown hair. Blue-gray eyes peered at him over a pair of thick bifocals, and a pale sliver of a mouth quivered into a weak smile. The girl slid the rest of the way out and sat up clutching a Spiral nDtebook to her chest. "Hello, Professor Gilroy. How are you this evening?" He stared at her a moment, taken aback. "Get up, get up! And don't change the subject. What are you doing under my bed?" "Hiding." "That is obvious," he snorted as he mDtioned her into the living room. "I guess that I shouldn't have tried to hide from someone of your discernment and keen eye. But I didn't expect YDU to come back so early, and then there YDU were, coming in the dODr. I didn't know what to do. Your closet was so full of stuff that under the bed was the next best thing." The professor stiffened. "That 'stuff' is valuable worknotes, fil e.s , manuscripts. But what are you doing in my apartment in the first place?" She lowered here eyes and after a pause and a deep breath said, "Well, YDU see, sir, I'm in Professor Cassidy's writing class. Weare supposed to write a character sketch of SDmeone we admire very much." "'Oh? I didn't know that Cassidy was offering that course 12 �this term." He offered her a chair and settled into his easy chair. She gazed at him warmly. "There was never any doubt in my mind as to who I would write about. Ever since I took your introductory course, you have been my image of a truly great man and scholar." Gilroy smiled and studied her more closely. He vaguely remembered having a quiet, studious girl in his class who conscientiously wrote down everything he said. This girl must be she. Strange that he hadn't noticed her other sterling qualities. "I decided that to really do justice to your character, I should get to know what your more intimate surroundings are. But I couldn't bring myself to bother you during your important free time for truly deep thought, and so I thought that I would just creep in and out without causing any trouble." "No trouble at all, Miss _____ , ah, Miss _ .. " _______ __________ "Schlau, sir." "Schlau, oh, yes, of course. German, isn't it? Gre'a t minds, the Germans. I'm German myself, you know, by way of England. Is there any way I may be of help? I'm working on some very interesting theories on the mid-thirteenth . . . " "Oh, no, really, sir. I couldn't bother you. I have all the notes I need. I was just ready to leave when you came in." She stood up. "If you will excuse me, sir, my mother will be wondering what ever became of me." She moved toward the door, and Professor Gilroy hurried to open it for her. "I do hope that you get a good grade on your composition, Miss Schlau." Lanci hurried down the stairs and out the door. She put several blocks behind her before she slowed to a saunter. Soon she spotted Rick's blue Ford. He looked worried, but relaxed when she waved the notebook. She crossed the street, and he leaned ove'r to open the door for her. "What took you so long?" Lanci smiled as she slid in and tossed back her hair. "I just had a little chat with Professor Gilroy." "He caught you?" "Now did I say that?" she replied archly. "I told you not to take any chances. There is no sense in cutting your throat just to prove a point." "It was slightly trickier than I expected, but I meant it when I said that no file is off limits to Lanci Loring. I've built 13 �up a reputation for being reliable." She slipped a folded sheet from the notebook. "But tell Al that next time I'll charge extra for any more of Gilroy's tests. It might not be so easy a second time." . He's Gone Aw· y a Thelma Johnson There were four of them-three men and a boy-who came down the rutted road that hot, July morning, and the old woman stood and watched them come, the hoe in her hand, her eyes black and bright behind the protection of the slat bonnet. She was standing motionless in a patch of dried-up Kentucky Wonders that were dying on the vine, and the ground where she had hoed was full of clods and clay. "We need rain," said the man who was in the lead, unconsciously glancing at the sky, and then .spitting into the dust at the side of the road. He was the sheriff, and he was aware of the woman's scrutiny as the shrewd, black eyes took in the badge on his belt and the gun on his hip before .she looked at the man himself. "Ma'am, are you Mrs. Broom?" he asked, touching his hat brim. She motioned toward the house with the hoe handle, and then turned her back on them abruptly and began hoeing again, making short, vicious, chopping motions at the hard ground. They cut through a triangle of pasture toward the house, with the sheriff going first, picking his way through the buckbrush and handing branches back to Webb Warner, the highway patrolman, who followed with a Rolleiflex camera around his neck and a twelve-gauge shotgun in his right hand. The third man was Adam Bellows, the county medical examiner, who was too fat to make a trek like this on a hot July morning. "I didn't know we had land this rough in GaTey County," he said, wiping his face and neck with a handkerchief. . "You want to go back to the car and wait?" asked Warner. Bellows snorted. The sheriff stopped, and stood for a few moments with his thumbs tucked into his hip pockets. ' 'How will we ever get a body out of here? We'll have to carry it out on a stretcher." "There isn't any body yet," said Warner. "Want to bet?" asked the sheriff. Warner didn't answer. They went on, making a single-file procession toward the 14 �neat framehouse, the blue vervain and the horseweeds brushing their pants legs, and the dust rising in little puffs behind their feet. They crawled through a barbed-wire fence, the boy holding up the top wire with one hand, and holding down the next one with his foot, and the men climbing through carefully so they wouldn't tear their clothing. The house was tidy, but it needed paint. The men expected to be met by a pack of coon hounds, but there were no dogs around, only a cat with three kittens, who lay in the shade of an elm tree that grew in the front yard. As they appToached the house, they became aware of a ,song, sung in a thin, feminine voice that had an untrained, plaintive quality. " ... He's gone away, for to stay a little while And he's comin' back, though it were ten thousand mile . . . " The minor key and the ancient words seemed appropriate and expected. "A folk song," said Bellows. "I didn't think these people down here along the river had enough education to know a good folk song when they heard it." " . . . Oh, who will shoe my feet, and who will glove my hand? And who will kiss my ruby lips When he's gone away ... " When they got to the porch, they saw the singer. She was a young girl, not pretty, in a homem'a de dress, with a look of incomparable unawareness in her eyes. She was sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch with a high school literature book open in' her lap, and it was in this that she found the words to the song .she sang. She was perhaps eighteen or nineteen, with 'an undernourished body and a large head. Her skin was olive and. her dark brown eyes had a faraway look. The woman who was her mother came to the door. She was a dumpy woman with an unsuccessful permanent wave and gold on her teeth. She looked worried. "Are you Sheriff Quinn?" she asked. "I'm Sheriff Barney Quinn," said the sheriff, shaking hands ,solemnly. "This is Adam Bellows, the county medical examiner, and Webb Warner, a highway patrolman. The boy is my nephew. Where is your husband?" "He's not here. He's gone to kill Jim Baylor." "That's what you said on the telephone. I notice you don't have a phone. How did you call me?" 15 �"I went to the neighbor's. It's two miles back the way you came." "Are you sure he's going to kill Baylor?" "He took a gun with him." "What kind of a gun?" "A twenty-two rifle." "Well, that could do the job if it's aimed at the right place," said the sheriff. "Is this . . . " He indicated the girl who sat rocking with the open book on her lap. "This is Bonnie," said Mrs. Broom, brushing back her hair. "Jim gave her a ring. Show him your ring, Bonnie." Bonnie held out her hand, and the sheriff looked at it. The ring was a fake sapphire on a brass band; it had probably cost twenty-five cents at a variety store. "He's going to marry me," said Bonnie, her eyes shining. Quinn started to say something and then changed his mind. "That's very nice," he said. He turned to the mother. "Which way did he go?" he asked. She pointed. "Over to Jim's place. Through the woods and over the bridge. The bridge is where she's been meeting him. Every night after school and every day since school was out. We didn't know about it. Then this morning she wore that ring at breakfast and told us that Jim is going to marry her. He can't marry her. He's already married." "I know, said the- sheriff, starting off for the woods. "You'd better stay here, Adam," he said. "It's pretty hot." "I'm all right." They ,set off, with the memory of the giTl's happiness before them. "Watch out for snakes," said Warner. "Don't you think we'd better hurry?" asked the boy impatiently. "We can't stop what's going to happen by hurrying." They crossed another barbed-wire fence, and plunged into the woods, watching where they put their feet. All but the boy wore boots, and all but the boy were patient and steady. Once they stopped under a cottonwood to rest, and W aTner sat on his haunches against the trunk of the tree and wiped the back of his neck with a handkerchief. Bellows and Quinn sat watching a chattering squirrel on a branch above them. "You went to high school with her," said the sheriff to his nephew. "What kind of a girl is she?" The boy shrugged. "'She's okay, I guess, but she's not very bright. She just barely got through." 16 �"Any boy friends?" "Are you kidding? Who'd date a gilrl in an out-of-the-way place like this? You can't get a car within a half-mile of the house in dry weather, and when the road's bad, they leave their car at the Williams place where the telephone is. Besides, who'd date a dummy like her? There's only one reason a fellow'd go with- " He stopped, slightly embarrassed at where his analysis was leading him. "What about Jim Baylor?" asked Bellows. "What kind of a man is he?" The sheriff spat at a stump. "He's a man about forty-five years old who is ma'rried with a family, and if ' Phil Broom kills him, he's got it coming." "It's a tossup," said Warner, getting to his feet. "Jim and Phil are two of a kind. They both get drunk on Saturday night, they spear fish through the ice in the winter, they steal gas from their neighbors' gas tanks, they trap out of season, and they do anything else they think they can get away with." "There's one big difference," said the sheriff. "Phil Broom has a daughter." They went on, picking their way through the scrub oak and buckbrush. Once a timber rattler slid away from them through some dry leaves and disappeared into the underbrush. After about fifteen minutes they came to the bridge over the river. It was a makeshift footbridge, but it was sturdy. Warner went over first to test it. The rest of them followed. They found Baylor, his body lying on the river bank, half in and half out of the brackish backwater of a pool that had been captured and imprisoned along the side. Warner got there first and turned him over. "He's dead," he said. "He's been dead an hour or so, maybe." "Let me take a look," said Bellows. He scrambled down to the water and looked carefully at the bullet hole in the man's shoulder. After a moment, he said, "'The bullet didn't kill him, but the river did. I'll guess that he drowned, but we'll have to have an autopsy to know for sure." Warner kicked at a rock near the man's head. "He may have hit his head on this rock when he fell." The sheriff was looking up the hillside. "Adam, that hill's too steep for your arteries. You stay here with the body and we'll go get Phil." "How do you know he's up there?" asked the boy. "I don't." They climbed straight up the hill past a skunk den, 17 �picking their way thrQugh the undergro.wth, IQQking fQr fQQthQlds Qn the ledges Qf limestQne that prQtruded frQm the grQund. "He CQuld live in these WQQds all summer and we'd never find him." "What gQQd is this land?" asked the bQy. "DO' these peQple Qwn it '?" "No., they dQn't Qwn it," panted the sheriff. "They just live Qn it. So.mebQdy in tQwn Qwns it and runs cattle in here during the summer. That's 'all it's gQQd fQr, and it's nQt even much gQQd fQr that." They reached the summit Qf the hill and stQPped to. IQo.k arQund. "We may be Qver in Greentree Co.unty by nQw," said Warner. "NQt that it matters, I guess." They were Qn a kind Qf plateau and far away to. the west they CQuld see the .single spire Qf a church 'and near it, a silo.. "I'll take him in, even if he's nQt in my cQunty." "Well, YQu're gQing to' get yQur chance." Phil BTQQm came walking to.ward them, the twenty-two. slung Qver his arm as if he were Qut hunting rabbits. He had been sitting Qn a rQck waiting fQr them. "Thro.w dQwn yQur gun, Phil," said Quinn. BrQQm handed the rifle to. Warner, stQck first, and Warner brQke it. There was a spent shell in it. "ShQQting squirrels out Qf seasQn?" asked Warner. "YQU knQw I wasn't," said BrQQm. He was a tall, thin man who had wQrked tQQ hard and had tQQ little to. show for it. He WQre a pair Qf demin pants and a faded blue shirt. "I'm gQing to. have to. take yQU to. tQwn with me." ' ''YQU know what he did to. BQnnie?" "Yes, I knQw, but I'm gQing to have to. take yQU in anyway." "Jim BaylQr and I were friends fQr years. Is he dead?" "Yes, he's dead." "I didn't aim to really kill him. Just scare him SQme. But it was gQin' to. schQol that did it. BQnnie was a gQQd girl till she got romantic nQtiQns frQm thQse books they gave her to. read. All abQut IQng-IQst IQvers and knights Qn hQrses." They started walking back the way they had CQme, three men and a boy. W'arner went first, still carrying the sawed-Qff shotgun in one hand and the rifle in the Qther, the perspiTatiQn beading on the back of his neck. He began to whistle softly to himself, and then quit when he realized what he was whistling. But the words of the fQlk song still ran in his head all the way back dQwn the hill. 18 �" . . . There's mO're pretty girls than one, There's more pretty girls than one, There's more pretty girls than one, two, or three, But none like Bonnie and me." Saturday Night Incident Thelma J O'hnson Going to town on Saturday night in the summertime became a pattern of my childhood that was rarely brO'ken. It was during the depression years and this was the O'nly diversion, other than an occasional after-supper visit to a neighbor, to while away the long, hot evenings. There were many Saturday nights, but the one that remains a quintessence of all the rest of them occurred in July, 1936 or thereabouts; it was not only a depressiO'n year but a drought yea!. Even the children dO'n't fO'rget those easily. Saturday night always began with a bath. It was probably the only time during the week that the whole family was clean at the same time. Water was scarce and nearby MosquitO' Creek was brackish and full of sandbars. The water we used at the house had to be carried from a well near the barn, so we didn't waste it. SO'metimes we used each other's bath water, and I remember taking a bath one time in the wash bO'iler, using water that had been previously used to' rinse clothes. It is still impossible for me to waste water. A dripping faucet drives me frantic, and the hot and cO'ld water rushing intO' a porcelain bathtub is still sO'mething of a miracle. After the bath, it was my duty to get dressed up and wait for the rest of the family to get ready. That summer my dress was a white voile with multi-colored coin dots. I 'was very fond of it. It was the only dress I had. I wO're sunsuits the rest of the time. The town where we shopped was Caryville, fifteen miles away. It wasn't a very large town, but I thought it was, and there were a great many things fO'r a six-year-old child to observe and absorb. We arrived about seven o'clock, parked the car, and went our separate ways-my father to' find some O'ther farmers to' visit with, and my mother and I to do the weekly shopping. The farmers in those days wore clean dress shirts and a ~9 �fairly new pair of bib overalls and a snap-brim hat when they went to town. It was a kind of uniform. When the weather got cooler, they added a suit coat. They would stand on the curbs and talk, one foot on the bumper of a car, and some of them chewing tobacco and spitting into the gutter. The talk was endless- crops and cattle, drought and depression, markets and politics. Sometimes the talks would adjourn to a nearby beer parlor, but this was not the rule. Money was too scarce to waste on beer. My mother would go from one store to another with me tagging along, and whenever she found someone to talk to, she would .stand and visit for fifteen or twenty minutes about chickens and gardens and recipes. The time became endless for me. I am certain that I learned to read out of boredom, standing first on one foot and then on the other, staring at the neon signs up and down the street, and identifying different business places-Montgomedy Ward, Penney's, McDonald's Dry Goods, Flossie's Hamburger Shop, the Ballyhoo Hut. Sometimes on these hunts, we ran into relatives. Nobody has more relatives than I do, and some of them lived in Caryville. My mother didn't care much for them, because they were all relatives of my father, and she always secretly believed that, in the last analysis, she had married beneath her. My father's people were Irish-black Irish-with the quick temper and the black despair of that unfortunate race. They had a tendency toward intra-family feuds and bitter quarrels that remained unreconciled unto the second and third generations. It was a problem for my mother to keep everybody straight and remember who was currently not speaking to whom. One branch of the family was particularly unfriendly and quarrelsome-my father's sister, Lee's family. Aunt Lee was a sullen woman who never came to town, and it was rumored that her husband, Dave, had killed a man in his youth. Whether or not this was true, the legend gave him a romantic aura. He talked like Edward G. Robinson and said "see what I mean" all the time. His children, my cousins, emulated the current movie stars and gangster heroes, and the names of Greta Garbo, John Dillinger, Pretty Boy Floyd, Carole Lombard, Clark Gable, Jean Harlow, and the Barrows gang were all of a kind. When Aunt L.ee's oldest daughter, June, approached my mother in the Self-Serve Grocery Store, even I knew that there 20 �was something unusual gO'ing on. It was past nine O"clock, and the stores closed at ten. Everybody waited until the last minute to buy the groceries, because they had to' be carried to the car and that was the signal for the trip home to' begin. My mother was carrying a sack O'f sugar, I remember, and talking to my Aunt Ann, anQther sister of my father, when June came up and said hellO'. June was big and fat. I suppose she still is. Everyone I have ever knQwn named June was big and fat, but she was the first Qne to set the pattern. I didn't like her. She was never very congenial, and I suppose she was embarrassed to acknowledge that she was related to' "country people." She was about twenty, married, and her husband was on relief, but she lived in the city. There was a difference. She walked up to' my mother and said, "Aunt May, Uncle John's in a fight with Walter Tuttle. They're down at the BallyhoO' Hut and they've been drinking beer all evening." My mother didn't even stop to question it, and neither did my Aunt Ann. My mO'ther drO'Pped the sack of sugar and grabbed me by the hand and hauled me out of the store behind her as fast as she could walk. It was only three blocks frO'm the Self-Serve to' the Ballyhoo Hut, but it seemed IQnger, and I had to run to keep up. My mQther was in the lead, the sleeves of her flO'wered voile dress flapping in the breeze she created. My mother's normal expression was one O'f disapproval. I used to' think she disapproved of me, but there wasn't anything really per.sonal in it. She disapproved of everybO'dy. She spent quite 'a bit of time disapproving of my father, and several items in June's cryptic and shocking bit O'f news had disturbed her. I was aware Qf it, even at six. The first thing that bothered her was that he had been drinking beer when there wasn't enough money for luxuries like that. The second thing was that he was in a fight. My father was not a large man, and Walter Tuttle, his brother-in-law, was about a hundred pounds heavier. My mO'ther didn't approve of fighting anyway. Civilized people didn't do it. The trip to' the beer parlor was urgent and rigorous, with my mother yanking on my hand and telling me to' run. My imagination created all kinds of perils. I was afraid my father would be killed, or at least badly hurt. 21 �Mary Hicks, "High Flight" Deniece Walker, "What is Human" �Joseph Meyer, "Remnants of the Old West" Wilma Clem, "Still Life" �Helen Anderson, "Moses" �I Ransom Choto, "Untitled" .i Above: Denieee Walker, "Annaxebreism" N aney Merrill, "Plant Cell" . :'·::·Yi~o .. ; ...., et'* '. • ~/ . ,. .. ",!~ ... �Lois Dawson, "The Bride No.1" Right: Lou Langos, "Oedipus Rex" Lois Dawson, "Intoxication" Below: Claudia Krnoch, "Untitled" �R E W A L K N I E C E D E �Ann McMains, "Repose" George Spade, "Heraclitus, The Dark One" "Bundling" �The Exp, rt e Mary Ellen Long Benjamin Ashur bent his frail bQdy against the winter wind with fierce determinatiQn. He was already five minutes behind schedule, and nQthing, nQt even the wind, WQuld slQW him still more. The walks were slippery frQm the night's sleet stQrm, but he mQved at a breathless pace and with little care. His thQughts were barely on his fQQting and nQt at all Qn the cold. The eager anticipatiQn Qf the victQry clQse at hand kept him warm. SO', Mr. Peter CollinsQn, yQU think that yO'U knQw sO' much. YQu'll see. YQU can't just walk in and take over Benjamin Ashur's PQsitiQn. I have been the Qne and Qnly catalQger at the Masefield CQllege Library fQr thirty years. AlmQst every bQO'k Qn the shelves has been thrQugh my hands. I put them where they are, all in O'rder, all catalQged prQperly, by my decisiQn. Of cO'urse, I have SQme help nQW, but just fQr the easy jQbs. Any fQQl can write numbers Qn a bQQk spine. lVly mind is as gQQd as ever; better fQr all thQse years of experience. Experience CQmes with age. All thQse yQung people scurrying up and dQwn the stairs, scraping chairs, banging dQors, getting bQQks Qut of place, ruining pages with their dirty hands. If I had. my way, we WQuld have 'closed stacks. Keep thQse juveniles away frQm the bQoks. CollinsQn and his "the right bOQk for the right perSQn at the right time," and "the mQst bQoks fQr the mQst peQple." SpQQnfeeding, that's what it is. Haven't enQugh brains in their heads to' use the card catalQg cQrrectly. They aren't scholars, any Qf them. Especially CQllinsQn. Fresh Qut Qf graduate schQQl. Barely knQws what life is all abQut. Certainly nQt dedicated. And those yQung girls. CrQst shQuld hire SQme sensible' elderly WQmen. That little snippet with the shQrt skirt and the flyaway hair. Sneaking up Qn me and whispering sO' IQudly that CrQst CQuld hear in his office, "Excuse me, sir, but I dQn't think this bQQk has the right call number. N Qne Qf the Qther bQQks with this call number are abQut televisiQn annQuncing." Damned televisiQn anyway. Dewey hadn't made prQvisiQn fQr it in his bQok. How CQuld yQU expect the man to. foresee all these new inventiQns? It was getting so. yQU just gQt the revisiQns in numbers Qrganized when they came Qut with a new bQQk. NO' sense in it. 31 �Mary Ann McMains, "Etude" Claudia Krnoch, "Untitled" �• • • And Your Child; ~en, They Will Burn Sharon K. Nelson The wind shrieked 'a t the moon; and tore at the earth, like a wrathful god. Great waves of grass blew like foam; and the trees groaned at the feel Df it. Their leaves twisted, and shook, and made angry sounds with each blast. The ancient cottonwood heaved, and grunted, and rattled its bony old branches. The aging gray house was almo.st indistinguishable in the storm. Only one dim light, in a downstairs, window, gave any hint that it was there at all. The house had survived many such storms, but its stiff old frame creaked and moaned, and the wind in the bedroom window made' a IDnely whining sDund. Only one dim lamp had been turned on. It gave the already shabby room a dreary appearance. Wallpaper hung limply on the walls, here and there expo.sing 'a n older layer. A large crack had started across the ceiling until it ran into a fly specked bulb, held up by a network Df expDsed wires. Plaster shaken 10Dse by the storm lay scattered across the floor. An old bed, held up by two chipped frames, drooped unhappily under a window. There were no curtains, only distDrted yellDw shades. SomeDne had attempted to cheer the room up. A picture of Mona Lisa, cut from a magazine, smiled mystically. The self-contained Madame PDmpadouT, torn from a school book, stared knDwingly into space. A thin young girl paced back and forth across the room. She was alDne except for her three sons asle'e p upstairs. Her nervous steps. halted in front of the mirrDr, as she ran her fingers futilely through her fine brown hair. The storm had made, it wild; she swept it back with her hand. Her eyes were tired and dark looking, and her shDulders slumped wearily forward. Her cotton dress was neat, but too old for her. She began to sing lightly to. herself. "Rain, Rain, go. away, Come again some Dther day." The wind wailed again at the windDws, and rain began to. rise and fall with the passions of the storm. There was· nothing she could do. to curb the turmoil within herself. Her dark absorbent eyes turned to the lamp; deep and haunted, they did not reflect the light, but burned from a source of their own. It frightened her to be alone. All the restlessness that welled up in her came out when she was left by herself to think. Yet tonight there was a certain calm in her panic. She moved 33 �But Mr. Crost wouldn't think about that. Oh, no. He just said the next day, "Yo.U know that the library appreciates all your years of service, Ashur: but you needn't feel obligated to. stay on if the work is getting too difficult." He said it in his patient, friendly way, but I know that he was thinking that I can't be trusted anymore. Giving the Ro.ckwood collection to young Collinson to process. He didn't know that I could hear, but I heard him tell Collinson to take care of it. Mr. Ashur turned the corner and started across the campus. Just wait until I walk in and notice the Randolph's first edition lying in the discard pile with all tho.se worthless books. He had his speech all prepared. He would walk into. Mr. Crost's office and place the beaten, brown leather book on his desk. If lVlr. Crost didn't recognize its worth right away, Ashur would tell him. And then he would say, "I hate to. speak against a fellow worker, sir; but this is a very unforgivable oversight on the part of Mr. Collinson. It hadn't been an oversight on anyone's part. Collinson hadn't even seen the book. Ashur had spDtted it right away on the cart in the workroom. He knew how to properly value a book. Collinson might really have missed it, but he couldn't take the chance. It was too perfect a way to discredit Collinson, and so Ashur had slipped the bODk out of the group and put it in the discard pile himself. Hurrying in expectation of his mo.ment of glory, he puffed up the stairs and rushed past the circulation desk. Slow down. You mustn't give yourself away, Benjamin. He went through the workroom door, glanced casually at the pile of old books, and went pale. It wasn't there. "Ashur!" Mr. Crost came out of his o.ffice with the Randolph in his hand. "Really, Ashur, how could you have let this get past you?" The patient friendliness was gone from his voice. "Sir?" "Collinson was working late last night and happened to' check the discards. This is from the Rockwood collection and very valuable. It would have been a great Io.SS to our library if this had been destroyed. I wanted to give Collinson the chance to have some real responsibility, but after some discussion, he convinced me that I should let you wo.rk with it. He was unsure of himself and thought that you should do them since you were the expert. We moved the collection to your work table yeesterday afternoon." 32 �The realization that everything was ready startled her, but she had no time to hesitate. She didn't go upstairs to look at her sons. She took the suitcase, and carried it with her to the lamp. She clung to it tightly, afraid to set it down even as she struggled to turn off the lamp. The storm had worn out, the night was still and peaceful, as if it had just recovered fl om a long illness. It was dark and misty r out, but she knew her way too well to be unsure of herself. As_ she passed the exhausted cottonwood, she straightened her stooped shoulders, and began to sing quite suddenly and passionately. "Lady bug, lady bug, Flyaway home Your house is on fire, And your children, they will bUTn." Tho, e O, The Backs Of Tige, s s n r Sharon K. Nelson There wasn't much for a colored boy to' dO' in a town the size of Benton. I suppose if you thought ,a bout it, there wasn't much for a white boy to do either. I guess that's why he liked school so wen, it gave him something to do and it kept his mind busy. But now that it was summer he spent each day searching for something to' bre'a k the monotny. His sisters all helped his mother so there wasn't much to do at home. He had a few odd jobs 'around town. Once or twice a week he alw:ays stopped at Miss McGill's and helped her clean out her biTds'ca,.ges. Then with a nod of her cashew-nut face, she would give him two nickels and tell him when to' come again. He liked to go for walks in the country; but he had to be careful not to let Patrolman Wilson see him wandering around. Ole Wilson was always cruising about. It was a well established fact that Mrs. Wilson ruled the roost; but when he spotted Jim, out of the car he would come, chin up, chest out, and ask the eternal question, "What ya doin' boy?" The old rooster knew damn well what he was doing! But he was too sick of the game to risk playing it today. Miss McGill's house was only a block from Benton's only drug store, and for no explainable reason he found himself there. He watched the white girl come out of the store and stared wistfully 35 �quickly-to the closet, but hesitated for a second before she opened ,the door. There ..wasn't much on the hangers, only a couple of men's shirts and a few housedresses. Several old cardboard boxes that contained odd ends of junk, that for some reason she was afraid to throwaway, sat lop-sidedly on the floor. She pushed her way through these until she came to a scarred cardboard suitcase. She cautiously lifted it, and carefully made her way back through t~le closet. She placed the .suitcase in the middle of the old bed. It slumped awkwardly half in the sag. She had done this many times before. It had become a part of the routine enacted whenever things overwhelmed her. How many times had she thought about leaving? Life had always overpowered her. Fighting it usually left her weak and shaken. Ifwas like being thrown from a horse time after time, to have to climb back with the knowledge that you would be dashed to the ground once again. Her life was an irony; she had married to escape taking care of her younger brothers, only to give birth to three sons herself. There was nothing to hold her here, no hope, no love. She had married too young, and had three children before she was even willing to love her husband. She went back to the song. "No, I won't be my father's jack And I won't be my mother's jill I'll be a fiddler's wife And fiddle when I will." She didn't really hate her sons, but she couldn't love them either. They had come so soon, she wasn't ready for them. Perhaps she would never be ready for children. They demanded much more than she could give. Her husband, too, claimed too much of her, men always did. He thought he owned her, but did not possess her anymore than her sons did. She moved more certainly now. The storm had calmed somewhat, but the cottonwood was still shaking its brittle old branches and the wind still had a somber hum. She went briskly to the closet and flipped the dresses over her aTm. One of the old boxes served as a chest-of-drawers; she calmly removed -the rest of her clothes from there and walked determinately toward the bed. It took her only a few minutes to pack. She was about to close the lid when something occurred to her. She turned quickly to the wall, and Temoved the Mona Lisa, and shoved it into the suitcase. She snapped the lid shut and slammed the whole thing on the floor. 34 �paddled along. He could easily visualize the delight registered on three shining faces as he shO'wed his children the deer he had shot. They would be so proud of their daddy, and so fascinated at the sight of a real deer like the one whose antlers hung above the fireplace. And his wife would be proud, too, when she learned that, for the fifth year in a rO'w, his trip had been successful. In turn, he would be proud when Becky served venisO'n steaks for dinner sO'me evening, cooked as only she knew how. Yes, Jim eagerly anticipated presenting the carcass to his family- this ten point was the largest he had ever shot. Jim's thoughts were interrupted by Bill's hushed admonition. "Look, Jim----.:ahead O'f us!" Both men had been concentrating so hard on making progress in the choppy waters that they had nO't looked around them fO'r quite awhile. During that time dusk had settled. N ow the entire western sky was illuminated with the red glow of the sun forcing its rays dO'wnward through a thick mass O'f dark clouds. This grandeur w'a s partially reflected on the water in front of them, with the irregular waves giving a kaleidoscope effect to' the brilliant colO'rs abO've. The scene was made more memO'rable by the appearance of a buck, standing alone and maj estic on the horizO'n- a singular temptation to' any camera bug or hunter. "Damn!" Jim's reaction to' the scene th'a t Bill had pO'inted out was O'ne O'f ultimate frustration. He knew that they couldl nO't afford to think about shooting another deer nO'w, for the waters had become even more chO'PPY as the icy wind blew harder. 'That'd be a shot even yO'U could get. You O'le son of a gun, keep your observations to' yourself after this!" ply. "Sorry." Bill grinned as he snapped back his sarcastic re"DO'n't gripe at me, old man. YO'U got yours." "Yup, we did alright for ourselves, didn't we? Sure am glad yO'U persuaded me to' come. To think that 1'd abO'ut decided to stay home with . . . " His sentence was left unfinished as the brisk wind blew the canoe sideways into the current. The hunters, paddled frantically, trying to swing the canoe back around again to' avoid sure disaster. They wO'rked swiftly and expertly, but the strong current and hO'wling wind were too pO'werful. The canO'e lurched sideways, then swung around in a desperate attempt to' stay afloat. Once more it jerked violently. Jim and Bill could do nothing more than gasp as the bO'at twisted sideways, tipped, and 37 �at the Coca Cola sign. He began to finger his two nickels. He stared at the strong jaw and proud head of Jefferson, a good looking man, but then he was white. A little whirlwind scattered the dust down the road, and two little boys came out with ice oream cones. They had to eat them fast for the sun was hot. Tired of the nickels, he put them back in his pocket and began to walk home. He was hot and thirsty; it was a good thing he lived only three blocks from the store. Why was it, he wondered, that he alway,s seemed to be thirstier when he knew he was least likely to get a drink? A coke sure sounded better than a glass of water, but he didn't feel like walking six extra blocks to 'Joes.' A woman came shuffling down the street. She stiffened her back and glanced at her feet as she passed. A man and woman p were at the st'l'eet corner , assing out papers. He took one. It was all about Jesus and how he planned to save the world, complete with a picture of Jesus blessing sweet pale little children. He handed it back to the man. "I'm sick and tired of your white Jesus," he said, and walked away. The woman started in amazement, then turned to her companion, "I don't know what's the matter with tho.se niggers," she said. A Time To Liv, a, d A Time T , D'i e e n o Nan Stone The canoe slithered through the choppy water noiselessly. Expert hands lowered the paddles gently, accurately, methodically into the mucky water, pulled back, and lifted them carefully. The rhythm was precise, even though the men in the canoe had to fight the ever-increasing current with concentrated effort. These men did not speak; both were exhausted after a long day of tramping through thick underbrush and of laying tense and alert, every muscle tight as they waited to shoot. To a good hunter stalking a deer or rabbit or even a pheasant was quite pleasantly, yet most completely exhausting-and Jim Herold and Bill Winters were certainly good hunters. But the fact that a deer, four rabbits and two pheasants were tied in the canoe did not lessen the pain as every muscle throbbed. But they could not stop for rest; home was still three miles upstream and night was fast approaching. They could not rest now. Home--this was foremost in Jim's thoughts as they 36 �a windbreak. Stumbling thro.ugh the dark ro.Dm, he eventualiy Io.cated a kero.sene lamp with matches nearby. With light he was then able to. start a small fire in the stDve. All this wDrk was painstakingly slo.W because his cDld bo.dy Wo.uld nDt functio.n quickly and because his fro.zen clo.thing allDwed o.nly a limited amo.unt o.f mo.vement. Finally, ho.wever, his effDrts were rewarded 'as the frigid air within the tiny shack warmed slightly. Ho.wever, the o.nly effect o.f this bit o.f warmth was to. step up Bill's circulatiDn' enDugh so. that his bo.dy, previo.usly numb and insensitive to. feeling, no.w tingled with cDld. He tried to. pull o.ff his ice-laden garments in a frantic effo.rt to. let the heat reach his body. Unable to. do. this, he finally cut o.ff the expensive hunting clo.thes with a knife he had fDund. As he wrapped himself in the Dnly blanket in the cabin, the limited supply Df Wo.o.d burned itself Io.w, leaving the ro.o.m witho.ut heat o.nce' again. Realizing that withDUt a fire the cabin Wo.uld no.t be warm eno.ugh fDr him to. stay any length Df time, he co.ncentrated UPo.n ways Df signaling to. passing bo.ats. Suddenly he heard the so.und o.f 'a bDat appro.aching the island! There was no. time to. plan; he grabbed a bro.o.m leaning against Dne wall, set it Dn fire, and ran o.utside, frantically waving his crude signal with Dne hand while he clutched his blanket with the o.ther. But he had been to.o. late-the bo.at already passed. As Bill returned to. the cabin, a feeling o.f hDpelessness swept o.ver him, fo.r he knew that it Wo.uld be unlikely fDr anDther boat to. pas.s the remo.te place fo.r several ho.urs. Pro.bably it Wo.uld be mo.rning befo.re there Wo.uld be even the hope o.f rescue, and by then he cDuld be nearly fro.zen. Bill's spirits were Io.W as he paced back and forth acro.ss the ro.o.m in an effDrt to. keep his circulatio.n up. His bo.dy ached with every mo.vement. He was nearly o.verco.me with fatigue; each step became mo.re and mo.re difficult, but he knew that he must co.ntinue moving. Every mo.tiDn was made with this in mind. Walking was excruciatingly painful, but absolutely necessary. He co.ncentrated carefully. Lif fo.o.t slowly . . . mDve it fDrward . . . place firmly Dn flo.or . . . lean fo.rward . . . lift Dther fDot . . . place firmly Dn floor . .. SIDWly. Carefully. Can't stDp. VDices yelling excitedly outside the cDttage interrupted Bill's effo.rts. He mDved tDward the do.r painfully fast, reaching it just as the neWCDmers had succeeded in pushing it o.pen. "We saw the light," on Df them began to. explain, "and knew that somebo.dy had to. be in trDuble." Help was at hand. That 39 �Qverturned, dumping its Qccupants into the icy water. With its cargO' Qf heavy carcasses, the canQe quickly sank. "Kick Qff yQur bQQts!" Bill yelled as he struggled to' remQve his Qwn heavy hunting bQots. He knew that otherwise neither Qf them CQuld fight the swift current. Turning tQward Jim, hQwever, he realized that the call had been futile. His cQmrade was flQundering in the water, QbviQusly unable to' swim. Bill frantically swam in his directiQn, but the current was against him, SO' he gained Qnly a few feet each minute. After he had nQt seen Jim's bQdy fQr several minutes, Bill realized that his effQrts WQuld be to' nO' avail. DesPQndently he allQwed his tired bQdy to. relax, permitting the current to' carry him fQr perhaps twO' hundred yards while he regained SQme of his strength. DQing SO', he. realized fQr the first time how CQld he was. He was fQrced to' swim with as much Qf his bQdy as PQssible under water, fQr a thin CQat Qf ice WQuld fQrm Qn the surface Qf his skin as SQQn as it was eXPQsed to' the air. With frightening clarity Bill realized that he WQuld have to' swim to' the nearest hQuse, since he WQuld surely freeze within a few minutes if he' tried to' walk alQng the shQre. He rested temporarily and surveyed his situation. Behind him was nQthing but fore.st; thus his Qnly hQpe fQr survival WQuld be to' swim upstream, 'a gainst the current, until he spotted a house. Bill swam fQr nearly fifteen minutes, gaining not mQre than half a mile. Exhausted, he stQPped Qn the shore of a tiny, empty island to' rest. Not ten secQnds had pas.sed, however, before ice began to' CQat his bQdy. ResQlutely he climbed back into the water, fQrcing every tired muscle to pull him a few feet further. By nQW he cared abQut nQthing but finding warmth. He had IQst all cQnception Qf time and distance. The Qnly wQrd with any real meaning fQr him was 'shelter'. He was beyond the PQint Qf IQgical thinking-all actiQns were entirely instictive. He nO' IQnger reacted as a human being. After quite awhile, Bill sPQtted anQther island---.:and on this island, rising maj estically abQve the landscape, there stQQd a tiny shack. His strength miraculQusly restQred, he struggled thrQugh the turbulent waters to' shQre, then stumbled up to' the building; Finding the dQor IQcked, he panicked. Warmth was SO' clQse, and yet .sO' far away. But, as the CQld pricked at him, re-alerting the. mind, his ,senses returned. He brQke a windQw with a rock lying nearby, and crawled thrQugh the newly made Qpening. Inside the cabin it was musty and deafeningly silent, but it did prQvide 38 �We took the alley between the Wards store and a dress shop, darting down the uneven paving into the dark shadows. A minute later, we were in the parking lot by the Ballyhoo Hut with its red and yellow and blue balloons painted on the outside. My mother's feet slipped in the soft gravel, and I got sand in my shoes. She went up to the door and paused just for a moment. She had never entered a beer parlor alone in her life. She opened the door and I followed fearfully, expecting to see my father lying on the floor, bleeding and dying. He wasn't. He was sitting in a booth with Uncle Walter, and they were talking in the low-voiced way that can be heard when everybody else is shO'uting. They each had a glass of beer in front of them, and looked up in surprise at my mother and Aunt Ann and me. "What are you doing here?" my father asked, puzzled. "Have you and Walter been in a fight?" demanded my mO'ther, looking for signs of blood. "Why, no," said my father, reasonably. sitting here talking." "We've been just "Well, June said you and Walter were fighting." "Well, we're not." My mother got tight-lipped and stalked out, yanking me along with her. On the trip hO'me, with the car windO'ws open and the insects alO'ngside the road making their interminable buzzing sound O'f summer, I tried to' figure out what had happened. My father was imperturable as ever. Nothing ever bothered him much, and this incident seemed to amuse him slightly. My mother sat upright with her "mad look" (as I called it later), and held ontO' the door handle as if she were thinking O'f making a run fO'r it. I said, "Daddy, if you had had your gun you could have licked him, couldn't you?" My mother turned around and said, "Hush," and I knew she meant it, so I did. But I spent the rest of the way home pO'n·· dering the situatiO'n. I was aware that I had said the wrong thing, but I wasn't sure what it was. 22 �was all the tortured body needed to know. When Bill awoke he was lying on a large feather bed in thehome of one of his friends. Gathered around him were several familiar faces. Doctor Brady was the first to speak. "Bill? Bill, do you comprehend what I am saying? If you can hear me, nod your head." Bill nodded. "You're mighty lucky to be alive, young man. How do you feel? Do you ache, Bill? Where ?" "All over." The words came slowly, and were barely audible. "But not in my fingers and toes. I can't feel anything there." "Yes, Bill. That's because of the cold," Dr. Brady said gently. 'Cold? What happened, Doc? Why am I here?" "Your boat capsized in the river, we think, Bill. You'd gone hunting. You had to swim quite a ways, boy. You must be quite a swimmer." 'I remember now. Choppy waters. Canot with the deer sunk. I remember swimming . . . " "Yes, Bill. I'll talk to you later about that. N ow the important thing is that you get some sleep. You're mighty lucky to be alive, but you still have some recovering to do, boy. Sleep well tonight. Just thank God you're alive and safe. I'll be back in the morning. Good night, Bill." After Dr. Brady had left, Bill tried to sleep. But his mind was too cluttered with thoughts. He lay staring at the ceiling for quite some time, the events of the night rushing through his head. I t was ironic how thrilled they had been when Jim shot the deer, and now . .. Siddenly it hit Bill. Jim- Jim was gone forever. A vivid picture of the muscular body bobbing in the water reminded Bill of Jim's terrible fate. Now he could remember it all clearly- the look on Jim's face when the canoe' capsized, his frantic floundering, Bill's own weak attempts to rescue the drowning comrade. These thoughts made clear the dreadful realization that Jim was gone forever- the same Jim. whom Bill had persuaded to go hunting, the same Jim who had eagerly anticipated showing the deer to his family. Bill, in rejoicing that he was alive, had completely forgotten about his comrade. Jim was dead, and Bill had thought of nothing but himself. He had not cared about Jim's misfortune. No longer did Bill feel so lucky to be alive. In fact ,he felt 40 �more like a cad. Oh, od," he thought, "God, why couldn't it have been me. I don't have a family to raise. Oh, poor Becky. Oh, let me die, too. I can't live. I want to die. Let me die, please." Bill's exhausted body shook with frightful sobs until it could no longer react. Then he fell into a fitful sleep. A Duel With Fear Wanda Thayer "How is my patient this morning?" The professional noncommittal tone of the doctor's voice revealed nothing. Doctors were trained well-almost too well! "You tell me how I am," Doctor." A professional, mechanical smile came and went across the doctor's face. "I can't say yet-the lab reports WDn't be in my hands until later this afternoon. I'll probably be back in about four-thirty and we'll talk about it then. Everyone treating you fine?" Again those automatic questions which filled up the silence and meant absolutely nothing. Of course everyone treated me well. Why shouldn't they? I was 'a good patient, did what the nurses and doctors advised and made nO' unnecessary demands on their time. What else could I do now but wait and pray for patience to do that waiting. Such a summer this had been! Going back to summer school to resume studies which had been gladly interrupted some' years ago for marriage, was not the easiest task. But despite the difficulty, the two courses in literature had been exhilarating and interesting. How the mind corrodes when not used. It had taken three years of persistent prodding and subtle persuasion for my hushand to agree that I should return to' college and finish my last year's work which had to be taken on campus. On campus was the "fly in the ointment." I agreed with him that mothers belonged at home with pre-school children but the opportunity of sharing rides with two friends and the fact that I would be home in time for lunch helped to persuade him. Again I recalled the fulfillment which being back in an atmosphere of learning had brought into my life. New found friendships were 41 �a treasured by-product of that classroom affiliation. Would this aU end in what the biopsy report revealed? How would I face a negative report? There had been a time several years before when I had asked myself this same question and had found strength, given only by faith in God, to bear the burden of losing a loved one. Tears tugged at my closed eyelids as I let my head faU back onto the coolness of the crumpled pillow. "Oh, dear God, please give me the opportunity to see my two girls grow up. Please give me the chance to fulfill my duty as a mother With your help, I want so to see them grow up in a Christian home under my influence." A cherry "Good Morning" interrupted my silent prayer and I opened my eyes. "Are we ready for our bath?" I wondered what the nurse's aid would say if I replied, "I'm ready, but are you"-or "are you going to have me bathe you while you bathe me ?" Get thee behind me Satan! Besides, this aid interested me. She was a negro and a beautiful girl. "Are you married?" "Oh yes, I have two teenagers at home." "Two teenagers ! You look so young." "Not that young-I'll be forty my next birthday." She looked directly at me with beautiful expressive brown eyes. Her features were finer than those of many negroes and her hair was very attractively coiffured under the stiff bluestriped cap. The snuggly fitted starched uniform revealed a ,slim, boyish figure. She tucked the bath sheet under my arms and around the upper part of my body and easily pulled the bedsheet from the bed. Feeling no racial prejudice, I was astounded a t my reaction when she took hold of my arm to wash it. Her hand felt warm and exactly like any white person's hand. Why did this amaze me? Did I have a deep-seated prejudice which I was unaware of? I watched her admiringly as she pulled the sheets taunt over the mattress pad and folded the top sheet back over the bedspread. She was 'a good nurses' aid. After several suggestions for my comfort she picked up the pile of soiled linens and quietly left the room, closing the door part was as she passed through. That haunting fear of the unknown came back immediately in the quietness of the lonely room. Just one week ago, unaware of any possibility of hospitalization, we had all been out on a very hot rail ride. Being no horsewoman I recalled the difficulty in keeping the horse I was riding from stopping to eat the leaves from the low hanging branches which crossed the trail. It had 42 �rained during the night and early morning and the heat of the ten o'clock midsummer sun beat down on my bare head. The gnats swarmed around the horse's eyes and nose and she stopped occasionally to toss her head and blow air out through her nostrils. My chief desire at that time, to be anywhere else but on a horse, had not included a hospital-or at least would not have had I known that was where I would be. Strange how fate turns the table and we get our desire only to find the wish not exactly what we had in mind. The door was pushed open by the cleaning woman and my thoughts were interrupted again. "Good morning." She glanced over at me and returned my greeting. "How are you today?" "O.K., I guess." "I haven't seen you in here before. "I just started yesterday and I worked down on the second floor." It was quiet as she flushed the toilet and cleaned the lavatory. I was interested in beginning the conversation again when she came back into the room. "Are you married?" "Ya, I got three kids." "Oh, how old are they?" "I got a girl who goes to school this fall and a boy who is two and a baby that's four months." "How do you manage to have a job outside your home?" "Well, it ain't easy, but somebody's got to earn somel money. I got a sister that stays with the kids. My girl whose goin'ta start to school ain't got no shoes and ,she's gotta hav'em or the other kid'ell make fun of her. MyoId man's no good. He drinks all the time." We were silent as she pushed the dust mop under the bed and around the legs of the furniture. The picked up the dust cloth aand started to dust the dresser. "You sure got some pretty flowers. Ya want me to check the water on them?" "Thank you, I would appreciate that. Yes, my friends and family have been very thoughtful since I've been here." She removed the two vases of cut flowers and when she returned with them I noticed that the withered blossoms had been removed and they looked fresh again. The afternoon passed quickly. My friend, Patricia, arrived early and read my cards and letters to' me. We played the game of pretense that everything was fine; but Pat, who is extremely sentimental, had difficulties. Some of the verses in the getwell cards were very touching and she would begin to' cry. 'Something's the matter with me," she murmured between her sobs. I found myself consoling her when I was the one who 43 �should have been crying. When visiting hours were over, I felt extreme relief to be alone again. I reached over and turned on the remote control switch of the television set which sat opposite the foot of the bed. "Felix the cat, that wonderful, wonderful cat" exploded from the set. I snapped the button to off and glanced at my watch. There wasn't much time left to await the verdict. You don't have cancer! My head jerked toward the door. The doctor stood there smiling at me. "That's what I said. "You don't have cancer. " Are you sure ?" "Very sure; the final lab reports are negative and you are fine" . . . All my defenses collapsed and I cried. 44 �"I gno1'a nce" r Cynthia Cooper UNGlliDED My exact doctine' Lies SO'mewhere between Here And There. Where- - There? - Never. Where? - Here? - Never. MY god, where have you forsaken me? Somewhere between YO'U And Me. Truth to' everyone? Where lies it? I knO'w nO't my own truth. THE CHAPEL One TwO' The Can circle abO'ut thee; lights shine beside thee; grail before thee. we reflect the same? One in perfect uniO'n with Thee? Two inspiring lights beside Thee? One bowing humbly before Thee? They spread the image. Not I! 45 �UNCOMMITTED May I never crack the wall of your moods? You are a constant mystery to me, And I find it hard to comprehend your attitudes, Sometimes in your quietness I think you are more myth than fact; For it is hard to perceive your thoughts. Will you keep me in constant suspense? Or may we be joyless together? Or may we express the delight of our love together? Independent man! Do you need no one? SCHIZOTHYMIA The Greatest I am not. The King I am not. Sometimes "I" pretend. I AM the greatest. I AM the king. Schizothymic people. What image project we.? Reality? Truth? 46 �Charles Fisher My name is Mr. Asterias. 1 I search the briny deep. In inquiry mysterious, With attitude delerious, I comb the briny deep. And kingfishes, stingfishes, Bluefishes, j ewfishes, Jawfishes, crawfishes swim in my net. The butterfish, guterfish, Paddlefish, saddlefish; All of these fishes I catch in my net. But a mermaid I've never, no never been able to get. 1 Mr. Asterias is a comic relief character in Sir Thomas Love Peacock's novel Nightmare Abbey. To stalk the elusive mermaid I go to the sea each night: While the moonlight's eerie glow is played On waves whose frothy spume is sprayed I descend to the sea each night. And herring and mackerel, Flounder and pickerel, Salmon and sardines swim into my net. The kingfishes, stingfishes, Bluefishes, j ewfishes, J awfishes, crawfishes, Creekfishes, weakfishes, Butterfish, gutterfish, Paddlefish, saddlefish ; All of these fishes swim into my net. But a mermaid I've never, no never been able to get. The mermaid she is marvelous. She is my heart's delight. Her fine skin it is wonderous As the shell of the paper nautilus. She is my heart's delight. But lobsters and barnacles, Crustacean particles, All sorts of nuisances crawl in my net. 47 �And herring and mackerel, Flounder and pickerel, Salmons and sardines, The kingfishes, stingfishes, Bluefishes, j ewfishes, Jawfishes, crawfishes, Creekfishes, weakfishes, Butterfish, gutterfish, Paddlefish, saddlefish, All of these fishes swim into my net. But a mermaid I've never, no never been able to get. My love she dines on foxglove. And from her watery home To climb the rocks sO' high above And find the deadmen's bells; my love Occasionally must come. So maybe on some misty eve Your startled eyes may see A mortal and a mermaid cleave In the rocks above the sea. And in the waters far below A chorus you may hear Of lobsters and barnacles And all of the rest Joining in wishing us all of the best At our wedding by the sea. Se, il'i ty n Virginia Johnson She's sitting in that squeaking, oaken rocker, The fading sunlight streaks a careworn face; Her crippled hands are idle, nDt crocheting lace. Legs that once were strong now need a walker, The rocking keeps a slow, deliberate pace. Her life once vital is like a broken vase 48 �NQt needed nQW, but treasured fQr its special place; NO' urge to' live, but death seems Qnly to mQck her. This aged O'ne still lives and breathes the air, But life is not the surging, vital fO'rce Of yO'unger members whO' must feed and care FQr Qne whO' now WQuld die withO'ut remorse. Oh, let me nQt endure what she must be'ar! Sweet death, nQt age, WQuld be my fervent course. Michael Meyer Bi ttersweet chQcQlates lay in grass fields where Qnly children eQuId gO' whO' with dandeliQn wreathed heads picked them Qne-bY-Qne And Bittersweet chocQlates smelling like gO'd must have smelled like new grass and fishless ponds Qf reeds alQng the edge of lily pastures Where Bittersweet chocQlates rO'lled O'n summers frO'nt lawn and played tQgether and IO'ved tO'gether and knQwing next to' nO'thing Bittersweet chQcolates died in autumn with the whQle wQrld 49 �RegreslSion Sharon Nelson Seductive little dandelion Lures me intO' the grass. There I lie Watching O'thers pass. Brighter than the tiger's eye, Mellower than China moon beams, Richer than gold, you smell Of youth and big dreams, Of childhood and emerald hills. ~he Seven,th Seal Sharon Nelson Muted drums lifted in heavy song, Moved unimpressed through the silent throng. Clods of frightened people stood blank, Watching the final parade, rank after rank. Steadily forward, never wavering a beat, Disciplined they m'arched down the silent street. Only the dancing black horse broke the stride, Tossing the empty boot.s from side to side. Behold the pale horses; their name is death; Onward they move; there is no rest. Steadily forward, never wavering a beat, Disciplined they marched down the silent street. Behind death they came, their heads bowed down, The lords of earth, the priests in black gowns. Her face as white as the horses, the lady in black Stared straight ahead and never back. Steadily forward, never wavering a beat, Disciplined she marched down the silent street. 50 �In Invitation JoAnn Sellers Leave the crutch at the doorstep, Bid farewell to the priests. Tell love you will some day return, And come. With your trepidations and wonderings and mine, Through the house of Never-Knowing we will peruse the labyrinths and rococo Columns, dusty, And clean them with our tears. Early Re-flectiom David Stead The tiny movable parts of The precision made machine are Now assembled, and the master-timer Begins the co-ordination of the clock. The hours of toil, and the Suffering of the designer demand Constant care and delicate Completion of the precious task. The emergence from the warmth of The factory into the changing temperature Of the owner's shop is guided by Precision-skilled mechanics aware of the Importance of each mechanism. Continual care and maintenance is Rewarded by growth of munipulative Functions, and the chorus of chimes Moves from an eratic disruption, To a harmonic combination of Movement and grace. 51 ���� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College. Through its several titles—Manuscript, Perspectives, and Kiosk—the magazine has a long history of celebrating creative writing and art on campus. It began publication in 1938 under the title of Manuscript before changing its name to Perspectives in 1953. Then in 1971 it took another name that it is known by currently: Kiosk. It is still published annually by the Morningside College English Department. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1938- Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Morningside College Library Morningside College English Department Ponder, Marcie: Digital Creator Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical PDF Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Title A name given to the resource Kiosk Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource "The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children," (The Kiosk, 2003). Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. · ARCHIVES 810.8 P432 1965 c.2 - ARCHIVES 810.8 P432 Perspectives (Morningside College). PERSPECTIVES VOLUME XXIV SPRING 1965 NUMBER 1 Staff Editor ................................................................................... _ ............................. Judith Abbott Business Manager ................. _................................................................. Sharon Nelson Art Consultant .................................................................. Mr. William Zimmennan Faculty Advisor ..............................................._ ..................._ Dr. Howard Levant ..... PERSPEOTIVES is published by the students of Morningside College Sioux City, Iowa TI-te Generation Of Leaves Judith H. Abbott She closed her eyes again, obliterating the morning light that filtered into the room through the half drawn Venetian blinds which cast long shadows on the barren gray walls. Soon the stillness of the slumbering hospital would be .stirred into the living motions of this day. Sterile nurses in odorless starched white uniforms with "good morning, time to get up" smiles, would be disturbing her and pressing her with "how are you feeIing'1 questions to which they sought nor awaited an answer~ If only this morning she might rest in peace, foregoing the process of being lifted from her bed into life. She would .once again sit before the window observing those who passed by on their way to work or school. She was experiencing the transformation of autumn into winter as she watched the leaves one by one descending from their height to the earth. "Good morning, Mrs. Robbinson. Time to get up." The nurse crossed her room to the windows and opened the blinds . letting the full brightness of the day flood the room. From her bed she could see only the blue sky and the top of the oak tree whose leaves in summer nearly blinded her view of the outside woTld. "lV[y, it is a lovely day after the wicked storm we had last night. Did you hear it blow? It certainly won't be long · now before we see the first snow fly, will it, Mrs. Robbinson?" ·. No, it won't be long now. She lay watching the rhythmic movement of the nurse as she cranked the bed upward so that she sat almost upright in the bed. Rooftops and barren trees could now be seen from her bed. She searched the branches looking for some .sign of life, but there were no leaves. Had every leaf fallen while she lay sleeping? The lifeless barren branches swayed in the wind like fleshless bony hands reaching out for help. But she lay there helpless. Yesterday there had still rem'ained a few. Perhaps when she was near the window she would be able to spy a leaf that still had not given in to the wind. If there were no leaves to watch, autumn was no longer and there would be no need for her to sit before the window. She could lay in peace here now. "Morning, Mrs. Robbinson. Your favorite orderly is here to put you into your throne. How is the old queen feeling today?" 3 "I don't, ~ant to. get · up today." "Now that's what you say everyday. How would your children feel if they knew you didn't want to sit in this new wheelchair they bought for you? Come on now, where would you like to sit? In front of the Window?" Sitting by the window, all of her world was again befO're her. The school children were strolling by now, kicking the dead leaves with their feet. Each day she had watched these leaves as the life went O'ut of them. At first the fading autumn colors had seemed sO' beautiful, but as each leaf withered and turned brown, relinquishing its place upon the tree, all beauty perished with the leaf. They did nO't all go at once; some drifted down easily, almost willfully. Others clung to the branches as if it were within their power to live eternally. But were there no leaves left now? She leaned forward in her wheel chair to obse'r ve the oak tree beneath her window. Perhaps there were still some leaves that were not apparent to her. They were hiding from her. She pressed her head to the cold window pane, and from here she beheld one leaf that hung nobly upon the tree. How odd and out of place it looked. Fragile and unprotected, it gave no beauty or life to the tree, nor did the tree give life to it. Yet this one leaf hung to the tree. "Here's your breakfast, lVlrs. Robbinson. Perhaps I should wheel you over here." "No, let me be." "But Mrs. Robbinson, you have to eat your breakfast before it gets cold." Leaning back in her chair, she looked at the young nurse who held her tray. "Just set my tray on my bed table, and I'll eat it in a moment. I'm busy now." "Busy? I think you had better eat right now, Mrs. Robbinson, and be busy after breakfast." "Don't move this chair. I have to watch now. I'll eat later." "All right, Mrs. Robbinson. If you pr.omise to be only a few minutes. I'll be back in a few minutes, and then you better have eaten all your breakfast." How could she escape from her vigilance? She had to watch; they would just have to understand. Again she rested her head against the window pane; relaxing now she could see 4 the leaf hanging there. The cQldness Qf the windQw pane had gQne, and she remained there watching. "Mrs. RQbbinsQn, yQU had better eat nQW. YQU prQmised yQU WQuld." But there was nO' reSPQnse. The leaf was drifting to' the ground unobserved. Three In The Dark Judith H. Abbott It seemed suffocatingly hot. The sound of their dun rhythmic breathing gave each of them consciousness Qf their Qwn existence. Their future was precariQus; in fact, their present state had been questioned by each Df them individually. Perhaps they were fooled by their own senses, and nQW were a part of non-existence, Qf death. The bleak blackness of the mine enveloped them. The lack of light seemed to take from them their full state of consciousness. "HO'W long do you think we've been down here now?" Rod had continually asked this questiQn, for he knew that he would be able to have a definite answer. Eric lifted his arm and looked at the face of his fluorescent watch. It had been a gift frQm his family, and they thought it particularly appropriate for him, because he would he able to' use it in the dark mines. Eric gazed at his watch, for this was the only thing they had been able to IOQk at and see, yet what did this tell them? The time, ten to two; but ten to two had comes and gone so many times that he could no IDnger comprehend it. It was shortly after two when the cave-in occurred. He did not remember what time, or how long he had been lying underneath the rocks before he was conscious Qf his situatiQn. He had hollered for help, but heard nQthing. Then Al had responded; he was alive but CQuld feel nothing, and could move nothing. RQd had not responded, and they had thought him de'ad, but as they lay quietly they became aware of the breathing of a third perSQn. It was Eric who began to struggle to free himself, but befO're he had succeeded, Rod regained cDnsciousness. He was able to mDve, and was not: pinned under any rocks, and he began to' crawl toward Eric. "Hey, Eric, I asked yQU what time, it is." "Almost twO' o'clock." 5 "How long does that make it 1" "Too long." Eric ran his hands over his aching cold body. He hesitated when his hands came to his legs. They were broken. Rod had had to drag him through the darkness and over the rocks to the corner where he had been, that was somewhat free from rubble. Then he had sat and listened as he had gone over to help AI. But he could not remove the rocks alone. "It must be about two days or so. Sure do think we should have heard them . digging or something. It's this horrible stillness and blackness that really is getting to me." "Shut up, Rod." Eric closed his eyes and seemed relieved. But he did not dare to stay this way, for he would fall asleep again. Before when they had had the strength, they had passed the time away by exploring their situation. Rod had crawled 'around in their enclosure groping to discover if there was a way out. The exit was not completely sealed off, so he had tried to move some rocks and boulders. The hopelessness of this effort soon became apparent, for the rocks he could move, he found no place to push them without endangering their own situation. And the rest of the blockade was immovable to him. It was particularly difficult for him to move around, because he had to move like an animal on all fours; but he' lacked the agility of the common animal. He had tried to search for the so-called emergency kit, but it obviously was lost beneath the rubble. At first they had talked confidently about someone finding them, of help reaching them in time. But as the time stretched into oblivion, their infinite child-like hope dwindled. Eric and Rod took turns sleeping, and Rod would crawl over to where Al lay, and talk with him. Perhaps Al had lost consciousness, or hope, he did not know, but he would not speak or reply to his questions, so Al did not go over to him. He remained propped up against the wall next to Eric. It was becoming more and more difficult to remain awake while the other one slept. Rod was dozing when he was awakened by the rasping voice of AI. "Jesus, I'm thirsty." He was alive, and was at least exerting his will to live. Rod felt hope surge within himself at this. But Eric cut into his hope. "Don't talk, and you won't notice it so damn much. Save your strength." Eric was attempting to be sympathetic, but there was a tone of irony in his voice. "Take it easy on him, he's dying, but at least he is strug6 gling." Rod was leaning tO'ward Eric and whispering. But Eric replied loudly. "God, don't you think I know that? And we're going to' die, too. We haven't heard a sound but O'ur own gasping since we've been down here. Sure, they're looking for us, but there are probably plenty of others buried in here, and they'll dig them O'Ut first. We're way down deep, remember? How much IO'nger do you think we can hang on? Aren't YO'U hungry? If yO'u're thirsty, why don't yO'U come feel the blood on my legs . . . " , "Shut up!" Rod lurched forward and began to crawl toward AI, follO'wing the gasping vO'ice which lay buried there. His whole body ached and was cold, but before he had gone very far, he stopped. There was nO' sO'und to' guide him. Al was silent. As if frozen, he remained crouched down. "AI ?" Mat wanted to' cry out his name again, but knew that there would never be a response. "Well, we might as well face it. Try to' find him and get his jacket. It'll at least help in warming us up." Eric was trying to' sO'und steady and sure, but he revealed his own fear. "Get it yO'urself. I'm nO' buzzard." The silence that fO'IIO'wed was deathly, and finally RO'd crawled back in the cO'rner and huddled up in order to' find sO'me warmth in his CO'ld body. "Mat, you asleep?" "NO'." "We shO'uld try to' stay awake." There was a silence befO're Mat responded. And then it wa.s his turn. "Why?" "DO'n't be sO' damn stupid. You know why!" "I'd rather die in my sleep." "NO'W look WhO"S giving up ! We shO'uld at least try " Mat interrupted him with a forceful cry that summO'ned all his remaining strength. "GO'd help us . . . " 7 Sunday Is For Satan Duane Brundevold Groan! Every Sunday, this same process. Eight o'clock and time to get the wife and kids up and ready for church. Why did the Worship Commission ever decide that a nine-thirty service was needed in addition to the original eleven o'clock service '? The size of the congregation hasn't increased much lately. And besides, no one is going to listen any better at an earlier hour anyway. But the wife and kids insist on going to the early service so that the pews won't look so empty. I doubt if that really improves the sermons. "C'mon, Honey, up and at 'em. Start the oatmeal cooking and I'll round up the kids." No sense in treading lightly down the hall here. The kids know I'm coming and they're probably in the midst of preparing a sneak attack for me. Suzie's room; better open the door slowly. Sure enough, she's pretending to be asleep again. It's too bad that certain persons who sit in the back pews aren't as perceptive with their eyes open as Suzie is right now with her eyes closed. She knows, and understands, what is going on. "Let's go, sleepyhead. I know you're awake." "Aw, Daddy, how could you tell? I can never fool you. Next Sunday I'll try harder!" I know she will. Next Sunday her eyes will be shut even tighter than they were just a moment ago. Little girls are so innocently unaware, but they try so hard. How unlike their elders! Now I need a little less tact and a little' more technique. The boys are probably planning a flying-pillow ambush down at the corral, which will require a sneak attack on my part. Let's see now; if I get down on all fours thusly . . . throw open the door . . . rush in . . . thud! I knew they'd aim high and hit the door. But this position of mine m'akes me somewhat akin to a horse. There is the familiar "Hiyo Silver" and in a flash two riders are avidly jabbing me with their spurs in order to get some action out of the old steed. "All right, twice around the room. But then you two had better hurry up and get ready for church." Well, that takes care of the roughest part of the Sunday morning "ritual." Now to shave, dress, and eat. I hope that 8 mirror is deceiving me; my mask couldn't really IQQk that bad, could it? People wear such funny masks to church. They're sn afraid of being themselves that they have to hide the unique individuality that is theirs. They present the picture of perfect understanding and humility, but inside them is a disarray of disgust, bias, and misinformation which clashes like the many colors on a palette before they are wQrked into a unified whole by the artist. These people don't want the church to be the artist; they want to do it themselves; and their inexperience is obvious. "Good breakfast! Thanks, honey! The kids are about ready to go." She's a great wife. Wonder how I ever found that gem '! "Hold still, you two! I'm just going to straighten your ties. Better tie your shoes again, Jimmy. Suzie, put the paper down until after church. All right nnw, Jet's line up by the door SQ we can leave. C'mQn Jean, we're all ready." Walking this Qne short block every Sunday is like taking a weekly walk to the execution chamber. We'll be met at the door of the church by a pair Qf smiles plastered on a couple of faces; a very effective mask, but SQ empty. Then, as the rest of the cO'ngregatiO'n arrives, we'll be under clQse scrutiny as though some sort Qf perfection were expected of us. Gossip will be flowing forth freely like water, as though the reservO'ir Qf sin had to be drained before O'ne cO'uld enter, sinless, into the service. After the introductory gymnastics Qf rising for the hymns are completed, the people will comfortably arrange themselves- if that is possible in those pews-and will piously bow their heads in a moment O'f rest; at this point, rest will become indistinguishable frQm sleep. A passive atmosphere will reign until the sermon has been completed; the sudden chords of the organ will rouse them into a final burst of activity-preparation for the mass exodus. The dust Qf inspiration which might have fal1en O'n them during the service will be casually brushed off as they pass through the doorway. And then, once free from the environs of the church, they'll begin to criticize the sermon. It was too 100ng; it didn't say enough; it didn't apply tQ life situations; toO' much fire and brimstone. But then I wQnder: just what kind of sermon should be given? What must the minister dQ in Qrder to please, instruct, entertain (?), and imprQve his disinterested flock Qf sheep? Should he put the blade down where it will cut the hay? 9- Or should he put it up higher where more havQc will be created '! Well, there is the church. If my guess is right, Mrs. Holmes is waiting just inside the door; waiting for SQme Qf her other elderly friends to 'a rrive. She's getting on in years but hen dedication and regular attendance is hard to match. The doors are wide open; not like welcoming arms, but rather like claws waiting to entrap some victims for an hQur Qr so. "Good morning. Nice to. see you this morning." I hope this morning's sermQn shatters those phony smiles. I hope Hell breaks 10Qse! "GQQd morning, Mrs. Holmes. You're looking cheerful today." "Thank you, Pastor. I so enjQy your sermQns. They m'a ke me feel so good." To The Frosh Arlie Daniel What CQuld a high school senior possibly have to. say to a bunch Qf idiotic freshmen in an asse'm bly? What would an: intellectual like me have in common with thQse dQpes? When you're given the assignment Qf greeting the freshmen in the first assembly program you'll understand what I mean! It's a mQst difficult task just deciding on a topic, but then what do. most kids talk about anyway? Why the teachers, Qf course. Why nQt talk about the teachers? I could begin: "Members Qf the faculty, students and friends." Then I could tell them a jQke or do something to get them to. laugh.-"I accept the privilege of speaking to you tQday in all sincerity-on-humility-that's itr-humility-the topic is Qne to. challenge the mind of any deeply thoughtful-uh-uhintellectual, and who am I to. deny that I can not qualify?" NQW the meat! "I o.ffer to. you my greatest adventureand what could that be to a senio.r? My friends, my greatest adventure is-is-not education-uh-obtaining an educatiQn. And who. turns the wheels of education, my friends? Why, the teachers, of CQurse, and so my subject-like the wheels of-no'--like the wheels that turn, evo.lves around teachers." That language Qught to get them. It sounds almost prQfessiQnal no.w, think what it'll sound like when I'm finished. Now I should quote someQne--I 'could say-U-uh-Horace said-, No, Horace Greely said-NO', I believe it was Horace 10 Mann that said, 'EducatiQn is a bDY Qn Qne end Df a IDg and a teacher Qn the Qther'." Then I eQuId say sQmething funny tQl get their attention again, like-"It is nDt the bQY, and nQt the IDg that I wish to' talk abQut tQday, but what was Qn the Qther end of that IQg, yes, the TEACHER." I'll just say what mQst kids think about teachers. Like-Qh-"TD mQst students a teacher is a mQnster! And I WQuid be-uh-inclined to' agree-uh-mQst Qf the time-Teachers tQwer abDve us-absQlute in knQwledge and authDrity. Their wQrd is law-and-their authDrity is unquestiQnable-uh-uhthis is a teacher to' SQme students." TO' Qther students he is sDmething else. Let's see-"tD SQme a teacher is a PQliceman-he keeps Drder-he makes meus-take Qff my QVerShDes in the classrDDm, and my cap as I enter the 'hallowed halls'-he sees that I dDn't run up the stairs -uh-that I dDn't slam the dDDr-that I dDn't IQiter in the halls-that my clDthes are in Drder-that my nose is clean-that I wear a belt-that I keep my hair cQmbed-that I write my papers in ink-that I eat all my lunch"-uh-uh-I guess that's abQut enDugh. I've got to' get a punch line in here sDmewhere and put in a gQQd wDrd for the teachers, Qr I may nQt make it thrO'ugh the year. I might exaggerate a lie--like-uh-"fellQw students, take pity Dn me! I'm being surrDunded by teachers! One pulls one' way and anDther pulls anDther until I'm sO' cDnfused I dDn't knO'w which way to' gO'. YQU see, my grandfather was a teacher, my grandmDther was a teacher; my mDther and father are teachers; my brO'ther is a teacher and my sister is gO'ing to' be a teacher next year, and if I turn DUt to' be the cO'IO'r my ancestors want, YDU can cDlor me a teacher, a CQld cruel mDnster!" I think I'll end the speech with a glDry and flag-waving nDt Df-uh-hQnQr- ?- to' the teachers. Something like-"And SO', to' that great, glDriDUS adventure, educatiQn, and to' the teachers that turn its wheels, may I O'ffer a-a-a small, grubbyuh-handful Df dandyliDns, a melted chDcDlate heart-a few bright autumn leaves-and-uh-a bright red highly PQlished apple!" That O'ught to' get to' bQth the teachers, fDr the gDQd grade bit, and to' the freshmen, to' let them know what they are really in fDr. I shDuld write that dQwn sO' I wDn't fDrget it-nQw hDW was I gO'ing to' start that- ?-uh-"Fellow teachers and friends-", nQ~uh-"Fellows and teachers ?"-may'be I'd better start all over. 11 • • • " Mary Ellen Long "Young woman, come out from under my bed irrimediately!" Professor GilrDY eyed the white-c'anvased foot sticking out past the wrinkled, brown spread and wondered briefly if he had gotten the sex right. All the students dressed alike these days. A barely perceptible twitch was the only response to his command. A frown skittered across his brDw. "See here, I am not a strong man, but I will manage to' extract you forcibly if you do not come out." He had known students to do some odd things, but this was beyond his imagination. The frDwn planted itself firmly as he began to struggle with the problem of dragging a female about by her feet without losing his dignity. To his relief, the foot disappeared, and a slightly dusty arm emerged, follDwed by a mop of brown hair. Blue-gray eyes peered at him over a pair of thick bifocals, and a pale sliver of a mouth quivered into a weak smile. The girl slid the rest of the way out and sat up clutching a Spiral nDtebook to her chest. "Hello, Professor Gilroy. How are you this evening?" He stared at her a moment, taken aback. "Get up, get up! And don't change the subject. What are you doing under my bed?" "Hiding." "That is obvious," he snorted as he mDtioned her into the living room. "I guess that I shouldn't have tried to hide from someone of your discernment and keen eye. But I didn't expect YDU to come back so early, and then there YDU were, coming in the dODr. I didn't know what to do. Your closet was so full of stuff that under the bed was the next best thing." The professor stiffened. "That 'stuff' is valuable worknotes, fil e.s , manuscripts. But what are you doing in my apartment in the first place?" She lowered here eyes and after a pause and a deep breath said, "Well, YDU see, sir, I'm in Professor Cassidy's writing class. Weare supposed to write a character sketch of SDmeone we admire very much." "'Oh? I didn't know that Cassidy was offering that course 12 this term." He offered her a chair and settled into his easy chair. She gazed at him warmly. "There was never any doubt in my mind as to who I would write about. Ever since I took your introductory course, you have been my image of a truly great man and scholar." Gilroy smiled and studied her more closely. He vaguely remembered having a quiet, studious girl in his class who conscientiously wrote down everything he said. This girl must be she. Strange that he hadn't noticed her other sterling qualities. "I decided that to really do justice to your character, I should get to know what your more intimate surroundings are. But I couldn't bring myself to bother you during your important free time for truly deep thought, and so I thought that I would just creep in and out without causing any trouble." "No trouble at all, Miss _____ , ah, Miss _ .. " _______ __________ "Schlau, sir." "Schlau, oh, yes, of course. German, isn't it? Gre'a t minds, the Germans. I'm German myself, you know, by way of England. Is there any way I may be of help? I'm working on some very interesting theories on the mid-thirteenth . . . " "Oh, no, really, sir. I couldn't bother you. I have all the notes I need. I was just ready to leave when you came in." She stood up. "If you will excuse me, sir, my mother will be wondering what ever became of me." She moved toward the door, and Professor Gilroy hurried to open it for her. "I do hope that you get a good grade on your composition, Miss Schlau." Lanci hurried down the stairs and out the door. She put several blocks behind her before she slowed to a saunter. Soon she spotted Rick's blue Ford. He looked worried, but relaxed when she waved the notebook. She crossed the street, and he leaned ove'r to open the door for her. "What took you so long?" Lanci smiled as she slid in and tossed back her hair. "I just had a little chat with Professor Gilroy." "He caught you?" "Now did I say that?" she replied archly. "I told you not to take any chances. There is no sense in cutting your throat just to prove a point." "It was slightly trickier than I expected, but I meant it when I said that no file is off limits to Lanci Loring. I've built 13 up a reputation for being reliable." She slipped a folded sheet from the notebook. "But tell Al that next time I'll charge extra for any more of Gilroy's tests. It might not be so easy a second time." . He's Gone Aw· y a Thelma Johnson There were four of them-three men and a boy-who came down the rutted road that hot, July morning, and the old woman stood and watched them come, the hoe in her hand, her eyes black and bright behind the protection of the slat bonnet. She was standing motionless in a patch of dried-up Kentucky Wonders that were dying on the vine, and the ground where she had hoed was full of clods and clay. "We need rain," said the man who was in the lead, unconsciously glancing at the sky, and then .spitting into the dust at the side of the road. He was the sheriff, and he was aware of the woman's scrutiny as the shrewd, black eyes took in the badge on his belt and the gun on his hip before .she looked at the man himself. "Ma'am, are you Mrs. Broom?" he asked, touching his hat brim. She motioned toward the house with the hoe handle, and then turned her back on them abruptly and began hoeing again, making short, vicious, chopping motions at the hard ground. They cut through a triangle of pasture toward the house, with the sheriff going first, picking his way through the buckbrush and handing branches back to Webb Warner, the highway patrolman, who followed with a Rolleiflex camera around his neck and a twelve-gauge shotgun in his right hand. The third man was Adam Bellows, the county medical examiner, who was too fat to make a trek like this on a hot July morning. "I didn't know we had land this rough in GaTey County," he said, wiping his face and neck with a handkerchief. . "You want to go back to the car and wait?" asked Warner. Bellows snorted. The sheriff stopped, and stood for a few moments with his thumbs tucked into his hip pockets. ' 'How will we ever get a body out of here? We'll have to carry it out on a stretcher." "There isn't any body yet," said Warner. "Want to bet?" asked the sheriff. Warner didn't answer. They went on, making a single-file procession toward the 14 neat framehouse, the blue vervain and the horseweeds brushing their pants legs, and the dust rising in little puffs behind their feet. They crawled through a barbed-wire fence, the boy holding up the top wire with one hand, and holding down the next one with his foot, and the men climbing through carefully so they wouldn't tear their clothing. The house was tidy, but it needed paint. The men expected to be met by a pack of coon hounds, but there were no dogs around, only a cat with three kittens, who lay in the shade of an elm tree that grew in the front yard. As they appToached the house, they became aware of a ,song, sung in a thin, feminine voice that had an untrained, plaintive quality. " ... He's gone away, for to stay a little while And he's comin' back, though it were ten thousand mile . . . " The minor key and the ancient words seemed appropriate and expected. "A folk song," said Bellows. "I didn't think these people down here along the river had enough education to know a good folk song when they heard it." " . . . Oh, who will shoe my feet, and who will glove my hand? And who will kiss my ruby lips When he's gone away ... " When they got to the porch, they saw the singer. She was a young girl, not pretty, in a homem'a de dress, with a look of incomparable unawareness in her eyes. She was sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch with a high school literature book open in' her lap, and it was in this that she found the words to the song .she sang. She was perhaps eighteen or nineteen, with 'an undernourished body and a large head. Her skin was olive and. her dark brown eyes had a faraway look. The woman who was her mother came to the door. She was a dumpy woman with an unsuccessful permanent wave and gold on her teeth. She looked worried. "Are you Sheriff Quinn?" she asked. "I'm Sheriff Barney Quinn," said the sheriff, shaking hands ,solemnly. "This is Adam Bellows, the county medical examiner, and Webb Warner, a highway patrolman. The boy is my nephew. Where is your husband?" "He's not here. He's gone to kill Jim Baylor." "That's what you said on the telephone. I notice you don't have a phone. How did you call me?" 15 "I went to the neighbor's. It's two miles back the way you came." "Are you sure he's going to kill Baylor?" "He took a gun with him." "What kind of a gun?" "A twenty-two rifle." "Well, that could do the job if it's aimed at the right place," said the sheriff. "Is this . . . " He indicated the girl who sat rocking with the open book on her lap. "This is Bonnie," said Mrs. Broom, brushing back her hair. "Jim gave her a ring. Show him your ring, Bonnie." Bonnie held out her hand, and the sheriff looked at it. The ring was a fake sapphire on a brass band; it had probably cost twenty-five cents at a variety store. "He's going to marry me," said Bonnie, her eyes shining. Quinn started to say something and then changed his mind. "That's very nice," he said. He turned to the mother. "Which way did he go?" he asked. She pointed. "Over to Jim's place. Through the woods and over the bridge. The bridge is where she's been meeting him. Every night after school and every day since school was out. We didn't know about it. Then this morning she wore that ring at breakfast and told us that Jim is going to marry her. He can't marry her. He's already married." "I know, said the- sheriff, starting off for the woods. "You'd better stay here, Adam," he said. "It's pretty hot." "I'm all right." They ,set off, with the memory of the giTl's happiness before them. "Watch out for snakes," said Warner. "Don't you think we'd better hurry?" asked the boy impatiently. "We can't stop what's going to happen by hurrying." They crossed another barbed-wire fence, and plunged into the woods, watching where they put their feet. All but the boy wore boots, and all but the boy were patient and steady. Once they stopped under a cottonwood to rest, and W aTner sat on his haunches against the trunk of the tree and wiped the back of his neck with a handkerchief. Bellows and Quinn sat watching a chattering squirrel on a branch above them. "You went to high school with her," said the sheriff to his nephew. "What kind of a girl is she?" The boy shrugged. "'She's okay, I guess, but she's not very bright. She just barely got through." 16 "Any boy friends?" "Are you kidding? Who'd date a gilrl in an out-of-the-way place like this? You can't get a car within a half-mile of the house in dry weather, and when the road's bad, they leave their car at the Williams place where the telephone is. Besides, who'd date a dummy like her? There's only one reason a fellow'd go with- " He stopped, slightly embarrassed at where his analysis was leading him. "What about Jim Baylor?" asked Bellows. "What kind of a man is he?" The sheriff spat at a stump. "He's a man about forty-five years old who is ma'rried with a family, and if ' Phil Broom kills him, he's got it coming." "It's a tossup," said Warner, getting to his feet. "Jim and Phil are two of a kind. They both get drunk on Saturday night, they spear fish through the ice in the winter, they steal gas from their neighbors' gas tanks, they trap out of season, and they do anything else they think they can get away with." "There's one big difference," said the sheriff. "Phil Broom has a daughter." They went on, picking their way through the scrub oak and buckbrush. Once a timber rattler slid away from them through some dry leaves and disappeared into the underbrush. After about fifteen minutes they came to the bridge over the river. It was a makeshift footbridge, but it was sturdy. Warner went over first to test it. The rest of them followed. They found Baylor, his body lying on the river bank, half in and half out of the brackish backwater of a pool that had been captured and imprisoned along the side. Warner got there first and turned him over. "He's dead," he said. "He's been dead an hour or so, maybe." "Let me take a look," said Bellows. He scrambled down to the water and looked carefully at the bullet hole in the man's shoulder. After a moment, he said, "'The bullet didn't kill him, but the river did. I'll guess that he drowned, but we'll have to have an autopsy to know for sure." Warner kicked at a rock near the man's head. "He may have hit his head on this rock when he fell." The sheriff was looking up the hillside. "Adam, that hill's too steep for your arteries. You stay here with the body and we'll go get Phil." "How do you know he's up there?" asked the boy. "I don't." They climbed straight up the hill past a skunk den, 17 picking their way thrQugh the undergro.wth, IQQking fQr fQQthQlds Qn the ledges Qf limestQne that prQtruded frQm the grQund. "He CQuld live in these WQQds all summer and we'd never find him." "What gQQd is this land?" asked the bQy. "DO' these peQple Qwn it '?" "No., they dQn't Qwn it," panted the sheriff. "They just live Qn it. So.mebQdy in tQwn Qwns it and runs cattle in here during the summer. That's 'all it's gQQd fQr, and it's nQt even much gQQd fQr that." They reached the summit Qf the hill and stQPped to. IQo.k arQund. "We may be Qver in Greentree Co.unty by nQw," said Warner. "NQt that it matters, I guess." They were Qn a kind Qf plateau and far away to. the west they CQuld see the .single spire Qf a church 'and near it, a silo.. "I'll take him in, even if he's nQt in my cQunty." "Well, YQu're gQing to' get yQur chance." Phil BTQQm came walking to.ward them, the twenty-two. slung Qver his arm as if he were Qut hunting rabbits. He had been sitting Qn a rQck waiting fQr them. "Thro.w dQwn yQur gun, Phil," said Quinn. BrQQm handed the rifle to. Warner, stQck first, and Warner brQke it. There was a spent shell in it. "ShQQting squirrels out Qf seasQn?" asked Warner. "YQU knQw I wasn't," said BrQQm. He was a tall, thin man who had wQrked tQQ hard and had tQQ little to. show for it. He WQre a pair Qf demin pants and a faded blue shirt. "I'm gQing to. have to. take yQU to. tQwn with me." ' ''YQU know what he did to. BQnnie?" "Yes, I knQw, but I'm gQing to have to. take yQU in anyway." "Jim BaylQr and I were friends fQr years. Is he dead?" "Yes, he's dead." "I didn't aim to really kill him. Just scare him SQme. But it was gQin' to. schQol that did it. BQnnie was a gQQd girl till she got romantic nQtiQns frQm thQse books they gave her to. read. All abQut IQng-IQst IQvers and knights Qn hQrses." They started walking back the way they had CQme, three men and a boy. W'arner went first, still carrying the sawed-Qff shotgun in one hand and the rifle in the Qther, the perspiTatiQn beading on the back of his neck. He began to whistle softly to himself, and then quit when he realized what he was whistling. But the words of the fQlk song still ran in his head all the way back dQwn the hill. 18 " . . . There's mO're pretty girls than one, There's more pretty girls than one, There's more pretty girls than one, two, or three, But none like Bonnie and me." Saturday Night Incident Thelma J O'hnson Going to town on Saturday night in the summertime became a pattern of my childhood that was rarely brO'ken. It was during the depression years and this was the O'nly diversion, other than an occasional after-supper visit to a neighbor, to while away the long, hot evenings. There were many Saturday nights, but the one that remains a quintessence of all the rest of them occurred in July, 1936 or thereabouts; it was not only a depressiO'n year but a drought yea!. Even the children dO'n't fO'rget those easily. Saturday night always began with a bath. It was probably the only time during the week that the whole family was clean at the same time. Water was scarce and nearby MosquitO' Creek was brackish and full of sandbars. The water we used at the house had to be carried from a well near the barn, so we didn't waste it. SO'metimes we used each other's bath water, and I remember taking a bath one time in the wash bO'iler, using water that had been previously used to' rinse clothes. It is still impossible for me to waste water. A dripping faucet drives me frantic, and the hot and cO'ld water rushing intO' a porcelain bathtub is still sO'mething of a miracle. After the bath, it was my duty to get dressed up and wait for the rest of the family to get ready. That summer my dress was a white voile with multi-colored coin dots. I 'was very fond of it. It was the only dress I had. I wO're sunsuits the rest of the time. The town where we shopped was Caryville, fifteen miles away. It wasn't a very large town, but I thought it was, and there were a great many things fO'r a six-year-old child to observe and absorb. We arrived about seven o'clock, parked the car, and went our separate ways-my father to' find some O'ther farmers to' visit with, and my mother and I to do the weekly shopping. The farmers in those days wore clean dress shirts and a ~9 fairly new pair of bib overalls and a snap-brim hat when they went to town. It was a kind of uniform. When the weather got cooler, they added a suit coat. They would stand on the curbs and talk, one foot on the bumper of a car, and some of them chewing tobacco and spitting into the gutter. The talk was endless- crops and cattle, drought and depression, markets and politics. Sometimes the talks would adjourn to a nearby beer parlor, but this was not the rule. Money was too scarce to waste on beer. My mother would go from one store to another with me tagging along, and whenever she found someone to talk to, she would .stand and visit for fifteen or twenty minutes about chickens and gardens and recipes. The time became endless for me. I am certain that I learned to read out of boredom, standing first on one foot and then on the other, staring at the neon signs up and down the street, and identifying different business places-Montgomedy Ward, Penney's, McDonald's Dry Goods, Flossie's Hamburger Shop, the Ballyhoo Hut. Sometimes on these hunts, we ran into relatives. Nobody has more relatives than I do, and some of them lived in Caryville. My mother didn't care much for them, because they were all relatives of my father, and she always secretly believed that, in the last analysis, she had married beneath her. My father's people were Irish-black Irish-with the quick temper and the black despair of that unfortunate race. They had a tendency toward intra-family feuds and bitter quarrels that remained unreconciled unto the second and third generations. It was a problem for my mother to keep everybody straight and remember who was currently not speaking to whom. One branch of the family was particularly unfriendly and quarrelsome-my father's sister, Lee's family. Aunt Lee was a sullen woman who never came to town, and it was rumored that her husband, Dave, had killed a man in his youth. Whether or not this was true, the legend gave him a romantic aura. He talked like Edward G. Robinson and said "see what I mean" all the time. His children, my cousins, emulated the current movie stars and gangster heroes, and the names of Greta Garbo, John Dillinger, Pretty Boy Floyd, Carole Lombard, Clark Gable, Jean Harlow, and the Barrows gang were all of a kind. When Aunt L.ee's oldest daughter, June, approached my mother in the Self-Serve Grocery Store, even I knew that there 20 was something unusual gO'ing on. It was past nine O"clock, and the stores closed at ten. Everybody waited until the last minute to buy the groceries, because they had to' be carried to the car and that was the signal for the trip home to' begin. My mother was carrying a sack O'f sugar, I remember, and talking to my Aunt Ann, anQther sister of my father, when June came up and said hellO'. June was big and fat. I suppose she still is. Everyone I have ever knQwn named June was big and fat, but she was the first Qne to set the pattern. I didn't like her. She was never very congenial, and I suppose she was embarrassed to acknowledge that she was related to' "country people." She was about twenty, married, and her husband was on relief, but she lived in the city. There was a difference. She walked up to' my mother and said, "Aunt May, Uncle John's in a fight with Walter Tuttle. They're down at the BallyhoO' Hut and they've been drinking beer all evening." My mother didn't even stop to question it, and neither did my Aunt Ann. My mO'ther drO'Pped the sack of sugar and grabbed me by the hand and hauled me out of the store behind her as fast as she could walk. It was only three blocks frO'm the Self-Serve to' the Ballyhoo Hut, but it seemed IQnger, and I had to run to keep up. My mQther was in the lead, the sleeves of her flO'wered voile dress flapping in the breeze she created. My mother's normal expression was one O'f disapproval. I used to' think she disapproved of me, but there wasn't anything really per.sonal in it. She disapproved of everybO'dy. She spent quite 'a bit of time disapproving of my father, and several items in June's cryptic and shocking bit O'f news had disturbed her. I was aware Qf it, even at six. The first thing that bothered her was that he had been drinking beer when there wasn't enough money for luxuries like that. The second thing was that he was in a fight. My father was not a large man, and Walter Tuttle, his brother-in-law, was about a hundred pounds heavier. My mO'ther didn't approve of fighting anyway. Civilized people didn't do it. The trip to' the beer parlor was urgent and rigorous, with my mother yanking on my hand and telling me to' run. My imagination created all kinds of perils. I was afraid my father would be killed, or at least badly hurt. 21 Mary Hicks, "High Flight" Deniece Walker, "What is Human" Joseph Meyer, "Remnants of the Old West" Wilma Clem, "Still Life" Helen Anderson, "Moses" I Ransom Choto, "Untitled" .i Above: Denieee Walker, "Annaxebreism" N aney Merrill, "Plant Cell" . :'·::·Yi~o .. ; ...., et'* '. • ~/ . ,. .. ",!~ ... Lois Dawson, "The Bride No.1" Right: Lou Langos, "Oedipus Rex" Lois Dawson, "Intoxication" Below: Claudia Krnoch, "Untitled" R E W A L K N I E C E D E Ann McMains, "Repose" George Spade, "Heraclitus, The Dark One" "Bundling" The Exp, rt e Mary Ellen Long Benjamin Ashur bent his frail bQdy against the winter wind with fierce determinatiQn. He was already five minutes behind schedule, and nQthing, nQt even the wind, WQuld slQW him still more. The walks were slippery frQm the night's sleet stQrm, but he mQved at a breathless pace and with little care. His thQughts were barely on his fQQting and nQt at all Qn the cold. The eager anticipatiQn Qf the victQry clQse at hand kept him warm. SO', Mr. Peter CollinsQn, yQU think that yO'U knQw sO' much. YQu'll see. YQU can't just walk in and take over Benjamin Ashur's PQsitiQn. I have been the Qne and Qnly catalQger at the Masefield CQllege Library fQr thirty years. AlmQst every bQO'k Qn the shelves has been thrQugh my hands. I put them where they are, all in O'rder, all catalQged prQperly, by my decisiQn. Of cO'urse, I have SQme help nQW, but just fQr the easy jQbs. Any fQQl can write numbers Qn a bQQk spine. lVly mind is as gQQd as ever; better fQr all thQse years of experience. Experience CQmes with age. All thQse yQung people scurrying up and dQwn the stairs, scraping chairs, banging dQors, getting bQQks Qut of place, ruining pages with their dirty hands. If I had. my way, we WQuld have 'closed stacks. Keep thQse juveniles away frQm the bQoks. CollinsQn and his "the right bOQk for the right perSQn at the right time," and "the mQst bQoks fQr the mQst peQple." SpQQnfeeding, that's what it is. Haven't enQugh brains in their heads to' use the card catalQg cQrrectly. They aren't scholars, any Qf them. Especially CQllinsQn. Fresh Qut Qf graduate schQQl. Barely knQws what life is all abQut. Certainly nQt dedicated. And those yQung girls. CrQst shQuld hire SQme sensible' elderly WQmen. That little snippet with the shQrt skirt and the flyaway hair. Sneaking up Qn me and whispering sO' IQudly that CrQst CQuld hear in his office, "Excuse me, sir, but I dQn't think this bQQk has the right call number. N Qne Qf the Qther bQQks with this call number are abQut televisiQn annQuncing." Damned televisiQn anyway. Dewey hadn't made prQvisiQn fQr it in his bQok. How CQuld yQU expect the man to. foresee all these new inventiQns? It was getting so. yQU just gQt the revisiQns in numbers Qrganized when they came Qut with a new bQQk. NO' sense in it. 31 Mary Ann McMains, "Etude" Claudia Krnoch, "Untitled" • • • And Your Child; ~en, They Will Burn Sharon K. Nelson The wind shrieked 'a t the moon; and tore at the earth, like a wrathful god. Great waves of grass blew like foam; and the trees groaned at the feel Df it. Their leaves twisted, and shook, and made angry sounds with each blast. The ancient cottonwood heaved, and grunted, and rattled its bony old branches. The aging gray house was almo.st indistinguishable in the storm. Only one dim light, in a downstairs, window, gave any hint that it was there at all. The house had survived many such storms, but its stiff old frame creaked and moaned, and the wind in the bedroom window made' a IDnely whining sDund. Only one dim lamp had been turned on. It gave the already shabby room a dreary appearance. Wallpaper hung limply on the walls, here and there expo.sing 'a n older layer. A large crack had started across the ceiling until it ran into a fly specked bulb, held up by a network Df expDsed wires. Plaster shaken 10Dse by the storm lay scattered across the floor. An old bed, held up by two chipped frames, drooped unhappily under a window. There were no curtains, only distDrted yellDw shades. SomeDne had attempted to cheer the room up. A picture of Mona Lisa, cut from a magazine, smiled mystically. The self-contained Madame PDmpadouT, torn from a school book, stared knDwingly into space. A thin young girl paced back and forth across the room. She was alDne except for her three sons asle'e p upstairs. Her nervous steps. halted in front of the mirrDr, as she ran her fingers futilely through her fine brown hair. The storm had made, it wild; she swept it back with her hand. Her eyes were tired and dark looking, and her shDulders slumped wearily forward. Her cotton dress was neat, but too old for her. She began to sing lightly to. herself. "Rain, Rain, go. away, Come again some Dther day." The wind wailed again at the windDws, and rain began to. rise and fall with the passions of the storm. There was· nothing she could do. to curb the turmoil within herself. Her dark absorbent eyes turned to the lamp; deep and haunted, they did not reflect the light, but burned from a source of their own. It frightened her to be alone. All the restlessness that welled up in her came out when she was left by herself to think. Yet tonight there was a certain calm in her panic. She moved 33 But Mr. Crost wouldn't think about that. Oh, no. He just said the next day, "Yo.U know that the library appreciates all your years of service, Ashur: but you needn't feel obligated to. stay on if the work is getting too difficult." He said it in his patient, friendly way, but I know that he was thinking that I can't be trusted anymore. Giving the Ro.ckwood collection to young Collinson to process. He didn't know that I could hear, but I heard him tell Collinson to take care of it. Mr. Ashur turned the corner and started across the campus. Just wait until I walk in and notice the Randolph's first edition lying in the discard pile with all tho.se worthless books. He had his speech all prepared. He would walk into. Mr. Crost's office and place the beaten, brown leather book on his desk. If lVlr. Crost didn't recognize its worth right away, Ashur would tell him. And then he would say, "I hate to. speak against a fellow worker, sir; but this is a very unforgivable oversight on the part of Mr. Collinson. It hadn't been an oversight on anyone's part. Collinson hadn't even seen the book. Ashur had spDtted it right away on the cart in the workroom. He knew how to properly value a book. Collinson might really have missed it, but he couldn't take the chance. It was too perfect a way to discredit Collinson, and so Ashur had slipped the bODk out of the group and put it in the discard pile himself. Hurrying in expectation of his mo.ment of glory, he puffed up the stairs and rushed past the circulation desk. Slow down. You mustn't give yourself away, Benjamin. He went through the workroom door, glanced casually at the pile of old books, and went pale. It wasn't there. "Ashur!" Mr. Crost came out of his o.ffice with the Randolph in his hand. "Really, Ashur, how could you have let this get past you?" The patient friendliness was gone from his voice. "Sir?" "Collinson was working late last night and happened to' check the discards. This is from the Rockwood collection and very valuable. It would have been a great Io.SS to our library if this had been destroyed. I wanted to give Collinson the chance to have some real responsibility, but after some discussion, he convinced me that I should let you wo.rk with it. He was unsure of himself and thought that you should do them since you were the expert. We moved the collection to your work table yeesterday afternoon." 32 The realization that everything was ready startled her, but she had no time to hesitate. She didn't go upstairs to look at her sons. She took the suitcase, and carried it with her to the lamp. She clung to it tightly, afraid to set it down even as she struggled to turn off the lamp. The storm had worn out, the night was still and peaceful, as if it had just recovered fl om a long illness. It was dark and misty r out, but she knew her way too well to be unsure of herself. As_ she passed the exhausted cottonwood, she straightened her stooped shoulders, and began to sing quite suddenly and passionately. "Lady bug, lady bug, Flyaway home Your house is on fire, And your children, they will bUTn." Tho, e O, The Backs Of Tige, s s n r Sharon K. Nelson There wasn't much for a colored boy to' dO' in a town the size of Benton. I suppose if you thought ,a bout it, there wasn't much for a white boy to do either. I guess that's why he liked school so wen, it gave him something to do and it kept his mind busy. But now that it was summer he spent each day searching for something to' bre'a k the monotny. His sisters all helped his mother so there wasn't much to do at home. He had a few odd jobs 'around town. Once or twice a week he alw:ays stopped at Miss McGill's and helped her clean out her biTds'ca,.ges. Then with a nod of her cashew-nut face, she would give him two nickels and tell him when to' come again. He liked to go for walks in the country; but he had to be careful not to let Patrolman Wilson see him wandering around. Ole Wilson was always cruising about. It was a well established fact that Mrs. Wilson ruled the roost; but when he spotted Jim, out of the car he would come, chin up, chest out, and ask the eternal question, "What ya doin' boy?" The old rooster knew damn well what he was doing! But he was too sick of the game to risk playing it today. Miss McGill's house was only a block from Benton's only drug store, and for no explainable reason he found himself there. He watched the white girl come out of the store and stared wistfully 35 quickly-to the closet, but hesitated for a second before she opened ,the door. There ..wasn't much on the hangers, only a couple of men's shirts and a few housedresses. Several old cardboard boxes that contained odd ends of junk, that for some reason she was afraid to throwaway, sat lop-sidedly on the floor. She pushed her way through these until she came to a scarred cardboard suitcase. She cautiously lifted it, and carefully made her way back through t~le closet. She placed the .suitcase in the middle of the old bed. It slumped awkwardly half in the sag. She had done this many times before. It had become a part of the routine enacted whenever things overwhelmed her. How many times had she thought about leaving? Life had always overpowered her. Fighting it usually left her weak and shaken. Ifwas like being thrown from a horse time after time, to have to climb back with the knowledge that you would be dashed to the ground once again. Her life was an irony; she had married to escape taking care of her younger brothers, only to give birth to three sons herself. There was nothing to hold her here, no hope, no love. She had married too young, and had three children before she was even willing to love her husband. She went back to the song. "No, I won't be my father's jack And I won't be my mother's jill I'll be a fiddler's wife And fiddle when I will." She didn't really hate her sons, but she couldn't love them either. They had come so soon, she wasn't ready for them. Perhaps she would never be ready for children. They demanded much more than she could give. Her husband, too, claimed too much of her, men always did. He thought he owned her, but did not possess her anymore than her sons did. She moved more certainly now. The storm had calmed somewhat, but the cottonwood was still shaking its brittle old branches and the wind still had a somber hum. She went briskly to the closet and flipped the dresses over her aTm. One of the old boxes served as a chest-of-drawers; she calmly removed -the rest of her clothes from there and walked determinately toward the bed. It took her only a few minutes to pack. She was about to close the lid when something occurred to her. She turned quickly to the wall, and Temoved the Mona Lisa, and shoved it into the suitcase. She snapped the lid shut and slammed the whole thing on the floor. 34 paddled along. He could easily visualize the delight registered on three shining faces as he shO'wed his children the deer he had shot. They would be so proud of their daddy, and so fascinated at the sight of a real deer like the one whose antlers hung above the fireplace. And his wife would be proud, too, when she learned that, for the fifth year in a rO'w, his trip had been successful. In turn, he would be proud when Becky served venisO'n steaks for dinner sO'me evening, cooked as only she knew how. Yes, Jim eagerly anticipated presenting the carcass to his family- this ten point was the largest he had ever shot. Jim's thoughts were interrupted by Bill's hushed admonition. "Look, Jim----.:ahead O'f us!" Both men had been concentrating so hard on making progress in the choppy waters that they had nO't looked around them fO'r quite awhile. During that time dusk had settled. N ow the entire western sky was illuminated with the red glow of the sun forcing its rays dO'wnward through a thick mass O'f dark clouds. This grandeur w'a s partially reflected on the water in front of them, with the irregular waves giving a kaleidoscope effect to' the brilliant colO'rs abO've. The scene was made more memO'rable by the appearance of a buck, standing alone and maj estic on the horizO'n- a singular temptation to' any camera bug or hunter. "Damn!" Jim's reaction to' the scene th'a t Bill had pO'inted out was O'ne O'f ultimate frustration. He knew that they couldl nO't afford to think about shooting another deer nO'w, for the waters had become even more chO'PPY as the icy wind blew harder. 'That'd be a shot even yO'U could get. You O'le son of a gun, keep your observations to' yourself after this!" ply. "Sorry." Bill grinned as he snapped back his sarcastic re"DO'n't gripe at me, old man. YO'U got yours." "Yup, we did alright for ourselves, didn't we? Sure am glad yO'U persuaded me to' come. To think that 1'd abO'ut decided to stay home with . . . " His sentence was left unfinished as the brisk wind blew the canoe sideways into the current. The hunters, paddled frantically, trying to swing the canoe back around again to' avoid sure disaster. They wO'rked swiftly and expertly, but the strong current and hO'wling wind were too pO'werful. The canO'e lurched sideways, then swung around in a desperate attempt to' stay afloat. Once more it jerked violently. Jim and Bill could do nothing more than gasp as the bO'at twisted sideways, tipped, and 37 at the Coca Cola sign. He began to finger his two nickels. He stared at the strong jaw and proud head of Jefferson, a good looking man, but then he was white. A little whirlwind scattered the dust down the road, and two little boys came out with ice oream cones. They had to eat them fast for the sun was hot. Tired of the nickels, he put them back in his pocket and began to walk home. He was hot and thirsty; it was a good thing he lived only three blocks from the store. Why was it, he wondered, that he alway,s seemed to be thirstier when he knew he was least likely to get a drink? A coke sure sounded better than a glass of water, but he didn't feel like walking six extra blocks to 'Joes.' A woman came shuffling down the street. She stiffened her back and glanced at her feet as she passed. A man and woman p were at the st'l'eet corner , assing out papers. He took one. It was all about Jesus and how he planned to save the world, complete with a picture of Jesus blessing sweet pale little children. He handed it back to the man. "I'm sick and tired of your white Jesus," he said, and walked away. The woman started in amazement, then turned to her companion, "I don't know what's the matter with tho.se niggers," she said. A Time To Liv, a, d A Time T , D'i e e n o Nan Stone The canoe slithered through the choppy water noiselessly. Expert hands lowered the paddles gently, accurately, methodically into the mucky water, pulled back, and lifted them carefully. The rhythm was precise, even though the men in the canoe had to fight the ever-increasing current with concentrated effort. These men did not speak; both were exhausted after a long day of tramping through thick underbrush and of laying tense and alert, every muscle tight as they waited to shoot. To a good hunter stalking a deer or rabbit or even a pheasant was quite pleasantly, yet most completely exhausting-and Jim Herold and Bill Winters were certainly good hunters. But the fact that a deer, four rabbits and two pheasants were tied in the canoe did not lessen the pain as every muscle throbbed. But they could not stop for rest; home was still three miles upstream and night was fast approaching. They could not rest now. Home--this was foremost in Jim's thoughts as they 36 a windbreak. Stumbling thro.ugh the dark ro.Dm, he eventualiy Io.cated a kero.sene lamp with matches nearby. With light he was then able to. start a small fire in the stDve. All this wDrk was painstakingly slo.W because his cDld bo.dy Wo.uld nDt functio.n quickly and because his fro.zen clo.thing allDwed o.nly a limited amo.unt o.f mo.vement. Finally, ho.wever, his effDrts were rewarded 'as the frigid air within the tiny shack warmed slightly. Ho.wever, the o.nly effect o.f this bit o.f warmth was to. step up Bill's circulatiDn' enDugh so. that his bo.dy, previo.usly numb and insensitive to. feeling, no.w tingled with cDld. He tried to. pull o.ff his ice-laden garments in a frantic effo.rt to. let the heat reach his body. Unable to. do. this, he finally cut o.ff the expensive hunting clo.thes with a knife he had fDund. As he wrapped himself in the Dnly blanket in the cabin, the limited supply Df Wo.o.d burned itself Io.w, leaving the ro.o.m witho.ut heat o.nce' again. Realizing that withDUt a fire the cabin Wo.uld no.t be warm eno.ugh fDr him to. stay any length Df time, he co.ncentrated UPo.n ways Df signaling to. passing bo.ats. Suddenly he heard the so.und o.f 'a bDat appro.aching the island! There was no. time to. plan; he grabbed a bro.o.m leaning against Dne wall, set it Dn fire, and ran o.utside, frantically waving his crude signal with Dne hand while he clutched his blanket with the o.ther. But he had been to.o. late-the bo.at already passed. As Bill returned to. the cabin, a feeling o.f hDpelessness swept o.ver him, fo.r he knew that it Wo.uld be unlikely fDr anDther boat to. pas.s the remo.te place fo.r several ho.urs. Pro.bably it Wo.uld be mo.rning befo.re there Wo.uld be even the hope o.f rescue, and by then he cDuld be nearly fro.zen. Bill's spirits were Io.W as he paced back and forth acro.ss the ro.o.m in an effDrt to. keep his circulatio.n up. His bo.dy ached with every mo.vement. He was nearly o.verco.me with fatigue; each step became mo.re and mo.re difficult, but he knew that he must co.ntinue moving. Every mo.tiDn was made with this in mind. Walking was excruciatingly painful, but absolutely necessary. He co.ncentrated carefully. Lif fo.o.t slowly . . . mDve it fDrward . . . place firmly Dn flo.or . . . lean fo.rward . . . lift Dther fDot . . . place firmly Dn floor . .. SIDWly. Carefully. Can't stDp. VDices yelling excitedly outside the cDttage interrupted Bill's effo.rts. He mDved tDward the do.r painfully fast, reaching it just as the neWCDmers had succeeded in pushing it o.pen. "We saw the light," on Df them began to. explain, "and knew that somebo.dy had to. be in trDuble." Help was at hand. That 39 Qverturned, dumping its Qccupants into the icy water. With its cargO' Qf heavy carcasses, the canQe quickly sank. "Kick Qff yQur bQQts!" Bill yelled as he struggled to' remQve his Qwn heavy hunting bQots. He knew that otherwise neither Qf them CQuld fight the swift current. Turning tQward Jim, hQwever, he realized that the call had been futile. His cQmrade was flQundering in the water, QbviQusly unable to' swim. Bill frantically swam in his directiQn, but the current was against him, SO' he gained Qnly a few feet each minute. After he had nQt seen Jim's bQdy fQr several minutes, Bill realized that his effQrts WQuld be to' nO' avail. DesPQndently he allQwed his tired bQdy to. relax, permitting the current to' carry him fQr perhaps twO' hundred yards while he regained SQme of his strength. DQing SO', he. realized fQr the first time how CQld he was. He was fQrced to' swim with as much Qf his bQdy as PQssible under water, fQr a thin CQat Qf ice WQuld fQrm Qn the surface Qf his skin as SQQn as it was eXPQsed to' the air. With frightening clarity Bill realized that he WQuld have to' swim to' the nearest hQuse, since he WQuld surely freeze within a few minutes if he' tried to' walk alQng the shQre. He rested temporarily and surveyed his situation. Behind him was nQthing but fore.st; thus his Qnly hQpe fQr survival WQuld be to' swim upstream, 'a gainst the current, until he spotted a house. Bill swam fQr nearly fifteen minutes, gaining not mQre than half a mile. Exhausted, he stQPped Qn the shore of a tiny, empty island to' rest. Not ten secQnds had pas.sed, however, before ice began to' CQat his bQdy. ResQlutely he climbed back into the water, fQrcing every tired muscle to pull him a few feet further. By nQW he cared abQut nQthing but finding warmth. He had IQst all cQnception Qf time and distance. The Qnly wQrd with any real meaning fQr him was 'shelter'. He was beyond the PQint Qf IQgical thinking-all actiQns were entirely instictive. He nO' IQnger reacted as a human being. After quite awhile, Bill sPQtted anQther island---.:and on this island, rising maj estically abQve the landscape, there stQQd a tiny shack. His strength miraculQusly restQred, he struggled thrQugh the turbulent waters to' shQre, then stumbled up to' the building; Finding the dQor IQcked, he panicked. Warmth was SO' clQse, and yet .sO' far away. But, as the CQld pricked at him, re-alerting the. mind, his ,senses returned. He brQke a windQw with a rock lying nearby, and crawled thrQugh the newly made Qpening. Inside the cabin it was musty and deafeningly silent, but it did prQvide 38 We took the alley between the Wards store and a dress shop, darting down the uneven paving into the dark shadows. A minute later, we were in the parking lot by the Ballyhoo Hut with its red and yellow and blue balloons painted on the outside. My mother's feet slipped in the soft gravel, and I got sand in my shoes. She went up to the door and paused just for a moment. She had never entered a beer parlor alone in her life. She opened the door and I followed fearfully, expecting to see my father lying on the floor, bleeding and dying. He wasn't. He was sitting in a booth with Uncle Walter, and they were talking in the low-voiced way that can be heard when everybody else is shO'uting. They each had a glass of beer in front of them, and looked up in surprise at my mother and Aunt Ann and me. "What are you doing here?" my father asked, puzzled. "Have you and Walter been in a fight?" demanded my mO'ther, looking for signs of blood. "Why, no," said my father, reasonably. sitting here talking." "We've been just "Well, June said you and Walter were fighting." "Well, we're not." My mother got tight-lipped and stalked out, yanking me along with her. On the trip hO'me, with the car windO'ws open and the insects alO'ngside the road making their interminable buzzing sound O'f summer, I tried to' figure out what had happened. My father was imperturable as ever. Nothing ever bothered him much, and this incident seemed to amuse him slightly. My mother sat upright with her "mad look" (as I called it later), and held ontO' the door handle as if she were thinking O'f making a run fO'r it. I said, "Daddy, if you had had your gun you could have licked him, couldn't you?" My mother turned around and said, "Hush," and I knew she meant it, so I did. But I spent the rest of the way home pO'n·· dering the situatiO'n. I was aware that I had said the wrong thing, but I wasn't sure what it was. 22 was all the tortured body needed to know. When Bill awoke he was lying on a large feather bed in thehome of one of his friends. Gathered around him were several familiar faces. Doctor Brady was the first to speak. "Bill? Bill, do you comprehend what I am saying? If you can hear me, nod your head." Bill nodded. "You're mighty lucky to be alive, young man. How do you feel? Do you ache, Bill? Where ?" "All over." The words came slowly, and were barely audible. "But not in my fingers and toes. I can't feel anything there." "Yes, Bill. That's because of the cold," Dr. Brady said gently. 'Cold? What happened, Doc? Why am I here?" "Your boat capsized in the river, we think, Bill. You'd gone hunting. You had to swim quite a ways, boy. You must be quite a swimmer." 'I remember now. Choppy waters. Canot with the deer sunk. I remember swimming . . . " "Yes, Bill. I'll talk to you later about that. N ow the important thing is that you get some sleep. You're mighty lucky to be alive, but you still have some recovering to do, boy. Sleep well tonight. Just thank God you're alive and safe. I'll be back in the morning. Good night, Bill." After Dr. Brady had left, Bill tried to sleep. But his mind was too cluttered with thoughts. He lay staring at the ceiling for quite some time, the events of the night rushing through his head. I t was ironic how thrilled they had been when Jim shot the deer, and now . .. Siddenly it hit Bill. Jim- Jim was gone forever. A vivid picture of the muscular body bobbing in the water reminded Bill of Jim's terrible fate. Now he could remember it all clearly- the look on Jim's face when the canoe' capsized, his frantic floundering, Bill's own weak attempts to rescue the drowning comrade. These thoughts made clear the dreadful realization that Jim was gone forever- the same Jim. whom Bill had persuaded to go hunting, the same Jim who had eagerly anticipated showing the deer to his family. Bill, in rejoicing that he was alive, had completely forgotten about his comrade. Jim was dead, and Bill had thought of nothing but himself. He had not cared about Jim's misfortune. No longer did Bill feel so lucky to be alive. In fact ,he felt 40 more like a cad. Oh, od," he thought, "God, why couldn't it have been me. I don't have a family to raise. Oh, poor Becky. Oh, let me die, too. I can't live. I want to die. Let me die, please." Bill's exhausted body shook with frightful sobs until it could no longer react. Then he fell into a fitful sleep. A Duel With Fear Wanda Thayer "How is my patient this morning?" The professional noncommittal tone of the doctor's voice revealed nothing. Doctors were trained well-almost too well! "You tell me how I am," Doctor." A professional, mechanical smile came and went across the doctor's face. "I can't say yet-the lab reports WDn't be in my hands until later this afternoon. I'll probably be back in about four-thirty and we'll talk about it then. Everyone treating you fine?" Again those automatic questions which filled up the silence and meant absolutely nothing. Of course everyone treated me well. Why shouldn't they? I was 'a good patient, did what the nurses and doctors advised and made nO' unnecessary demands on their time. What else could I do now but wait and pray for patience to do that waiting. Such a summer this had been! Going back to summer school to resume studies which had been gladly interrupted some' years ago for marriage, was not the easiest task. But despite the difficulty, the two courses in literature had been exhilarating and interesting. How the mind corrodes when not used. It had taken three years of persistent prodding and subtle persuasion for my hushand to agree that I should return to' college and finish my last year's work which had to be taken on campus. On campus was the "fly in the ointment." I agreed with him that mothers belonged at home with pre-school children but the opportunity of sharing rides with two friends and the fact that I would be home in time for lunch helped to persuade him. Again I recalled the fulfillment which being back in an atmosphere of learning had brought into my life. New found friendships were 41 a treasured by-product of that classroom affiliation. Would this aU end in what the biopsy report revealed? How would I face a negative report? There had been a time several years before when I had asked myself this same question and had found strength, given only by faith in God, to bear the burden of losing a loved one. Tears tugged at my closed eyelids as I let my head faU back onto the coolness of the crumpled pillow. "Oh, dear God, please give me the opportunity to see my two girls grow up. Please give me the chance to fulfill my duty as a mother With your help, I want so to see them grow up in a Christian home under my influence." A cherry "Good Morning" interrupted my silent prayer and I opened my eyes. "Are we ready for our bath?" I wondered what the nurse's aid would say if I replied, "I'm ready, but are you"-or "are you going to have me bathe you while you bathe me ?" Get thee behind me Satan! Besides, this aid interested me. She was a negro and a beautiful girl. "Are you married?" "Oh yes, I have two teenagers at home." "Two teenagers ! You look so young." "Not that young-I'll be forty my next birthday." She looked directly at me with beautiful expressive brown eyes. Her features were finer than those of many negroes and her hair was very attractively coiffured under the stiff bluestriped cap. The snuggly fitted starched uniform revealed a ,slim, boyish figure. She tucked the bath sheet under my arms and around the upper part of my body and easily pulled the bedsheet from the bed. Feeling no racial prejudice, I was astounded a t my reaction when she took hold of my arm to wash it. Her hand felt warm and exactly like any white person's hand. Why did this amaze me? Did I have a deep-seated prejudice which I was unaware of? I watched her admiringly as she pulled the sheets taunt over the mattress pad and folded the top sheet back over the bedspread. She was 'a good nurses' aid. After several suggestions for my comfort she picked up the pile of soiled linens and quietly left the room, closing the door part was as she passed through. That haunting fear of the unknown came back immediately in the quietness of the lonely room. Just one week ago, unaware of any possibility of hospitalization, we had all been out on a very hot rail ride. Being no horsewoman I recalled the difficulty in keeping the horse I was riding from stopping to eat the leaves from the low hanging branches which crossed the trail. It had 42 rained during the night and early morning and the heat of the ten o'clock midsummer sun beat down on my bare head. The gnats swarmed around the horse's eyes and nose and she stopped occasionally to toss her head and blow air out through her nostrils. My chief desire at that time, to be anywhere else but on a horse, had not included a hospital-or at least would not have had I known that was where I would be. Strange how fate turns the table and we get our desire only to find the wish not exactly what we had in mind. The door was pushed open by the cleaning woman and my thoughts were interrupted again. "Good morning." She glanced over at me and returned my greeting. "How are you today?" "O.K., I guess." "I haven't seen you in here before. "I just started yesterday and I worked down on the second floor." It was quiet as she flushed the toilet and cleaned the lavatory. I was interested in beginning the conversation again when she came back into the room. "Are you married?" "Ya, I got three kids." "Oh, how old are they?" "I got a girl who goes to school this fall and a boy who is two and a baby that's four months." "How do you manage to have a job outside your home?" "Well, it ain't easy, but somebody's got to earn somel money. I got a sister that stays with the kids. My girl whose goin'ta start to school ain't got no shoes and ,she's gotta hav'em or the other kid'ell make fun of her. MyoId man's no good. He drinks all the time." We were silent as she pushed the dust mop under the bed and around the legs of the furniture. The picked up the dust cloth aand started to dust the dresser. "You sure got some pretty flowers. Ya want me to check the water on them?" "Thank you, I would appreciate that. Yes, my friends and family have been very thoughtful since I've been here." She removed the two vases of cut flowers and when she returned with them I noticed that the withered blossoms had been removed and they looked fresh again. The afternoon passed quickly. My friend, Patricia, arrived early and read my cards and letters to' me. We played the game of pretense that everything was fine; but Pat, who is extremely sentimental, had difficulties. Some of the verses in the getwell cards were very touching and she would begin to' cry. 'Something's the matter with me," she murmured between her sobs. I found myself consoling her when I was the one who 43 should have been crying. When visiting hours were over, I felt extreme relief to be alone again. I reached over and turned on the remote control switch of the television set which sat opposite the foot of the bed. "Felix the cat, that wonderful, wonderful cat" exploded from the set. I snapped the button to off and glanced at my watch. There wasn't much time left to await the verdict. You don't have cancer! My head jerked toward the door. The doctor stood there smiling at me. "That's what I said. "You don't have cancer. " Are you sure ?" "Very sure; the final lab reports are negative and you are fine" . . . All my defenses collapsed and I cried. 44 "I gno1'a nce" r Cynthia Cooper UNGlliDED My exact doctine' Lies SO'mewhere between Here And There. Where- - There? - Never. Where? - Here? - Never. MY god, where have you forsaken me? Somewhere between YO'U And Me. Truth to' everyone? Where lies it? I knO'w nO't my own truth. THE CHAPEL One TwO' The Can circle abO'ut thee; lights shine beside thee; grail before thee. we reflect the same? One in perfect uniO'n with Thee? Two inspiring lights beside Thee? One bowing humbly before Thee? They spread the image. Not I! 45 UNCOMMITTED May I never crack the wall of your moods? You are a constant mystery to me, And I find it hard to comprehend your attitudes, Sometimes in your quietness I think you are more myth than fact; For it is hard to perceive your thoughts. Will you keep me in constant suspense? Or may we be joyless together? Or may we express the delight of our love together? Independent man! Do you need no one? SCHIZOTHYMIA The Greatest I am not. The King I am not. Sometimes "I" pretend. I AM the greatest. I AM the king. Schizothymic people. What image project we.? Reality? Truth? 46 Charles Fisher My name is Mr. Asterias. 1 I search the briny deep. In inquiry mysterious, With attitude delerious, I comb the briny deep. And kingfishes, stingfishes, Bluefishes, j ewfishes, Jawfishes, crawfishes swim in my net. The butterfish, guterfish, Paddlefish, saddlefish; All of these fishes I catch in my net. But a mermaid I've never, no never been able to get. 1 Mr. Asterias is a comic relief character in Sir Thomas Love Peacock's novel Nightmare Abbey. To stalk the elusive mermaid I go to the sea each night: While the moonlight's eerie glow is played On waves whose frothy spume is sprayed I descend to the sea each night. And herring and mackerel, Flounder and pickerel, Salmon and sardines swim into my net. The kingfishes, stingfishes, Bluefishes, j ewfishes, J awfishes, crawfishes, Creekfishes, weakfishes, Butterfish, gutterfish, Paddlefish, saddlefish ; All of these fishes swim into my net. But a mermaid I've never, no never been able to get. The mermaid she is marvelous. She is my heart's delight. Her fine skin it is wonderous As the shell of the paper nautilus. She is my heart's delight. But lobsters and barnacles, Crustacean particles, All sorts of nuisances crawl in my net. 47 And herring and mackerel, Flounder and pickerel, Salmons and sardines, The kingfishes, stingfishes, Bluefishes, j ewfishes, Jawfishes, crawfishes, Creekfishes, weakfishes, Butterfish, gutterfish, Paddlefish, saddlefish, All of these fishes swim into my net. But a mermaid I've never, no never been able to get. My love she dines on foxglove. And from her watery home To climb the rocks sO' high above And find the deadmen's bells; my love Occasionally must come. So maybe on some misty eve Your startled eyes may see A mortal and a mermaid cleave In the rocks above the sea. And in the waters far below A chorus you may hear Of lobsters and barnacles And all of the rest Joining in wishing us all of the best At our wedding by the sea. Se, il'i ty n Virginia Johnson She's sitting in that squeaking, oaken rocker, The fading sunlight streaks a careworn face; Her crippled hands are idle, nDt crocheting lace. Legs that once were strong now need a walker, The rocking keeps a slow, deliberate pace. Her life once vital is like a broken vase 48 NQt needed nQW, but treasured fQr its special place; NO' urge to' live, but death seems Qnly to mQck her. This aged O'ne still lives and breathes the air, But life is not the surging, vital fO'rce Of yO'unger members whO' must feed and care FQr Qne whO' now WQuld die withO'ut remorse. Oh, let me nQt endure what she must be'ar! Sweet death, nQt age, WQuld be my fervent course. Michael Meyer Bi ttersweet chQcQlates lay in grass fields where Qnly children eQuId gO' whO' with dandeliQn wreathed heads picked them Qne-bY-Qne And Bittersweet chocQlates smelling like gO'd must have smelled like new grass and fishless ponds Qf reeds alQng the edge of lily pastures Where Bittersweet chocQlates rO'lled O'n summers frO'nt lawn and played tQgether and IO'ved tO'gether and knQwing next to' nO'thing Bittersweet chQcolates died in autumn with the whQle wQrld 49 RegreslSion Sharon Nelson Seductive little dandelion Lures me intO' the grass. There I lie Watching O'thers pass. Brighter than the tiger's eye, Mellower than China moon beams, Richer than gold, you smell Of youth and big dreams, Of childhood and emerald hills. ~he Seven,th Seal Sharon Nelson Muted drums lifted in heavy song, Moved unimpressed through the silent throng. Clods of frightened people stood blank, Watching the final parade, rank after rank. Steadily forward, never wavering a beat, Disciplined they m'arched down the silent street. Only the dancing black horse broke the stride, Tossing the empty boot.s from side to side. Behold the pale horses; their name is death; Onward they move; there is no rest. Steadily forward, never wavering a beat, Disciplined they marched down the silent street. Behind death they came, their heads bowed down, The lords of earth, the priests in black gowns. Her face as white as the horses, the lady in black Stared straight ahead and never back. Steadily forward, never wavering a beat, Disciplined she marched down the silent street. 50 In Invitation JoAnn Sellers Leave the crutch at the doorstep, Bid farewell to the priests. Tell love you will some day return, And come. With your trepidations and wonderings and mine, Through the house of Never-Knowing we will peruse the labyrinths and rococo Columns, dusty, And clean them with our tears. Early Re-flectiom David Stead The tiny movable parts of The precision made machine are Now assembled, and the master-timer Begins the co-ordination of the clock. The hours of toil, and the Suffering of the designer demand Constant care and delicate Completion of the precious task. The emergence from the warmth of The factory into the changing temperature Of the owner's shop is guided by Precision-skilled mechanics aware of the Importance of each mechanism. Continual care and maintenance is Rewarded by growth of munipulative Functions, and the chorus of chimes Moves from an eratic disruption, To a harmonic combination of Movement and grace. 51  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Perspectives: Volume 24, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Kiosk Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Perspectives contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Abbott, Judith H.: Author Brundevold, Duane: Author Daniel, Arlie: Author Long, Mary Ellen: Author Johnson, Thelma: Author Hicks, Mary: Artist Walker, Deniece: Artist Meyer, Joseph: Artist Clem, Wilma: Artist Anderson, Helen: Artist Merrill, Nancy: Artist Choto, Ransom: Artist Dawson, Lois: Artist Langos, Lou: Artist Krnoch, Claudia: Artist McMains, Mary Ann: Artist Spade, George: Artist Long, Mary Ellen: Author Nelson, Sharon K.: Author Stone, Nan: Author Thayer, Wanda: Author Cooper, Cynthia: Author Fisher, Charles: Author Johnson, Virginia: Author Meyer, Michael: Author Sellers, JoAnn: Author Stead, David: Author Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1965 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-12-11 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-11 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Abbott, Judith: Editor Nelson, Sharon: Business Manager Zimmerman, William: Art Consultant Levant, Dr. Howard: Faculty Advisor Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical 56 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kiosk Manuscript Perspectives student publications http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/2d18a8a9f52427cad9957b8b505e3262.pdf d2c5a7a0389427a1b9a7494a40f0a893 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Kiosk: Volume 70 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Perspectives Manuscript Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource This PDF file of the Kiosk contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ponder, Marcie Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2013-01-13 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-28 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-28 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF 12.1 MB 72 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Kiosk-Vol70_KDC_2008_01-01_01.pdf Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. McKinley, Aly: Cataloger PDF Text Text kiosk THE LITERARY MAGAZIN E OF MORNINGSID E COLLEGE 2008 ��kiosk VOLUME 70 2008 THE LITERARY MAGA Z IN E OF MORNIN GS IDE COLLEGE KIOSK08 3 I �STAFF Editor in Chief Greg Anderson POETRY & PROSE Assistant Editors Marcie Ponder Colin 0 1 Sullivan Tyrel Drey Audrey Hantla Rebecca Bauer ART Visual Editor Katie A. Kes Assistant Editor Grant Witts truck Faculty Advisors Stephen Coyne John Kolbo Terri McGaffin ABOUT OUR JUDGES: Brian Bedard is a Professor of English and Director of the Creative Writing Program at the University of South Da- kota. His short stories, poems, and essays have appeared in a number of literary journals and magazines nationwide. His second collection of stories, Grieving on the Run, won the 2007 Serena McDonald Kennedy Award in Fiction from Snake Nation Press in Valdosta, Georgia, and was published by that press in March of 2007. The South Dakota Council of Teachers of English recently named him South Dakota Author of the Year for 2008 . Ann McTaggart is a local artist and resident of Sioux City with a painting studio in the Commerce Building downtown. McTaggart first earned a B.S.N. and B.A. in Studio Art from Morningside College, then continued at the University of South Dakota to obtain a B.FA. and M.A. in Painting and Fine Art Studies. Ann has exhibited locally and throughout the Midwest. Darren Maurer attended Southeast Community College in Milford, NE, graduating at the top of his class in Graphic Design and Illustration. He has worked as a designer and illustrator since 1986. 4 KIOSK08 �LETTER FROM THE EDITOR U ntil the fourth grade, I loved drawing. I your soul on the page or the canvas and would dump a box of Crayola Colored try to create something without knowing Pencils on our living room floor, grab a in advance whether it will tum out to be a beautiful work or a waste of time and restack of paper, and draw for hours. I would sources. draw anything-lizards with wings, wizards It takes even more courage to put that with wheels for legs-whatever crept into finished creation out there for others to see my brain. and judge. I applaud everyone who subBut in fourth grade, mitted their creations to the Kiosk this year, we started having very even if they weren't accepted. We learn by structured art lessons. trial and error, and rejection is an imporGood old Mrs. E. would show us an example of tant part of becoming a better artist. Be what she wanted, and braver than I was as a fourth grade artist, then we had to recreand keep plugging away. ate it as best we could. These days, when Simon Cowell is reviled for telling people that they can't sing We were on our way to becoming carbon-based well enough to be given a national recording contract, we realize that it also takes copy machines, and I was no longer feeling courage to evaluate the work of others and make decisions that will invariably overlike much of an artist. One day, she gave us a little more leelook some promising work. I want to thank this year's editorial staff, especially the Viway. We could draw any animal we wanted. sual Editor Kate Kes, for her hard work and The catch was that we had to use a photo courage in making the Kiosk possible. On from National Geographic as a referencebehalf of the whole staff, we also want to and we would be graded on accuracy. I chose a penguin, but soon realized that T kiosk kiosk penguins make pretty H boring subjects for \ E drawing. So I spiced - -, H him up: My penguin . . ... I . , ;.i ~ soon sprouted green t '\ .. 0 feathers, goat horns t.) :."." .'. S and a pogo stick. H Mrs. E. walked by my desk, took one look KIOSKS OF THE PAST thank President Reynders for his generous at my drawing, and said, ''That isn't right. from left to nght support, art department faculty members That isn't what a penguin looks like. You 2005, 2006,2007,2008 John Kolbo and Terri McGaffin and Engneed to start over." lish department secretary Marcie Ponder, I was crushed. I crumpled up my work who helped me do countless things along and threw it in the bin, along with any remaining courage I had for the medium. the way. I also cannot give enough thanks to Steve Coyne. Without his guidance, I Never again would I draw anything for wouldn't have had the courage to take on public consumption. this enormous task; I wouldn't even have But courage is exactly what all artists and writers need. It takes courage to lay known where to begin. • ~ .. , ~., ~ .,' , K10SK08 5 I �CONTENTS WRITING Till Kingdom Corne (Or The Cows Horne) DORAN ABERNATHY Watching the Mustached Man Clean the Glass Doors AUDREY BANTLA 15 Wedding STEPHEN COYNE 16 Where Are My Glasses? COLIN O'SULLIVAN 17 8 ~s c ~lJ~ .. .. ~ 2008 23 Bonding With Brother TREY The Lily Lie LAURA HOMAN 24 2,174 AUDREY BANTLA 31 When Irish Eyes are Smiling KYLE THAYER 32 Avoiding Pregnancy PHIL LIEDER 33 An Odd Bit KIEL PLOEN 34 The Villain JONATHAN GREEN 36 Where's the Inspiration? JESSI BERGIN 42 The Island AUDREY BANTLA 43 Spring Rain TAVIA KNUDSEN 51 Dry Spell RANDyUHL 52 A Man Talking (Lifted) DORAN ABERNATHY 55 Strange RANDyUHL 56 A Lesson in the Snow BRIAN JOHNSON 57 Climbing Mt. Fuji RACHEL BELLAIRS 60 Chinatown Cocaine Blues DORAN ABERNATHY Living History Farms Dinner AUDREY BANTLA 67 68 Page From the Past JAMES HUTCHINSON 69 K. BLACKBURN , ~41~ .~ 2008 "o"l<V w' '" 2008 '" ~ n ~f'~ 2008 All entries are considered objectively by the judges with no artist name or special consideration for any piece. Assistant editors are eligible for contest placement but not prize money 6 KIOSK08 �~~ p~ ART Wincing Self-Portrait 1 MACK MASCHMEIER t41~ 2008 :f.'S c Barn 8 JOHN PAGE ~ll~ .. .. ~ 2008 Untitled KIMjESSEN 10 The Uglies MACK MASCHMEIER 13 The Snapping Turtle's Head SHANNON SARGENT &: JOHN BOWITZ 14 Untitled JOSH BECKWITH 18 Locked Door KATE KES 27 Fragile ANNE TORKELSON 28 Twisting Recline JOSH BECKWITH 30 Rainy Day ANNE TORKELSON 38 ,,0"1<'. ~, '" ~ n 2008 Marina JOHN PAGE 44 Fort Warden GRANT WITTSTRUCK 46 Railroad SARAH CHAMBERS 48 Bridge Pan JOHN PAGE 48 Calamity Jane Packaging KATE KES 48 Cliffs of Mohr ANDREA THOMPSON 49 Untitled JESSICA NIEMEYER 49 Man or Machine BILLY MALLETT 49 Boats in the Lake District RENEE MORGAN 50 Michael Phelps MACK MASCHMEIER 50 Graphic Photography PHIL ANDREWS 50 Multiple Choice AMY FOLTZ 53 Frosted Four BRENDA LUSSIER 57 Amanda JESSICA NIEMEYER 59 Midnight Ride AMY FOLTZ 62 Temple WYETH LYNCH 64 .Ji,l£~ °ll~ \~j 200B ~lof~ 2008 KlOSK08 7 I �TILL KINGDOM COME (OR THE COW COMES HOME) BY DORAN ABERNATHY H BARN :f.'S by John Poge digitol photogroph, H DR 8 KIOSK08 c ~'J"~ ~~~... 2008 ams Prairie, Missouri. The clouds kept falling and the rain begun to drop. The leaves on the trees turned green shades of monochrome and rattled their little pinnate tambourines. Cows up the hill, on the other side of the house, chewed the last of their cud and walked gingerly to the trees . Peter Pickenpaw stood in the drizzle rain, next to the carport, expressionless, furrow-less, but that tall gray suit that hung forlornly off his shoulders like a smoking jacket on a sales rack. In a metaphor, the albatross lay snug around his neck. Peter, slunk at attention, stared blankly at the pink Cadillac in the carport. It was his wife Constance's car. She sold Mary Kay Cosmetics in the Greater Missouri Valley and had apparently just slept with a nineteen-year-old boy named Ben Hummerstrum. There is no way of telling how many ways there were of knowing, even if they were all just inferential subtleties ... Fool me thrice shame on the both of us. Ben's truck was parked adjacent in the driveway. Peter's baby blue Pinto was �sideways in the grass. Ben was a local kid Constance had hired to paint the carport puce. An overturned ladder and an open can of Sherwin Williams' was all Peter could see had been done since he'd left. He'd gone to work in jefferson City that morning, where he used to be a weatherman for Fox KZjZ Channel 3. He was home early, fired for forecasting eightyeighty and sunny (it was Sixty-three) . That and he'd been recently alleged to be an odds fixer for an illegal gambling ring. As would be later reported in the Jefferson City Gazette, Peter had owed a large sum of money to a St. Louis outfit for gambling on the weather. Weather gambling was all the rage in Missouri. (The payout from beating the odds on an inch of rain during the second week in December was better than the Rams beating the point spread on any Sunday.) Peter had gotten into trouble by betting the house , quite literally, on three inches of rain during the drought in june. As compensation for his mistake , he'd agreed to fix his ten-day forecast and keep the house . Unfortunately for him, he'd left a paper trail at the weather desk. Hack meteorology and his wife's infidelity was just the beginning. He was starting to go bald and gray, and he was only forty-three. His father's land, the land he'd inherited and lived on was about to be foreclosed by the mob or some such subsidiary. The jig was up, his wife was a sleaze bag, he was a sleaze bag, and he probably just had a hit put out on him for botching a weather job . You couldn't see it in his face , but a coil had sprung loose in his brain. The jack in the box had most definitely come out to play. He just had a funny way of showing it. Back on earth, Ben Hummerstrum walked out onto the porch, zipping his fly, and was startled to see Peter staring at him from the carport. Ben was sort of handsome , Peter supposed, a stocky kid, with a big nose , gravy brown hair, and a Gumby drawn jaw line , sturdy on his feet , but noticeably nervous . "Uh, hi , Mr. Pickenpaw .. . didn't get a chance to start, couldn't find a stirrer ... and I had to go back to the paint store to-" "Cover the earth!" Peter exclaimed, putting his fists in the air in a rah-rah motion generally reserved for pep rallies. The Sherwin Williams reference was lost on Ben, who just stood there dumbly, not sure what to do, but ready to make a break for it. Peter put his hands back down. His rectangular, hollow face retained its unscrupulous shape, which to Ben was even more unnerving than the sudden outburst. "Are you okay sir?" "Me , oh yeah I'm fine . How are you Ben?" "Urn fine ... it's starting to rain." "Oh, you can't paint in the rain!" Peter said grinning again, pointing a finger in Ben's general direction . "Yeah I know, I was just going to the bathroom, before 1-" "Where's Constance?" Peter asked in earnest, still standing by the carport, staring off into the fog . "I think she's taking a shower upstairs , I uh ... heard the water running" "Did you flush? " Peter asked, staring at him again, feigning seriousness. "What? No ... I mean yeah, I did ... sorry," said Ben. Peter scowled, "That water gets scolding hot when you flush Mr. Hummerstrum! " Ben was starting to panic. He hadn't even gone to the bathroom, although he had thrown the condom Constance gave him into the toilet. .. Had he flushed? KlOSK08 9 I �UNTITlED by Kim Jessen digitol photograph 10 KIOSK08 There was a long drawn out pause. Peter was milking the pail full , down to the last squeeze. "Well ... " he said, after a moment of staring straight up into the air, squinting with his long brow wrinkled in contemplation. "Constance won't be happy. You better go . She gets quite irritable when people flush ... Bad plumbing." Ben had already begun stepping tentatively to his truck. "Sorry, Mr. Pickenpaw, I'll start first thing tomorrow ... if the sun's out. " "Oh it will be son. The sun is always shining somewhere ... Cover the earth!" Peter had his fists in the air again. Ben had no idea what Peter was talking about. He just got into that truck and leapt off into the fog, fast as he could. Peter kept his hands in the air for a moment, standing by the carport, as the rain began to run off the tin roof and onto his crew cut. He looked up at the green gable of his house, and out to the hill where most of the cows had lain under the cottonwoods. Then he put his hands down and walked briskly to the shed behind the house, smiling mischievously the whole way. In the shed, he got a length of rope, turned around and trotted off, up the hill, where at least one cow was about to cow home . That last part he said to himself, (in the present tense of course) smirking like a twelve-year-old with a frog in his pants. Wrangling a cow wasn't as easy as Peter had hoped it'd be . He'd never had much to do with cows, except when he stood by the fence and fed Matilda mixed greens. Matilda was the smallest and oldest and dimmest of the cows. Peter had named her Matilda after his grandmother, a little spry woman that lived till she was a hundred-and-three. He hadn't named the rest of the cows, they weren't his cows . The dairy farm down the road just rented the land so they could eat his grass. Peter didn't mind, or particularly care for the cows , except Matilda , she was the sweetest, dumbest cow ever to be sent out to pasture . Peter had hoped he could just put his jacket on a post, roll up his sleeves, and put a lasso around some poor saps neck. It turned out to be a great deal more trouble than that. The herd scattered when he came near them, and after some grass stains, a wet pant leg, and a waterlogged loafer, he was about to give up. Then he saw Matilda down stream, drinking out of the ravine . She was a skinny old heifer, part Holstein and part Guernsey. Demure as a daisy, dried up like Bisquick, sweet as buttermilk. Peter gingerly slipped the noose around her neck as she lapped-up water in a placid little pool off from the stream. Matilda was meek, and mild , and dumb enough to go along with just about any cockamamie scheme. It didn't hurt that she was four-fifths oblivious. They walked daintily down the hill, a little slick now. The rain was coming down steady as they walked , past the cottonwoods down to the gable house , as the gray mist enveloped the rounding hill and faded the house away into one oblique nowhere . And out of it came Peter and Matilda rounding the hill from the bleak Missouri �nowhere , walking hand in rope through the gate , down to the driveway, where the willows stood in a chorus line rattling their little pinnate tambourines. With a little elbow grease , Peter got Matilda up the porch steps, through the screen door and into the living room. From there he started gently leading the little old cow up the stairs. Constance was just getting out of the shower. She took very long showers. She had a very meticulous routine, and loved prune fingers for some reason or another. She had just toweled off and was putting on her robe, when she heard strange noises coming from the hallway. Matilda was starting to panic. Every cow has a breaking point. She had no idea what she was doing up those stairs. She started pulling away, as Peter stood there, palms claming, frantically trying to hold onto the skittish bovine. They played a sort of man versus beast tug of war for a moment, breaking a leg off the banister and knocking a periwinkle vase over the railing. Then came Constance, running barefoot into the hallway, cursing something awful. She saw Matilda standing there and slipped on the hardwood, hitting her head pretty good on the door end. Out cold. Matilda stopped fussing. Peter stood wide-eyed, a cow in hand, an unconscious wife on the floor. What now cow? Constance came to , in the gable , in a chair, in her make-up room, bound and gagged by duct tape. A cow eating a salad on her right, and Peter pacing to her left is all she could see. There was what felt like a flexi-straw protruding through the tape over her mouth, and what tasted like a chocolate Slim-Fast strapped to her chest. She wished it were strawberry, but it goes without saying that was the least of her concerns. Constance was beautiful from a distance . She was built like a waitress at a Doowadiddy's, with a platinum blonde bob , and a bosom you could take a nap in. The closer you got though , the more you c~me to notice that all that was a body suit and a wig on an old maid . She had a murder of crow's feet , fake eyelashes, and the dullest sadness in her irises. Her lips were perpetually agape, showcasing her snaggleteeth, and that one gold crown that shown brightly from the recess of her hole . Not to say, aesthetics have much to do with beauty, but Constance was a looking glass in the mirror. Peter wasn't much better in most respects , but at least he was somewhat interesting. "Mmmffffhsshhshshshfffckrrrrr!" said Constance. Peter stopped pacing "Honey, I can't here you with that tape over your mouth. You're all consonants ... " He was staring at her now, rather creepily, and then he stopped and looked at Matilda, who was just finishing her bowl of mixed greens. He opened his mouth to say something, and then clutched his teeth again, standing there in bewilderment with his hands extended out in front of him. After a moment, he blurted out, 'Tm not sure why I brought Matilda up here, I thought it was a metaphor or poetic justice or something, but now I just feel bad. She's such a sweet cow, Constance. Cows can't climb down stairs you know; they're top heavy, they'll buckle their knees from the weight and fall face first into God knows what. I suppose you'll have to knock out the wall and get a crane or something and put her in a harness . Oh Jesus Matilda, a harness ... " He was hugging the cow now, after pantomiming like a low front was coming in on the green screen. He collected himself, and knelt KIOSK08 II I �down on one knee in front of Constance, who was writhing and cursing incomprehensibly. "Listen to me . I'm leaving. I'm taking your car and your money from Mary Kay . .. and your mom's jewelry. You shouldn't have slept around, and I shouldn't have bet on the weather, but maybe things will work out better this way." Then he smiled that sly sideways smile and said, "You can screw Ben Hummerstrum whenever you please. " Just as he said it, he knew he shouldn't have . Peter recoiled in horror as Constance got up on her feet, hobbling, still taped to the chair, and charged at him with a ferocity he'd never seen before . It all happened so fast. Peter ran by the window to get behind Matilda, who was starting to panic again. Constance lunged at the both of them just as Matilda had had enough. She struck a mighty blow for such a little cow, head-butting Constance in the side of the chair. Peter stood, panic stricken, watching in horror as Constance lost her balance and fell headfirst, screaming into the windowpane . Everything came to a slow crawl. Constance was slumped over in the window, her hair still wet, with shards of glass imbedded in her neck, twitching. Chocolate Slim-Fast ran down her pant leg with the blood that was beginning to pool at her feet. Matilda and Peter were in a state of shock. Peter walked over slowly to see if she was dead , just as the twitching stopped. She was ... Peter did a curious thing after that; he lay down at her limp , dragging feet and started laughing and weeping uncontrollably. The tears streamed down his cheeks, in tributaries along a wrenching expression emptying into a river of blood and Slim-Fast. It was strange behavior for a strange scene, a sort of out of body expe12 KIOSK08 rience . Peter was beside himself, he could almost see himself behaving so absurdly, but could do nothing to control it. It felt like someone had put a nerve agent in some laughing gas, and thrown it into the hallway. The laughing turned to weeping, the weeping turned to laughing, and so on. Matilda didn't know what to do. After some time the absurdity subsided. Peter came to some of his senses, stood up , and took Matilda into his bedroom. He left the room for a while , as he cleaned up some of Constance's mess and came back into his bedroom with a salad bowl of water in one hand, and mixed greens in the other. Peter kissed Matilda on the nose as he set the bowls down in front of her. Then he grabbed the jewels from the jewelry box and the money from the make-up case, said one last farewell to Matilda and closed the door behind him. When he walked out onto the porch, the clouds had dropped all around him. The sky was falling, as the rain washed everything from memory. He walked whistling to the carport, got in that pink Cadillac and pulled out the RandMcNally from the backseat. He decided to head west on the red roads, not the interstate, less conspicuous, and besides there was plenty of banal, beautiful countryside ahead of him. As he drove down the gravel , the willows in the rearview shook their leaves and waved their little pinnate good-byes. Near the border of Kansas , the weather was getting particularly nasty. A low front the weathermen in the know called an Alberta Clipper was coming in head-over-toe. Ominous signs in the sky, lightning and thunder surrounded that pink blur speeding through the whiz and whirl of John Brown's carnal hills. God was having a bowel movement and �about to shit all over the sunflowers. Peter didn't mind, he and God had already soiled his gray suit, and he was beginning to feel as light as a Coo-coo feather again. Peter drove that redline, pell-mell in the rain, from the bloody tributaries of the Missouri River to Bird City. He had an inkling he was destined for Kingdom Come (but had no idea how right on he was), and laughed maniacally when he saw a bumper sticker that read, "In Case of Rapture, Car Will Be Unmanned." Peter wanted Jesus to descend from heaven that instant and cause a million car pile-up from sea to shining sea. He grinned at the thought of that and hollered, "Cover the Earth! Pave the planet!" at on-coming cars, as he tooted his horn to the rhythm of the windshield wipers and swerved erratically. Peter knew the rest of his life, and his old one, were closing in on him. From here on in, he thought, the rest of this story would write itself right off the page, and into the blissful abyss . To that, he dropped the hammer and with it, came the earth ... Ironically and regrettably for Peter, his life did a contradictory thing and wrote itself right off the page and into the back page headlines, bylines, and prolonged infamy of the American Dream gone awry. A grocery store manager from Walla Walla, Washington found the pink Cadillac, abandoned in the loading dock of a Piggly Wiggly's. When the deputies arrived, there was an owl on the hood of the car, biting off the head of a mouse, blood splatter on the windshield, and running down the side. The next day, it was the front-page picture in the Walla Walla World Herald. There were reports of a dimwitted thirty-something waitress from Big Ai's Diner in Bird City, Kansas that had disappeared with a mysterious man in a gray suit with grass stains . He'd reportedly walked in, flirted with the aforementioned waitress, ordered a hot roast beef sandwich, and ate it with giddy delight. After he'd finished, he wrote something on a napkin and slipped it to her as she picked up his plate. The next thing Big Al knew, his third best waitress was leaving abruptly in a pink Cadillac with said man in question. Two days later she was found half-naked in the hallway of an Indian casino in Idaho, coked out, blathering about a cow in a gazebo and a THE UGLIES by Mock Moschmeier pencil man named Peter Chickenpaw who had promised her she was going to be a Mary Kay cover girl. That was that and this was something else ... The last paragraph of Peter Pickenpaw's life ended three days later at the Kingdom Come Inn, in Portland, Oregon. It was a slum hole motel, right next to the airport, with three channels of porno, but no HBO . In room 12B, Portland KIOSK08 13 I �police found the body of a man who had signed in at the Kingdom Come under the assumed name Esau C. Sorrow but was later identified as Peter Pickenpaw. There were signs of forced entry and a single gunshot wound to the head, with a note on the nightstand that read, "NEVER UNDERESTIMATE THE WEATHER." Peter was slumped against the headboard, his pants off, his jacket on, smiling with a frown on his face . The burden and ecstasy were protracted expressions of nothing more . You could almost see a dead albatross around his neck decomposing right before your eyes. As of late, Peter was right under the skin of reality, decomposing in the blissful abyss . Epilogue Hams Prairie, Missouri. Matilda was put in a harness and lifted out of a hole in the gable. She was set down, nice and easy, with only minor injuries, and sent out to pasture again. She had shat all over the bedroom, which Ben Hummerstrum was paid to clean up. Officially, Peter was ~harged with first-degree manslaughter, Illegal gambling, and capital fraud, but none of the charges were ever taken to court. The carport did get painted puce, but Ben was never compensated. THE SNAPPING TURTLE'S HEAD by Shannon Sargent and John Bowitz mixed media "I ltit:tN~,,"f'\N fr- TVRTL.E..; EAt;> 'yj ~I "fTIT iiii' HI'<Ntlf KePi IlRAWI frbt-lt 14 ~ KIOSK08 I �WATCHING THE MUSTACHED MAN CLEAN THE GLASS DOORS One light turns on then another in the thick dark. When the world should still be sleeping there is a man wiping windows for the coming rush for the parade of oily fingers and palm prints, which leave their trail their clues by half past ten and this Sherlock will be here again when the world should still be sleeping wiping away the evidence they left behind. He surveys the work he has done pacing in front of the window tearing long sheets of beige paper in large crumples, spraying electric blue liquid into patterns - polka dots here, horizontal rows there wipes the window - wax on wax offwith a scientific attention to detail, He has done a good job. I wouldn't even know the glass is there. AUDREY HANrLA KI OSK08 15 I �WEDDING A courtyard and a straight-up fountain where the water rose until it blossomed at the top and shed wet petals, which splashed back into the urn and made sounds like static- white noise for a wedding. The minister's voice was just a murmur under that racket, and for all we could tell this pair might as well have taken their vows from the fountain. We careworn couples, scarred by the love wars, might have cried had we heard the usual promises, so impossible so sincere. No , it was a relief to hear what the fountain had to offer insteadIt advised rising. Rise and do not worry about the fall to come. Better emerges from worse, health from sickness, and riches from poverty. The heart jets blood toward the sunshine of thought and the sky of breath, but sobs come tumbling back and pool in the chest. No matter, the fountain said. The heart goes on with its work, like a proper marriage, fed by its own failings . STEPHEN COYNE 16 KIOSK08 �WHERE ARE MY GLASSES? BY COLIN A 0' SULLIVAN relationship's survival often necessitates that visions of a loved one be blurred. The mind distorts inconsistency and airbrushes over imperfection. I open the door to three happy dogs. Tongues are lapping, tails wagging, paws pawing at my blue jeans, a blend of their odors all about. Their back paws dance on the blanket Laura got for Christmas, once muted lavender, but now dirty purple and stained, a fur infested mess. It's a mess in there, but I'm not surprised. The dogs haven't been let out. There is urine and feces on the rug-that's a lovely smell. The living room is padded with blankets, a comforter, shoe boxes, bed and throw pillows, a sack from Target, another from Kohl's, and raw hide bones saturated with the dogs' saliva and blood. The dogs are methodically wearing away at an incomplete frame-decorating project. Some pictures and seashells are glued to frames, some portraits are helpless and decapitated, heads and torsos ripped and tom. Spots of white shell dust on the carpet indicate some shells met a similar fate . "Shit!" "Hey honey, what's wrong?" Laura says from the bedroom. "Oh, one of the dogs shit," I say. "Either Sara or Otis. Gracie's would be larger." "Mere!" says Laura. It's her cute way of saying come here. Everything she does is cute. 'Just a second." I have to let the dogs out, then clean up the poop. I'll need one paper towel to pick up the poop and three to soak up the pee. What would I do without paper towels? I walk around the comer of the living room. Laura's arms are stretched out, palms pointing at me, and she has a wide smile. "Mere!" Speaking makes her smile open up as the "-ere" is drawn out, sounding like a cartoon bomb falling off a cliff. She is pinned against the bed. An unseen force has held her in bed for days, maybe weeks. Or has it been months now? She is in bed waiting for my embrace, needing it, squirming for it. I stumble over the clothes, and shoes and such. I fall into her arms. Her whole body wiggles, I force my hands under her back, her arms around my neck. She kisses my cheeks, like a woodpecker hunting for food. Her smell is strong and sweet, body mixed with bed odor. I roll myself over to the other side of bed and settle in next to her. "Hi!" I say to her. "Hi!" She returns. "So how's your day?" "It was ok; calculus was kind of rough," I say. "Yeah." she says, and then kisses my nose. I am so close to her face that my eyes cross. We have a long kiss. Our tongues tangle, let my hands explain calculus and chemistry, her fingers tell me about the last episode of Next Top Model. This bedspread has to go. I taste the salt on her neck; my feet and hands push and tug at the covers. The area behind her ear tastes sour; the smell of her incubated body, trapped under the covers, is free. It intoxicates us. I am not out of control, but under a new control. A powerful king has risen, and he has a plan for his kingdom. The boundaries are redrawn, the fields tilled, and the peasants rise up in glory, a new king has been crowned and the future looks good. The mood settles, somewhat abruptly, and we enjoy a smoke. The IV is playing, but I can't focus. I flick my ashes in the overflowing tray resting on my chest. "Do you have to work?" she asks. "Yeah, at two," I say to her, staring blankly at the television. "That's not bad, when you done?" she asks. "Six or seven," I reply. KIOSK08 17 I �"I wish you never had to work; I wish we could be together all day long-forever. " "Well, I have to work," I say. She turns her attention to the TV It is as if I have to defend the need to work. I don't know if UNTITLED by Josh Beckwith mixed media she means it that way. Am I just being too sensitive? I have to pay the mortgage, buy groceries, cigarettes and gas. There really isn't an option. I have three hours until work, and I figure a nap would be fitting. I look at Laura. She is knee deep into a reality TV show. I recognize the one hit wonders and now-grown-up child actors. The show makes me want to puke a little bit. Laura notices me looking at her. "What?" she asks. "Nothing, I think I'm going to take a nap ," I half say and half ask. "OK," She has the bedspread wrapped around her like a flannel cocoon. I grab the blanket off the floor and pull it up to cover my ears. I begin a breathing exercise; I focus on the 18 KIOSK08 breath entering my nostrils, track it as it flows into my lungs, I imagine it traveling deep into my belly. As I exhale, I imagine the air being drawn up the length of my spinal cord and over the top of my head. I place my attention on the air leaving my lungs, exiting through the nostrils. My body is moving like the waves of an ocean, a rhythm of waves throwing themselves at the beach and getting pulled back by a relentless and powerful sea. I am shocked into a reality of Laura digging into a bag of potato chips, every movement of her hand releases disruptive crackle-waves. I raise my head off the pillow to look at her. She points the open end of the bag at me. "No" I say. My head returns to the pillow. I add the crackling sounds of a Hy-Vee brand Doritos bag to my mantra. It has been seven months since Jon died. He was her brother and my best friend. His death has been hard for both of us. I too am intimate with the pain she feels . She struggles hard with death's demons, but today decides she can return to work. Not just any job though, she doesn't want to work at some mindless job making no money and working for some creep. But that's every job. It is hard for her to look for work, which in itself is a big step that will take time to be ready for. She has many ideas. She could work at a veterinary clinic, she loves animals. She can see about working at. .. well ... she likes animals. I have a hard time feeling sorry for her during this job quest. Maybe it's because a quest means one has to leave the house. When she does leave it's after five in the afternoon and almost always in the direction of a bar. I have asked her if staying up late at night is why she can't wake up until after three. Her answer, "You're an asshole." She has to take baby steps, can't walk through Rome in day. There are days she wakes before �me. For a time my vision of her clarifies. But this promise to find ajob returns me to my myopia. Her hair is in tangles, smoke seeps out between her lips in a slow and steady exhalation. She nervously taps her cigarette. Her attention is on the computer screen of her laptop. She takes a drag from the cigarette then returns it to the ashtray. Something is wrong; she is avoiding interaction. A thick shield protects her from interruption. I imagine what is going on in that head of hers. The weight of sadness slows every action, depresses the flow of signal molecules across synaptic junctions. Is it hard to get the air into her lungs? Are her ribs fighting movement? Laura's upper right eyelid spasms, telling of a struggle between her mind and body. At times she can make me feel like I am the most important person in the world by her smile or the way she holds my cheeks between her hands to lightly support my head as we kiss. She can also be so far away in her own existence that I feel irrelevant. Her mind is her lover, her friend, and protector. While in these trances, nothing else matters; I don't matter. Sometimes I will feel it when she holds me- as if forcibly pulling, holding me tight against her reminds her we are here. But will I ever understand, be allowed to understand? She is a mysterious sea of want and denial, a home to countless shadows. In these shadows, I cannot see reality clearly. "Hey." I say. I am happy to see her out of bed. "Hey." "What!; up?" I ask "Nothing, I woke up early." I try to catch her glance, but no use. "You want breakfast?" "Nope," She says Gracie, our Husky- Dalmatian mix, is curled up tight next to her. Laura is Gracie's mom, and I the step dad. Gracie's brown eyes follow me as I cross the living room. Our two Boston terriers, Sara and Otis, prance behind me. Sniffing and snorting as they struggle to step on my heels . Gracie is comfortable in Laura's world of dissociation, a privilege one earns with tests of reliance and endurance. Such a struggle for a gift that is so easily withdrawn. Gracie's knowledge of coexisting with Laura and her shadows is far greater than mine. I go to the kitchen and grab a glass of water, start some coffee brewing and let the dogs out to the back yard. I come back into the living room. Gracie offers the only eye contact in the room. She has what I want, a place next to Laura, a seat in her inner circle, the role of protector. I don't like being on the outskirts of her world. On the outskirts I am always sorry for no reason. I am at a loss for words. Laura looks up at me. Her pupils are wide and her expression is dull. "Gracie get," I say with a snap of my fingers, she harrumphs her way off the couch. I settle in next to Laura. I put my arm around her, but earn little response. "What's up?" "I'm MySpacing." She says. "So?" "What?" "I have a new restaurant idea," I say. "What?" she says. "I want to call it Gary's Philadelphia Chinese," I tell her. "Do I even want to know?" "This is going to be awesome. See it'll be gourmet Philadelphia Chinese." I explain. "You'll have your moo goo gai pan, Szechwan beef, general Tzao's chicken, sesame shrimp, all that stuff. Sizzlin' hot Chinese food ." "That sounds great." "Oh, that's not all," she knows that's not all; I know she knows. "So you have this awesome Chinese, but then you top it with cheese, gourmet cheese. You can choose KIOSKOB 19 I �from sharp cheddar, Colby jack, Swiss, all of them. You hungry yet?" "And ... " she says. "Then you melt the cheese," I continue, "Bake the crap out of that cheese until it's golden brown." 'That's really gross." " Just wait. Then you throw sauteed onions and green and red peppers on top , shazam! " "Doesn't Chinese already have peppers and onions?" she asks. "Yeah, but this way the peppers are on top , ya know?" "You are an idiot," she says. I like getting her out of her head. I like to see her let go of the mess that surrounds her. I like it when she smiles. She thinks I'm funny. She laughs when no one else gets it. For reward I get to be with her, cuddle next to her under the covers. Chill in her cave, learn her. And this works; this makes sense to me . The one I love needing me, and me needing her. During the eighties and nineties everyone was against codependency. Now I am in a relationship that thrives on it. We depend on it, and it depends on us. This is safe and Simple. "Hey, Herold and Jen want us to come over tonight." "OK, what are we going to do?" she asks. "I don't know, just hangout," I say. "Let's see what's going on." We end up going to Jen and Herold's. She is a different person in public. She is all laughs, excited about life and happy about us. We hold hands and whisper in each other's ears. We have inside jokes about chameleons and zucchini. Our noses touch, and cheek is next to cheek. She treats me like a man; she sees me when I walk into the room, notices when I leave. Her long dusty blonde hair frames her beautiful face . She tells everyone how much she loves me. 20 KIOSK08 She talks of our plans for the future , and it is wonderful. She dances in circles with their kids and tells them memorized Dr. Seuss rhymes. "Not in a box, not with fox, " she says. "Not in a train, not in a plane." Jen and Harold's three children laugh and squirm as she tickles their bellies and riddles her words. "Hey, tell them about your new job," I say. "Oh, yeah, I got a job at Buffalo Alice," Laura says. "I'm only working weekends, but there's always shifts opening up ." Buffalo Alice is a bar downtown, on Fourth Street. I have to say, having a girlfriend working in the bar should not be a bad thing. The positives are I get any drink for a dollar, can always get beer after two, and I don't feel weird going to the bar by myself. Sounds great right? The first problem is that I like to drink too much. I don't necessarily drink often, but when I start it is difficult to stop- a run away train with no breaks and a conductor with a concussion. Cheap drinks are not the best thing for someone who's already trying to get away from life's reality. ''I'll have one distorted view of reality and two shots of jealousy, please." The next problem is the after hours parties. Laura spends all night serving drinks to drunk people, and by the end of it she needs a drink. She can always find someone having a party after the bars closes, and so we go. But I don't always go , giving rise to problem number three. She's picking up shifts during the week when I have to go to school the next morning, and sometimes on the weekends I'm wasted by nine at night and need to go home . The insecurities I have about our relationship seem to have doubled. She is a beautiful girl, who also likes to drink too much. The thought of her getting drunk and hanging out with guys until four in the morning drives me crazy. See, we hooked up a few �times while she was dating her last boyfriend before we officially started going out. I lay awake at night wondering if she has tendencies of a cheater or if I am such a great guy that our experience was special. She told me, 'Tve never cheated before." But I was there when she did. How did she think we hooked up? Stories I have heard about her cheating ways replay in my head, as I toss and tum. Is the saying, "once a cheater always a cheater" always true? It is nearing four AM and still no word from her. The dogs are deep in sleep, curled up and snoring at the end of the bed. It is difficult because I am happy Laura has a job but the night is now morning. How can she have money to go out and drink but not enough to help with bills? A car door slams. I hear Laura's voice through the open window. A minute later she is stumbling into the bedroom. In an instant fear and worry tum to anger. I'm mad she is getting home so late; I'm mad that I have to wake up early and I haven't slept a minute. She throws her purse on the floor and crawls into bed. She kisses me, and I act like I am just waking up . The anger is hot in my veins, and I don't know what to say. I want to tell her I can't do this anymore; the late nights are too much for me . I need more help with the house and dogs and bills. I want her here not out with god knows who . But what do I finally say? "Where have you been?" I say. How creative. "After work I went with Kim and Tiff to Bill's . Then we met up with Braden and we went to his house for a while and now I'm home with you . My favorite ." She pulls my face to hers and shoves her tongue into my mouth. Her mouth tastes thick of alcohol and cigarettes. "It's freaking late," I say. "I know," She says. She posnlOns herself on top of me and goes in for anoth- er kiss. She starts breathing hard . She starts licking my ear, loud and sloppy licks. I pull away "Why didn't you cam" I know where this is leading and I try to resist. "Honey, I didn't want to wake you." She pulls at my shirt; I finish the job. She runs her nails through my chest hair and then suckles my neck. The air is sour with booze. One of my rules of engagement is to never deny your partner naughty time, no matter the time. If you say no once, it is like opening the No gate. They start saying no even when they're horny, just because they know how much it sucks for you. Her finger tips draw circles around my nipples. Once they are hard, she tugs lightly at them. I grab her hips and pull her closer, our hips move in unison until it hurts to have her on top. I move her over so I can get on top . She tries to take her shirt off while rolling over and gets tangled. I help the shirt over her head and off her arms . Helping a woman take her pants and underwear off is one of my favorite things to do in life. It may be my life's greatest ambition. I like to savor it, but Laura has no time to cherish the moment. In no time she is lying naked. We roll around like crazed monkeys. "You're already done?" she says. Sexing it up with drunk Laura is kind of like selling a used car to a rich girl. She's never satisfied. "Well, yeah. " I say. I'm worn out and ready for some sleep, but that's not part of the itinerary. "Oh, OK. .. " she says, but I can tell you it's not. "I'm sorry, I'm tired and I guess um ... " "You know sometimes I just want you to screw me." She says, "Do you think you can do that?" "Yeah, I want to, too ." This is when the conversation gets weird . Let's just say the next few minutes are me explaining and justifying why I don't treat her like a whore . It is the weirdest conversation I KIOSK08 21 I �have had with a girl. It is so confusing. I was pissed at her for coming home so late , and now she is pissed at me because I don't do it properly. It just feels like a burden. This conversation is followed by her crying. She does this almost every time she comes home from the bars. She is happy, we have sex, and she finds something to argue about then ends up crying about her brother. I fall asleep holding her in my arms . I wake up worn out, still angry, ashamed, and sad. I start my coffee brewing and try to figure out what to do . Last night was crazy. I feel so confused. I try to read the paper, but the words jump all over the page. I don't know who to talk to . This is not something you can just talk to anyone about. I want to leave her right now, I want to throw her out, wake her up 22 KIOSK08 and get her out of my house. The drinking and fighting are horrible . I don't know what to do . She is so helpless and sweet one minute and then the next she is an evil thrashing little demon. I feel like I can't sit down, I can't relax, I have to keep moving. I start to clean up the house a bit then get ready for work. I take a long shower and thoroughly scrub myself with soap twice over and rub shampoo into my scalp until its hurts. Then I just let the hot water massage my forehead . Some times we can't hear our own stories. They are read to us by our daily experiences and told by the people closest to us. The shower has opened my eyes. I am ready to see matters more clearly now, so I ask myself, "Where are my glasses?" �BONDING WITH BROTHER Steam rolls Shit It happened again Shit shit shit Clarabelle groans and steams more Open the hood and wait The game has become tedious: Wait for the car to cool Chat with brother (He knows more about cars anyway) Wait for the car to cool Kick the tire (I never realized just how cool brother was) Curse Wait for the car to cool Pour the water I consistently lose this game Sit in the car Pray Drive home Cautiously and with flashers Ignore angry glances (Who drives under 55 on the four lane 7) Pull in the driveway Steam rolls Shit TREY K. BIACKBURN KIOSK08 23 I �THE LILY LIE BY LAURA HOMAN I 'm getting really tired of this music. They should get some new CD's or whatever that music comes from . Being in this damn elevator every day for the past three months is a little too much, and these flowers are heavier than you'd think they'd be. The bell dings for the fourth floor, and I step off into the sterile hallway of the hospice section of the nursing home. The smell of bleach is always strongest right here. Walking down the long hallway, I pass the woman who sits in the wheelchair all day staring down the hall. I say hello to her, but she hasn't responded in weeks . The head nurse, Susie, waves at me as I walk into the care room. "Hey Mom, how you doing today?" I say, as if she will respond. "It's beautiful outside. The birds are singing and spring is coming." Only silence follows as she sits staring straight ahead in the angled hospital bed. She looks so weak and old. She's only sixty-eight. I never really thought of my mom as old before now. Her face is pale, with sunken eyes and wrinkles outlining every smile or frown she's ever had. Her hair is limp and scraggly. She hasn't eaten for who knows how long. How much longer can her body take this punishment? I look around this room I've been in hundreds of times, and I notice how small it is. The room is plain with only one window allowing in a small breeze and a little light. There are a few odd paintings of unrecognizable landscapes only doctors seem to have. The bedside table has a vase holding dead lilies. "I brought you more flowers today They're lilies, your favorite ." "Oh aren't those pretty Miss Grace?" Susie says walking into the room. Once again, Mom makes no response. "How's she doing today? Anything changed?" I have to ask, even if I already 24 KIOSK08 know that the answer will be the same as every other day The first time her disease started to show was about a year ago . I'll never forget the day I got the phone call from her neighbor and friend, Mrs. Peterson, telling me that my mother had been wandering up and down the street for hours . Mrs. Peterson had even called out to her asking what she was doing, but Mom didn't respond. I left work, headed to Mom's house, and saw her on the side of the road at the end of her block. I pulled the car over and went after her. Calling "Mom" didn't faze her, so I started calling her name. After about five "Graces," I caught up with her and touched her on the shoulder. She was startled, like she'd been deep in thought. "Mom, what are you doing?" I said. She looked at me as though she didn't know me. It was a very strange feeling, your mother not knOwing you. "Do you know where I live?" she said like a small child. I must have given her a very strange, confused look. I can only imagine what it must have looked like. My mom couldn't remember where she lived? Was she serious? "Good joke, Mom. LetS take you home." She followed me back to my car looking a little worried, but she got in anyway I had to tell her to buckle up, like she'd never been in a car before. What was with her? When we got out of the car, Mom looked around curiously, inspecting the area. "This is my house?" She looked at me for reassurance. "Yes, Mom, you've lived here for 10 years. Don't you remember it?" I know it was a stupid question. Obviously, she didn't remember otherwise she wouldn't be so confused, but I was having a hard time �understanding. We walked up to the door and stood there for a few seconds before I put together the fact that she probably didn't know where her keys were either. I grabbed mine out of my pocket and opened the door. I walked in first and held the door for her. She stood in front of the step looking into the dim house. "C'mon Mom-It's okay" "Alright," she stepped inside. "But it doesn't look right." Standing in the entryway, she looked around while I walked farther into the house. That's when I noticed the state the house was in. My mom, usually the cleanest person I've ever known, had not cleaned the house in weeks. There were dirty dishes stacked up in the kitchen and even left out on the table. Clothes strewn on the furniture , trash on the floor, and the TV had been left on. Mom was living like a messy college student. I picked some clothes off the couch and settled her down in front of the TV I knew she'd been forgetting little things, but I didn't think it was this bad. ''I'll be right back. Just watch TV for a second." I felt like I was baby-sitting. I walked over to the neighbor'S house and knocked on the door. I'd known Mrs . Peterson for most of my life; she and my mother have been good friends . She opened the door, and asked if my mother was alright. She then led me into her living room. "I got her inside watching TV Do you know what's going on with her? She couldn't remember where she lived, and she didn't seem to recognize me." I explained what had happened, and the look on Mrs. Peterson's face got progressively more worried. "I was afraid that's what had happened. She's been forgetting things more and more nowadays. Gracie never used to be forgetful, but now I'll invite her over for tea and such, and she'll never come. I call over there and she says she forgot; she'll laugh, and say something about a senile moment, but I just don't know. " Mrs. Peterson sat down on her couch and looked down like she was thinking, or maybe even praying, I couldn't tell. I looked around the house noting how clean it was, especially compared to Mom's . Everything was in its place, no dishes in the living room, clothes all out of Sight, and the trinkets and knickknacks were dust free . I was lost in thought when Mrs. Peterson started speaking again, making me jump a little. 'The other day Gracie came over wearing the oddest assortment of clothessweatpants and a nice blouse. You know your mama. She doesn't wear sweatpants in public, especially not over to someone's house. She is far too proper for that. I asked her what she was wearing and she looked at me like I'd asked her the price of fish in Egypt or something. Things like that have been happening more and more lately I'm worried about her, Nicky" I cringed internally at the use of the name "Nicky". I hate that name, but I never felt like I could correct her. She had always been so fond of it, ever since I was little. Mom calls me that damn name too, and Mrs. Peterson had just thought it was so cute she'd never stopped using it. Blaming myself for not coming around more to check up on Mom, I asked to use the bathroom, mostly for a chance to think. The bathroom was clean and smelled like flowers . I sat down on the edge of the tub and put my face in my hands. I don't think I've ever sighed so much in my life. I didn't want it to be what I thought it was, Alzheimer's. It's a terrible word. It's been almost a year since that dreadful phone call. A parade of doctors has seen her since then and they all tell us that she KIOSK08 25 I �has a very intense kind of Alzheimer's. It is one that moves rapidly and drastically through the mind. As time went on, it became harder and harder for her to recall memories, and she became depressed. Finally, she withdrew into herself and hasn't spoken since. "She hasn't moved all day-didn't even grumble when we gave her a bath." Susie says. "Nick, it's been months since the last time she spoke. I'm so sorry." I know it's probably hopeless, but I can't bring myself to give up on her. Susie leaves me to my own thoughts and leaves the room. A book sits open on the table on the other side of the bed. Why didn't I notice that before? It looks like someone must be reading to Mom. Who could be doing that? Not many people know she's in here or that she has this condition. "Hello Darla." I hear Susie say from the nurse's station. I don't give it much thought. Someone walks into the room and my curiosity gets the better of me. "Susie, who's been reading this book?" I tum around to face her, but it isn't Susie. It's a little girl. Well I suppose "little" doesn't really fit her. She's, oh, probably about nine or so. When did I start to feel so old? I'm only forty-four, but I feel like I'm eighty. ''I'm not Susie, but I'm the one reading the book." The girl says, with her head raised proudly. "It's a book that's supposed to be for someone older, but I can read it no problem." "Oh .. .uh, who are you?" ''I'm Darla!" she says, as if I should already know that. Wearing a big smile, she walks over to the table, picks up the book, and scans the page. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Darla. I'm Nick." "I know who you are, silly." Darla rolls her eyes and laughs, but I'm confused. "Really? How do you know that?" 26 KIOSK08 "Cause, she told me." She says, pointing at my mother. I am shocked. My sensible side tells me this was a ridiculous child fantasy and could not possibly be true, but my hopeful side yearns to know more, to make it real. "How did she do that?" I have to know. "She smiles. The guy's name in this book is Nick, just like you. And when I read the name, she smiles." Darla looks very impressed with herself for figuring this out. I know I must look skeptical. I feel skeptical. Could this really be true? Could my mom still show emotion after all this time of no emotion at all? "You read to my mom?" "Yep. My grandma had the forgetful sickness too. She couldn't remember anything anymore and had to live in a place like this. She liked to read but forgot how to, so I read to her. Then she went to heaven. I like to come here and read to other people who forgot how to, like your mom." Darla says. Susie walks into the room. "It's a lovely thought," she says. "But I think Miss Grace's good days are gone, Darla. Perhaps you should move on to someone else's room. Maybe go read to someone who will still enjoy your company." Susie smiles sadly at Darla and fluffs her hair. "Miss Susie, I know she can hear me. I just know it!" Darla says firmly, crossing her little arms. "And I'm not moving! I like reading to Miss Grace." Susie nods her head with a grim smile on her face, seeming to understand that she won't change Darla's feelings, and leaves the room. Susie must have missed the first part of my conversation with Darla. Otherwise, I think she'd have something medical to say about why Mom reacting couldn't be true. I want to believe Mom's still there, somewhere inside. I want to see it. �"Darla, will you start to read, please?" I say, in the crazy hope of seeing this miracle smile. Darla settles herself on the end of the bed and begins. It's some obscure book I've never heard of, but she reads happily like it's the best fairy tale she's ever heard. She reads on, and I stare at my mother, waiting. Darla comes to a point where she says "Nick" and glances at my mom, too, while continuing to read. Mom makes no movement, no expression, and my teetering hopes come crashing down. I can feel myself breaking apart, and I look at Darla. She is disappointed. We were so excited, but nothing happened. I stand up and walk around the bed to the table with the dead flowers next to the new ones. I pick up the old ones and start to walk out. "Lilies," a weak, raspy voice says. A voice that sounds so familiar. I must be going crazy, but I stop anyway. I tum around hoping against hope and damning my stupidity for even thinking it might be possible. I look at my mom, inspecting her, trying to tell if she really had spoken, but her face remains impassive. "Keep reading," I tell Darla. Maybe this reading thing makes her brain remember things, or maybe I really have just lost my mind. Darla reads on glancing desperately at my mother from time to time. Maybe she heard it too . That would mean I'm not crazy, or both of us are. I'm not sure which one I'm hoping for more. "Nick arrived at the house and walked in the door," Darla reads and then looks furtively at Mom. "Take your shoes off, Nicky," My mother says. "Oh my God! She spoke! Mom! Mom, I'm right here. Look at me. Can you hear me? Please, Mom, please talk to me. It's Nicky!" I am practically screaming at her. I know that this probably isn't the best way LOCKED DOOR by Kate Kes photograph, film to communicate, but I can't control myself. My mother spoke. Even with me screaming at her, her face is impassive. It's as if she never spoke at all. Susie comes running in asking what's wrong. She must think that I've finally lost it. "She talked! Mom talked!" "She hasn't spoken in months, Nick." Susie looks at me like she's telling me that my puppy died. "She's not going to start now." "But she did! She told me to take my shoes off!" Oh great, that sounds even more insane. Way to go Nick. "Miss Susie, she did! I was reading the book and said that he walked inside the KIOSK08 27 I �house and she told him that! She did!" Darla is nearly bouncing with excitement, and I have a nine-year-old backing up my story, not exactly a prime witness. Susie looks at us patronizingly. "Well, show me." Susie and I practically grew up together. She's Mrs. Peterson's daughter and only about two years older than me , but right now I feel like a child again, with the adults just allowing me my dreams, nodding their heads and smiling. Darla FRAGilE byAnne Torkelson Sculpture 28 KIOSK08 begins to read another section out of the book, but nothing happens. We try again several more times, but still no response. After some time, Susie walks away. Darla goes home shortly after that too. I am left alone in the room with my mother. I keep talking to her in hopes that she'll respond, but eventually I fall silent. My mother falls asleep and I sit there watching her. It's getting late and I know I should be going but I can't drag myself away right now. I find myself bowing my head to pray. Praying is not something I do . "God, please help my mom. I'm not expecting a cure or anything. I just want a chance to tell her I love her and for her to really say it back. Not in my mind, but in reality. I just don't know how much longer I can take this. She can't hold on much longer, I know. Please God, help her somehow." I whisper amen and lean my head back in the chair. I feel so tired. Birds are singing. It's morning! I look at my watch-half past ten. I'm late for work. I pick up the old flowers I'd set on the floor next to me last night and stand up . Mom's still asleep, so I don't disturb her. I walk out quietly and shut the door behind me. The morning nurses greet me as I pass them, and I smile. Now with dead flowers, I walk down the bleached hallway into the elevator. The same song is still playing. I feel like I'm Bill Murray in a perpetual Groundhog's Day cycle, repeating the same day all the time. Only there's nothing to be learned. I get home, call into work, and tell them I'm sick. I deserve a break. I start to go through some of Mom's things that I've moved from the house into my apartment. I come to a box that's marked "Nick's Movies." I used to love running around with a camcorder and recording any old thing. I had no idea that Mom had kept those . I open the box. "Christmas '87 ," "Spring Fest '89," and "Mother's Day '91 ," are just a few of the videos . I make a movie marathon for myself, starting with Christmas. I laugh at my terrible camera skills and the random things I recorded . By Spring Fest, I'd gotten a bit better at walking around without too much dizzy- �ing movement. Mother's Day is the one I'm afraid of. I slide it into the player and watch my mother on the screen happy and healthy, completely aware of who she is and the world around her. I remember the day well. I'd made her pancakes and burned them terribly, but she forced them down with motherly love. She laughed at the present I'd brought her from an old craft store. It was a cheap lily flower pin. I hadn't known what flower was her favorite , so I guessed. "How did you know this was my favorite flower? " she said. "I just guessed. Was I right, Mom?" "Yes," she said with a laugh. "You were very right, indeed." She wore that pin every day up until the time when her memory faded. I wonder now where it is. There is a knock at the door, and I pause the movie. Mrs. Peterson is calling my name and saying "hallo, hallo ." "I'm coming, Mrs. Peterson. I'm coming." What in the world is she doing this far from home? I open the door, and I cannot for the life of me remember her first name . Could I really have grown up around her without knowing that? "Hello , Mrs. Peterson. What are you doing way out here?" "Hello, Nicky. I just came to see how you were doing." She comes into the living room. "How's your mama, dear?" "I'm doing just fine. Mom's the same as always." I say, not mentioning the happenings of yesterday. I don't want to give the poor old woman the same crazy hope I had . That hope is gone from me now anyway. "Susie called me yesterday saying you were having a fit. Said your mama had talked to you and such." She is frowning and her eyes are full of concern. Do I look sick or something? Damn it. I should have known that Susie would call her mother on me . "Oh, it's nothing to worry about. I just let it get the better of me is all. " I hope she doesn't sense the lie. If she does, she is polite enough to let it pass. "She loves you, Nicky." Mrs. Peterson's wrinkled face softens, and she looks at me with tender eyes. "She always will. Whether she remembers your face or not she will always be your mom." I feel tears begin to burn my eyes, so I look away from her. The 1V still glows with the frozen image of my mom. She's sitting on the couch laughing and holding the pin up to her shirt. I turn back to look at Mrs. Peterson, but she is staring at the Tv, her own tears welling. "Susie tells me you bring her lilies. That they're your mama's favorite flowers." She says it so quietly I can barely hear her. I nod my head, but I'm confused. What does that have to do with anything? Realizing that she can't hear my nod, I clear my throat. "That's right. " A devilish look crosses Mrs. Peterson's face like a teenager about to tell the latest gossip. "You want to know a secret?" she says, crinkling her eyes with a smile and looking back at me. "Sure," I say wondering where she could be going with this. Has she lost her mind too? "Years ago when you made her burnt pancakes for Mother's Day and gave her a pin with a lily on it, she told you that you did wonderfully because that was her favorite flower, right?" "Yeah." "Well, my dear, she lied to you. You were so proud of your gift and the fact that you'd thought it up, bought it, and surprised her all by yourself she didn't have the heart to tell you that she hated the KI OSK08 29 I �damn flower." She let out a deep throaty laugh. "And it really backfired against her. Every time you bought her a present, for years after that, it would have a lily on it." "She lied?" I say, confused. "She could have just told me." "Oh ha ha, good joke Nicky, but you would have been one broken-hearted little boy if that had been the wrong flower. Your mama knew that. So she told you lilies were her favorite, and she kept that lie up for all these years." She says, with a sweet smile. "But- " "She loves you, my dear." She turns back to stare at the image on the screen. "She loves you." The room settles into silence. I turn my attention back to the TWISTING RECLINE by Josh Beckwith Acrylic 30 KIOSK08 TV as well. Shifting in her seat, Mrs . Peterson sighs. I sit in my chair, thinking about my mom's lifelong lie. She'd lied to me every birthday, Mother's Day, and Christmas. I'd always given her flowers on her birthday, and they'd always been lilies. I walk back into my room where the frozen picture of my mother putting the lily pin on is still lingering on the TV In that image, she has a wide smile on her face, one full of love. I promise myself that I will always remember her just like that: young, beautiful, and full of life. With tears running down my cheeks, I stare at the picture on the TV and say, "I love you too, Mom. I love you too ." �2,174 MILES When you're sixty eight and still kickin' it, we'll take a trip down the Appalachian trail and make trail mix, with things we gather. That same coffee mug you'll carry for all 2,000 miles, through New Jersey and Vermont, That same shirt you'll wash in rivers, scrubbing red plaid alongside wide-eyed trouttheir scales are small rainbows on mirrorsstopping into town to rinse your feet in spewing gutters, the rusted gutters of cafes. Cafes are cheating, you'll say. Not roughing it. Ha! I'll say. These awful chili fries are rough enough. I'll add them to the trail mix, along with the razor blade, the fork, and the space blanket. Along with the Polaroid of Geoff, the one legged hiker, and the wild boar he befriended. When Geoff stops to rest, leaning on his crutch, wiping away the sweat of the afternoon sun, the boar lingers, and sniffs the space where Geoff's foot had been, and snorts heavily, expecting food. AUDREY BANTLA KIOSK08 31 I �WHEN IRISH EYES ARE SMILING Why do you damned Americans find me so interesting? I'm nothing more than a regular full-blooded Irishman, yet you all find it so intriguing that I came to Iowa of all places, I have an Irish accentI hold my liquor better than youI speak twice as fastI have been to more countries then you can find on a map. Americans are the most ignorant race on the face of the planet. I tell you tosspots I don't have a job, I live off pots of gold at the end of rainbows and capture the leprechauns to become my servants. I have over thirty of them, I keep at least two under my bed You hear my accent, and instantly stereotype Drunk Potato Scavenger Four leaf clover collector Blarney stone kisser Shamrock enthusiast Shillelagh swinging Brawler. KYLE THAYER 32 KIOSK08 �AVOIDING PREGNANCY Kiri, the healer, told the couple to move their arms and yell "We're not ready for you!" She said, "You don't need condoms to maintain your freedom and certainly no oral contraceptives." The way it works, you see, is that the spirit of the child enters at the point of climax. If you tell it not to come, it won't, but you must be careful. Because if the spirit does come inside, you will have a child. It is very important for both of you to flail your arms in a pushing motion and yell as loud as you can when you reach that point. It will work and the spirit will not join your union and you will not have a pregnancy. After a year of practicing this method, Susanna got pregnant. John, the music-therapist, had to play faster songs so he could treat more patients and save up money for their coming baby. "It's a boy." Suzie said. "Oh, did you get an ultrasound?" I asked. "No, Kiri told us. Kiri said, 'He's a very strong spirit. We should be honored Because he chose John and 1.' We weren't ready before, but Kiri says that we are now." PHILLIP LIEDER KIOSKOB 33 I �AN ODD BIT On a hot morning On a little beach On a pond in Iowa I was told to pick up trash Latex gloves, a five-gallon bucket. I went forth across the mini-desert There were cigarette butts There were beer cans There were diapers There were pop bottles There were swimsuits There were fast food sacks And other odd bits. I would cuss at the hooligans who defiled this place by carving gang signs in all of our signs. Los Lobos, 16th Street Locos, Beaners were here and such. I painted over it at least ten times this summer. I knew they left all the cigarette butts beer cans, diapers, pop bottles, fast food sacks, swimsuits and other odd bits. Near the water's edge some plastic stuck out of the sand. Odd bit I leaned over, picked it up and hoisted a large-mouth bass from the sand. 34 KIOSK08 �A great trophy now in hand on a Necromancer outdoor show. Maggots roiled about like boiling rice pudding. Horrified by my thumb in the cellophane jaws, I cringed. My reaction to toss it provided much fish-food and I fought my gag reflex as the smell lingered. KIEL PLOEN KIOSK08 35 �THEVILLAIN BY JONATHAN GREEN . W ith a bottle of Ancient Age in his left hand and a case of Coors in his right, Jeremy Tout tried to fumble the door to his apartment open. It was a Friday night, and he was desperately trying to figure out what to do for supper. Walking into the living room, he placed the beer in his dorm fridge that he now used for booze. He put the bottle of whiskey on top of the fridge, and grabbed a clean, if somewhat dusty lowball and poured himself a healthy dose . He had neglected to buy soda, so straight whiskey and beer were the choices tonight. Tout sipped his dram while he meandered into the kitchen. Clicking on the cheap fluorescent light over the sink, he read for the hundredth time the bumper sticker he had hung there: May god be with you on your quest for a clue That's about how he felt tonight; indeed, it was how he felt most nights. He grabbed a banana and walked back into the living room, turned on some music, and turned out the lights, firing a few tea light candles as he walked from fixture to fixture . And then he stood up again. He quickly ate the banana, and walked to the garbage, throwing away the peel. Tout walked back to the couch and resumed his seat. And then he quit his seat, again. This time, he had forgotten his cigarettes. Tout grabbed them from the desk across the room, thinking himself very clever to remember the matches and ashtray. A third time he settled into his preferred comer of the couch, letting his legs dangle over the edge, he slouched. He sloshed the whiskey around in the glass, and finished it before lighting a cigarette. The Diamond sparkled as he scrapped it 36 KIOSK08 along the sole of his boot, and then he placed the glowing orb to the tip of the Marlboro , inhaling that first drag, a mixture of sulfur and smoke. It burned, but no more than the whiskey. ... and thinking of whiskey, he poured himself another, between puffs of the cigarette, and he drew a beer from the refrigerator. Tout hastily drank the whiskey this time , now that he had acclimated to it. He did not yet open the beer; it was some matter of personal pride to him to drink straight spirit without conSidering a chaser. He put the glass down on the fridge, and then put out the Marlboro in the ashtray, also on the fridge . Looking through the glass of the dispensary for spent smokes, he noticed, again for the hundredth time, the bumper sticker he had affixed to the top of the fridge : The least you can do to a man is kill him That particular sticker was a good one to contemplate when he was drinking, Tout thought, and grabbed the beer, cracking it open to the satisfying sound of a little more relaxation just sips away. He had thought about that particular bumper sticker so long now it wasn't even thinking. Like a path trodden through golden grass in his head, he had trampled a circular path around the thing. The grass would not grow anew; he just walked the same path over and over again, thinking and thinking. On the one hand, he could completely understand the sentiment: once you're dead, there isn't much left to complain about. It'd be like a big nap and the alarm clock would never go off. Sounded kind of nice. But on the other hand, death was bullshit. Tout was young, but he had seen enough death to know that it wasn't some- �thing to be celebrated. A character on a TV show had once said that there was no dignity in death, or something like that. Something like that. His head swirled around the conflicting ideas of death as a permanent holiday and death as being the end of everything. Could you enjoy a holiday if you couldn't think anymore? No , but you couldn't be pained, either. The music skipped, a loud, electronic, obnoxious sound, and jarred his mind out of the rut. Without willing it, without meaning it, without even realizing it, his head settled back down to a slightly different spot than it had found itself in before the jolt. Just outside of the rut. Tout had always thought that the bumper sticker implied something painful. But now the words reformed in his skull, rearranging themselves in a new way. Death is of the greatest insignificance His mind had gone off of the rails, like it sometimes did. More rarely now did he enjoy these superfluous moments of inSight, but when they did come there were manna. He was racing around in the badlands in his brain, feeling out the dynamics of this new idea, this reassessment. It was almost to a destination of sorts, the excitement rising in him. Trout Sipped beer as coolly as if he were matching socks after laundry. But inside there was a symphony tuning before the show, and the tension was mounting. The candles seemed to bum brighter for a moment; the music was louder. Something whacked him in the temple , and he thought he might pass out for a moment. He was seeing stars. Nearly dropping his beer, Tout steadied himself with his free hand, feeling ill. With some sense of balance regained, he put that left hand to his temple, trying to discover what had struck him. The candles returned to their dull flicker, and the music was again a familiar tune he knew much like the palm of his hand: intimate, close, loyal, boring, familiar, familiar. There was another knock on the door. The blow to his head had been a knock. He had been so engaged in his thinking that it had hurt when his concentration had been broken. The knock was harder now, but it did not hurt at all. Tout, beer in hand, walked slowly to the door. The floor creaked below his feet, but there was yet a third knock when he had put his hand on the handle , already turning. The knob had turned as far as it could travel, and his palm slipped across it as he continued to twist. His palm was sweaty. He pulled the door open. Trout nearly thrust the door closed again. The vestibule light was off, and there were but three tea lights burning in the apartment. The door obscured two of them, and the third was directly behind him. The only light bounced around him, hitting her face indirectly. But he would have known the face in darkness; even with the music playing he knew the sound of her breath. If he hadn't been so deep in thought when she had knocked, he would have known that, too, he thought. He stood there, feeling his hair turning grey; the vitality draining out of him. The least you can do to a man is kill him Death is of the greatest insignificance Jeremy Tout felt nothing happening, he felt himself suffering the greatest insignificance. His breathing had stopped; the beer was slipping from his fingers. All of the weight of his body was suddenly below his knees, the rest of him a shell and ready to float away. He had fouled his one chance to slam the door closed before this happened. But hope KIOSK08 37 I �had trumped experience, instinct was bested by longing. He had failed to do the hard thing, and now he was suffering a long death. She stood there, looking back at him, inspecting him, critiquing him. He felt her breath, and he shuddered. Her gaze moved upon him and felt lighter than a feather across his skin. The hair on his neck, in a last act of desperation, stood straight. He could feel his heart dying. RAINY DAY byAnne Torkelson Mixed M edia 38 He exhaled. Time returned to normal. His palm had been sweating, but now everything was . It seemed as if he had sweat through his shirts in a matter of seconds. Chemicals were coursing through his body in a way that he could only begin to understand, in a way he could not control. He inhaled. Control seemed to return. He released the doorknob , and transferred the beer to that hand, to try and stem the sweat. He swallowed. "Come in." He slowly backed away from the door, pivoting to his right, as if he were but an extension of the wooden thing. She crossed the threshold, a step at first, examining the lay of the furniture , and then advanced ahead a second step. She was clear of the door. Tout closed the door behind her, and turned to her. She was facing away from him. He looked at the back of her head, trying to focus his mind. His glance drifted down ... But he marshaled his control and placed his gaze directly on the back of her head again. He forced himself to take a quick swig of beer, trying to regain some sense of normalcy. This, of course, would have been normal five years ago . He walked ahead of her a step, to the coffee table, and set his beer down. Again, he turned, this time to her. "Can I take your coat?" She nodded, and they came together for a moment. He put his left hand on her left shoulder, gently grasping her coat, while she lowered that side of her body, allOwing the wool that had draped her figure to gently slide down her arm. Her arm was not stiff, but fell to her side straight. He moved behind her, taking up the coat, as she arched her shoulders as if to stretch, only to let the slack in her body move to the right side. The rest of the coat fell away from her, limp , into his hands . He hung her coat from the tree next to the door. She had already seated herself. "Something to drink?" She gently shook her head. Tout nodded and walked to the end KIOSK08 I �of the couch: his spot, next to the dorm fridge . He bent over, put that clammy left hand on the bottle of whiskey, but then thought better. Tout left his hand there for a moment, though, and tried to herd the tomcats running around inside his gut and head . He stooped further and grabbed another beer from the fridge, carefully set it down on the table and collected the first can, finishing the last drink. Tout walked to the garbage and dropped the empty can in. He returned to his seat, his spot. He sat, and leaned forward, opening the second beer. The sound was the same; the sound was somehow different. The furnace was running, but he was cold. The flicker of the tea lights looked more like that from the cheap fluorescent in the kitchen than warm candle fire. He again forced himself to drink. "How are you?" he asked. There was a bit of beer in his mustache, and a stream dribbled down his chin, wetting his beard as well. She cocked her head and squinted, almost imperceptibly. Wrong question. "Howls Frank?" Tout asked. "He IS dead." Again the weight inside shifted. He was sitting. His feet were iron bricks, his ass, lead. He thought he might sink through the couch and fall through the floor beneath. Gravity would pull him to the center of the earth. The least you can do to a man is kill him He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them again. The light from the tea lights was still cold. Any warmth had left now; he was cold, almost shivering. He was sweating again, more. "How?" She scoffed. "You killed him." He grimaced and set his jawbone like a stone, pushing his tongue out against his teeth, probing them, making sure they hadn't rotted and fallen away. He forced another drink of beer and, trembling, poured more whiskey. The beer in his left hand, the bottle in his right. "I really wish you would quit drinking." He took a long drink of the whiskey. It, too, dribbled down his chin, and a few drops dripped onto his chest. He took another long drink, emptying the glass. He set it down on the fridge, and he lighted another Marlboro. "Drinking won't bring him back. It won't make you feel better, either." He could feel that insignificance boiling up in him again, like a fire leaving only ashes behind. He took a drag. "When is the service?" He drank beer. "Yesterday. " They both sat there in silence for a few moments. He finished his cigarette, and punched it out in the ashtray. She reached her hand out, now stiff, like there were competing forces at work. She wiggled her hand in a circle, twice. Tout handed her the ashtray, and she removed a small pipe from a purse Tout had not noticed. She produced a lighter, and put spark to bowl. "That won't help either, Rachel." He drank beer. The least you can do to a man is kill him Tout hadn't done much for Frank. "It helps me deal with you." Her voice was flat. She inhaled and coughed a moment later. "1'11 have a drink of water. II Tout walked to the kitchen, fumbling for a glass in the near darkness. He opened the freezer, grabbed a handful of ice cubes, and then poured water. He took the glass to the couch and offered it to her. His arm was half extended, with the glass at its terminus. She finished KIOSK08 39 I �inhaling, and set the pipe down, taking the water. She snorted a wisp of smoke out of her nose and exhaled a moment later. She coughed again and drank water. Tout drank beer. Again she stuck her arm out. "You want some 7" Tout shook his head. "I've got enough vices as it is." "If man is the sum of his vices, you're the biggest man around." She sipped water. "Didn't you have a bumper sticker that said that once?" "No , I just said it a lot." She tapped the bowl against the ashtray and then smoked what she had missed. "Well, you were half right anyway." Tout lighted another cigarette. "If man were the sum of his vices, you would be the biggest man around. But man isn't the sum of his vices. You are a real piece of shit." She said the last sentence with a diction that could cut smoke. "What happened to Frank?" She snorted, this time because something was funny. "I told you; you killed him. He drank himself into old age , and old age killed him, and you drove him to drink." "Why are you here?" "I just wanted to let you know what I think of you ." With that, she stood and grabbed her coat. She did not tum around and she did not even put the coat on. Sh~ transferred the purse into her right hand , under the coat draped over her right arm, and she opened the door. She did not bother to close it. Tout drank beer. He could hear her footsteps walking down the vestibule. The outer door opened. He heard the screen door creak on dry hinges. The screen door slammed shut. The phone rang. Tout drank beer. 40 The least you can do to a man is kill him The phone rang. Tout drank beer. The phone rang. "Hello ." Tout said into the receiver, as a pronouncement, not a greeting. "You're supposed to follow me you asshole ." Cell phones don't click when they hang up . But she was gone . Tout stood. May god be with you on your quest for a clue Tout walked to the vestibule, and then turned the comer, breaking into a trot. He managed to get to and through the screen door without killing himself or destroying the door. Tout could see Rachel walking down the block. He sped up to catch her. She was crossing the street now, to a car parked in a gap between the street lights. Tout didn't run to the end of the block but crossed diagonally. She slammed th~ door. He was running toward the rear of the sedan. He couldn't see inside. The car started. It began to pull away. Tout was nearly there now. At the stop sign, the car did stop. The right tum signal flashed . The car went around the comer as Tout jumped the curb. The car hit him and stopped. Tout collected himself and feebly stood. He approached the passenger door and fumbled for the handle. As he pulled, and noted that it was locked .' the window slid down. As the tinted window disappeared, things behind it became visible. First Tout saw his sister, who was staring straight ahead. The window continued upon its descent. Then Tout saw his father. The warmth was back. The streetlights were a pleasant golden, and their radiation reflected off dew down on the dirt, the grass, and the road . This was the wrong KIOSK08 I �car. He felt dizzy, like he had bumped his head or drunk too much Where had the other car gone? "Hello , Jeremy," his father whispered. "How are you son?" Tout collapsed onto the sidewalk He felt the wet of the pavement soak through his jeans and then his undergarment. His back was against the door, and he was drained. He felt his fatherls hand in his hair, tousling it like when he was a child. "I had a nightmare," Tout said, also a whisper. Death is the ultimate insignificance "Itls alright. Jim here . You Ire with me now." Tout was getting wet. Was it raining? His pants were soaked, and the dew had crept up to his gut now. "Wherels sis?" he bumbled. "11m here," she said, but coldly. "Jim here," Tout said. "Jim here," his father whispered. The dew was heavy and coming faster now. His gut and his pants were wet. His was standing in a puddle, his vitality flowing out of him as if she had turned on a spigot. She was looking into his eyes, and he gazed back at her. She was crying. She crouched down on her knees, and put the gun on the floor. She stood again, looking into his eyes, and he gazed back at her. "The least you can do to a man is kill him," she said, crying freely now. Tout could feel the insignificance building, the moisture descending. She stood there , looking back at him, inspecting him, critiquing him. He felt her breath, and he shuddered. Her gaze moved upon him and felt lighter than a feather across his skin. The hair on the neck, in a last act of desperation, stood straight. He could feel his heart dying. He exhaled. He collapsed. She joined him. He stood there, feeling his hair turning grey, the vitality draining out of him. The least you can do to a man is kill him Death is of the greatest insignificance Jeremy Tout felt nothing happening; he felt himself suffering the greatest insignificance . His breathing had stopped; the beer was slipping from his fingers . All of the weight of his body was suddenly below his knees ; the rest of him was a shell and ready to float away. He had fouled his one chance to slam the door closed before this happened. But hope had trumped experience, instinct was bested by longing. He had failed to do the hard thing, and now he was suffering a long death. KI OSK08 41 I �WHERE'S THE INSPIRATION the whiskey goosebumps and the whiskey shits and the whiskey freefall and my whiskey hips that have only the weight of my skirts that sway rarely -they lack flirt and I reach for a bottle of bourbon or cheap whiskey to work on there's nothing to work on in the morning but the growing frustration and loathing of self and therefore everyone and pity and should we extrapolate some meaning from the way we organize our soup cans can we find a way of seeing through the chicken noodle into the profound - or are we bound to repeat Pete and use his method- alphabetical order of invention- how often we cook in the kitchen or should we stop and mention mean is the average connotation and alleviate it at that I drag on I swagger some I blame the whiskey (it blames me) JESSI BERGIN 42 KIOSK08 �THE ISLAND BY A UDREY BANTU y ou see Ana, there was a time when I was not very honest, no , no , not very honest at all. I was a bad man, but your mother straightened me out. I'm getting ahead of myself. Would you like two scoops of chocolate or vanilla? Both? You are smart girl. See when I was little, about your age, I wanted to be a magician. But my father, he shook his head and laughed at me, told me to go into carpentering like him. "11 n'est pas pratique, Henri. Non pratique." He wanted me in an honest, hardworking career. "Manual labor will make you a good man," he said "An honest man." Still, I did not listen to him, no , no , and your Uncle Claude and I would make the cat disappear. Well, first we learned how to make small coins and rocks disappear. My Maman did not like that at all. I could hide it behind my hand and up into my sleeve and many other things, but I will not give away my special secrets. I went to Universite, to study theatre and business, and it was a lot more working than I expected, but do not think your father is a lazy man. Well, perhaps at the time I was. In my spare time, I would do my shows of magic, making money. Your Uncle Claude was very good at convincing, and he convinced me to not study as much as I should. "Henri!" he'd say, ''There are places we could be right now. Ladies we could be entertaining. Put away your books and let's go." I did some bad things, Ana, and Universite was not happy. I got a little job handing out fliers by a small theatre, but that job was no fun . I began to entertain myself by borrowing the watches of passersby, and selling them back for a small price. "Did you drop this?" I'd say. It was the look on their faces that amused me. First, confusion, and then flusterment. Yes, yes, I know it was wrong, but it was a nice way to pay for my lunches. That's how it started, and then Claude taught me the better tricks. The mustard trick, and selling roses to tourists while unzipping waist bags. We went to fine restaurants , and at the end of the meal-after the soup and the wine and the salad and coffee, we would place a cockroach on the plate. Free! I lived this way for a long time. I would have a small job that was very easy, and would in the meantime work on my magic and get a little extra money with my special tricks . They are not nice tricks, Ana. And I am ashamed now, but at the time I was very stupid, and thought they were fun. Now my Papa never found out about this, but my Maman probably knew. She would glare at me as I came to visit sometimes, peeling her potatoes with a brutality I had never seen, and say, "Up to your old tricks, Henri?" and I would say, "Working in a bakery? Yes, I am very tricky at baking." I think one of my friends, maybe Matteo or Patrick may have released the beans to her. "One day you will tell me the truth, Henri," said Maman. "And my son will be a good boy." My favorite place to work was Nice, especially in Spring time. Americans and Germans and Poles would come for Carnaval; the crowds would be big, distracted by the giant puppets and dancers, and I could slip here and there in the crowds and pick up wallets. One morning, during Carnaval, I went into a bakery for breakfast, paid for my scone, and saw a pretty American woman. She was not very smart; she was carrying a big bag that was wide open and was buttering a croissant with smiling on her face . I knew from her smiling she must be a tourist, having her first real croissant in her first French bakery. I saw an opportunity. I bumped past her, spilling butter on her shirt. KI OSK08 43 I �MARINA by John Poge digitol photogroph "Pardon, Mademoiselle. So SOrry," I said, and took a few napkins from the counter. "It's alright," she said. "No, no , no. I am such a clumsy." I knew I could distract her with my charming accent, like I had to so many ladies so many times before. "Let me help." Her face was turning red, and while she was watching me wipe the shirt, I slipped her wallet out of her bag and put it in my pocket. "This is for the best," she said. "The shirt's a little too obvious." There was a United States flag on her shirt. "Tourist," she said. She had little creases around her mouth like she laughed all the time. "No, no, no, you are just local, just like me," I said. Then I squeezed the napkin into a ball and threw it into the trash can. "Two points for me! " 44 KIOSK08 She smiled, and there was more creases on her face. She was laughing at me. "What? You think we have no basketball here, mademoiselle?" I said, and began to make my exit, walking backward out the door. "Then you are stupid, stupid American." She waved. It was very wrong for me to steal your mother's wallet, Ana. That is one thing I would like you to remember. Would you like another cherry on your sundae? Ok, dear, have three. Anyway, it was the last thing I ever stole, and it got me your mother, so maybe just that one thing was okay after all? As I walked to my hotel that night, I got a chance to see her wallet more closely. She was Cynthia Gordon, was 26, 5 feet 5 inches. She was an organ donator. She was also very pretty. I also had her passport, visa, and euros. I turned the comer, said hello to Emmilio the doorman and stopped by the lounge for a quick drink before 1'd go to sleep. There she was! Sitting with the same United States flag shirt and big bag, talking to Damon, the barman. They were laughing very loudly, even Damon was laughing, and I have never even seen him smile. I tried to tum around before she saw me, but it was too late. She saw me and waved. "Henri, here for your cognac?" said Damon. He had already poured it, so I had no choice. "Yes." Cynthia pulled out the chair beside her, and I sat. Her wallet was burning a hole in my pocket. "Hey stranger," said Cynthia. "Hey who?" I said. "Never mind." "What do you think of Nice?" I said. "It's nice." She turned to Damon, a laugh leaking out. "Nice is nice!" The two laughed as if they had known each other �all their lives. Damon's thick mustache was dancing, and he was spilling the orange juice as he poured it. Cynthia finally stopped laughing and turned to me in her chair. "Say, guess what happened to me today?" I knew exactly what had happened, but I am a very good actor, and so when she told me her wallet was missing, I acted surprised. "It was my fault for putting everything in that wallet- my passport, ID, most of my spending money, flight numbers" She traced the top of her glass with her finger as she spoke. She had very small fingers . "They told me not to do that, but I have a problem with authority, and I couldn't resist." "You poor, poor dear," I said. "Damon, could I have another?" said Cynthia. 'Tll make you a nice one," he said, and they laughed again. Who was this girl that could make the statue-like barman, whom I had known for years, and never saw once even smile, laugh like a little boy? He placed two glasses, one large one filled with milk and a small one filled with syrupy chocolate, in front of her. "Merci," she said, and took little sips of each, puffing her cheeks before swallOwing. She must have seen my confused look. "This way they don't mix until I want them to ." Americans are so strange. She smiled. ''I'll be here for at least two weeks waiting for the paperwork to clear." "You poor, poor dear," I said. No you see, she had said, really it was all for the best. She was here for a leadership conference, for her graduate universite, and hadn't had much time to really enjoy herself. Everyone had left, as she struggled to straighten out her paper work. Her university would help cover the theft. The weight of her wallet became smaller in my pocket. "And so you are here for two weeks with no plans?" I said. She tipped back the little glass of chocolate, and the cocoa made a grainy river down to the edge. She set it down, and seemed to see me for the first time. "What will I do to pass the time? Hang around with you?" "You poor, poor dear," I said. Not doing it right? Is there really a bad way to build a sundae? What is so wrong with the chocolate and vanilla ice cream being in the same bowl? You are obsessed with this "mooshing" idea, Ana. It is so silly. All the ice cream will end up in the same place, your tummy. You're just like your mother. Did you know, she would drink one drink of milk and then have one spoonful of chocolate, one after another? She also had a separate spot on her plate for sauce and for pasta. What are you doing now? I tell you it is a shame to use three bowls to eat one delicious sundae- you're really missing out. I think you may be wrong about this "mooshing" idea, I think it might be a nice thing. Why are you upset? Haven't I the right to eat my sundae any way I want to? Now there, what's the matter? Fine, fine , you win. Here, now don't be sad, they're all separate again. Sometimes I wonder if I shall ever understand you. And if you don't stop worrying about cherries and chocolate how will I ever finish telling my story? One of the lessons I learned is that you can't hide something forever. Your mother had charmed me instead of me charming her. In a week we claimed the city as ours, and I showed her the hidden streets and unknown places of Nice. We owned Ie Pub d'Alfonso, and Pierre's Crepes et Steaks. Lucrece would cackle at us, behind her big wart- I tell you Ana, her wart was as big as this cherry right here- and KIOSKOB 45 �FORT WARDEN byGrant W ittstrucK digital photograph by the end of the week, she knew Cynthia by name, and her usual order. I was happy with her not knowing I had her wallet, with her stuck in Nice with me , running down halls of the hotel, from her room to my room, borrowing films from the lobby like, "Attaque des CowBoys de Mutant," happy with her head on my shoulder, telling me , 'Tm glad I'm stranded here ." We were on an island, she said. An island called Henri's hotel room 331, and she was content to stay, eat coconuts, and order eggs from downstairs. We would just lie on our island, watching the planes fly overhead, doing nothing to call them to our rescue . We would stay and catch fish with our bare hands, she said, and I would introduce her to island natives: my papa and maman, and Matteo, and Claude, whom I had told her much about. She could not meet Claude, not now. I would have to telephone him first, tell him to not say all the truth to her. She could not know about my habits. Even if she met Maman, she might say something suspicious, out of spite. Cynnie hadn't asked me how could I pay for living such rich hotel, how could working in a small bakery pay 46 KIO SK08 for our outrageous dates, and she would start asking soon. "What is it?" Cynthia must have seen the worrying on my face . "It is nothing. I am just tired from a whole day running around the Promenade with you . You stole my bicycle too many times." Stole. Why did she have to use that word? I kept glancing at my bureau, the top drawer, where I had stashed her wallet. "No, somethings wrong. What's wrong?" "Just a little sleepy But we can sleep all morning tomorrow." I had to get to the drawer somehow, find a better place to put it. I tried not to look at it-tried to think of something to do to distract her. "We'll sleep till noon, then I will sneak into the kitchen past those cooks, and make you eggs myself. Maybe I'll find you a coconut, too ." Cynthia's face sank, and looked at me the worst way in the world. Her lip was pouting out. "I know when you're lying." She said it whispering. "What do you mean? I would never lie to you." I could not convince myself of that; I must not have convinced her either. "Is it something in the drawer? You're acting strange." "Cyn, no- " I couldn't stop her. She got to the top drawer before I could. That second that she stared at the pink wallet- her wallet,was the worst moment in the world. I thought of our week together, how she kept stealing my bicycle, and riding it in circles around me , how I chased her but never could catch her. I thought of the long nights on the Promenade, walking from the pubs into the cool night air but feeling so warm- how surely it was all over now. "It was you?" She wouldn't look at me . I stumbled on words, but in the end, �couldn't deny it. "Yes." She was left, crossed the hall, and went to her room. I followed . She was stuffing clothes into her suitcase. "Cynnie, please." "Don't call me that." She was frantic now, grabbing everything in handfuls and dropping them into the suitcase. "I didn't know you- I was going to tell you ." "But you didn't. You didn't tell me. Is this what you do? Steal from trusting, naive people like me-stupid Americans-so you don't have to work as hard?" How could I say no? I tried to touch her shoulder, tried to calm her, but she shook me off. "I can't believe I fell for this," she said, moving past me to the bathroom. She grabbed a bar of soap, some hotel towels, and put them in her bag. "I was going to stop- as soon as I got to know you, I was going to stop." "Our dates-the ferry ride- how did you pay for those?" "Don't ask me that." "How did you pay for them?" She finally was still, looking at me for the first in all of this, holding a toothbrush and floss. It was as if my answer would decide whether or not I could be forgiven, but I couldn't lie, not to her face , not the way she was looking at me . "We can start over," I said. "Oh]esus." She tried to leave the bathroom, but I stood in the doorway, and she bumped against me. "We can try again. " I put my arms around her. "We'll start all over." She shoved my hands off and got past me, gathering her things. "I don't even know who you are ." "I want to tell you. " 'Tm finding a new hotel, Henri." There was one thing I could say, one thing I could do to fix this, but it would be hard. There would be risks. 'Tll prove it." She hesitated. I took her to see Maman and Papa, took her to the little apartment they shared, where Maman was making a casserole of noodles and chicken, and the room was full of the smell, and Papa was stretching his hands at the end of a long day. They were surprised to see me, I rarely visited anymore. And Maman insisted we sit down, and eat, eat, that we were not fat enough, and at the end, as Maman brought us coffee, I told them the truth. Everything. Told them how I had really made my living- of my years of pocket picking, scams, and forged checks-and why I was removed from Universite. Their faces were hard at first, and sad, but I told them about Cynthia, that she was my good girl. And I would pay back my debts, as much as I could, slowly. I still had many of the IDs of American tourists, with their addresses. I would wire them some money as I earned it, (it would be impossible to send back all the money I had stolen). I waited, looking at the hard face of my father. I remember all the things he had muttered after working in the shop , mutterings of what was right and what was wrong. He only charged fair prices, and was proud of it. Maman got up from her chair, slowly, went to the cabinet, and pulled out a cake. She sliced it, and the icing clumped up around the knife. "It's that Claude of ours that's the real bastard. He was the one that started you with magic tricks." Then she served us cake. KIOSKOB 47 �RAILROAD by Sarah Chambers digitol photograph CALAMITY JANE BOOT PACKAGING by Kate Kes graphic design BRIDGE PAN by John Page digitol photograph 48 KIOSK08 �(UFFS OF MOHR by Andrea Thompson digitul photugraph UNTITlED by Jessica Niemeyer digital photograph MAN OR MACHINE by Billy Mallen pen and ink, digitul KIOSK08 49 I �BOATS IN THE LAKE DISTRICT, ENGLAND MICHAEL PHElPS by Renee Morgon digitol photograph by Mock Moschmeier pen ond ink, digitol GRAPHIC PHOTOGRAPHY by Phil Andrews digitol photograph 50 KIOSK08 �SPRING RAIN When the sky has finished crying and the sun reaches its rays across the rounded blueness that remains , I can be found trying not to be found in the backyard by the oak tree. Traces of blue sky's tears moisten the cat-tongue bark making it peelable, pliable, and play-with able. Hunks of bark make great canoes for termite captains and their sturdy crew to sail softly down the street's stream that gathers below the curb. Unlike other insects, termites don't use twigs to steer bark vessels because they tend to get hungry along the way. Instead they let the current take over while the boss shouts orders that won't be filled. Watching these floaters drift down the clear stream makes me imagine that I'm the bark canoe, sturdy and rough around the edges. Their legs tickle my stomach as they crawl over me to reach my ears to crawl inside and nibble on my brain. Some remain in my head, enjoying their meal while others bring bits out, gnashing the ray mush between their jaws, eyes shining with gratitude for the meal I offer them. Termites always smile like they mean it. TAVIA K NU DSEN KI OSK08 51 I �DRY SPELL BY RANDY U HL . S unday morning and already Fern had bees in her head. Her arm-length todo list buzzed an infinity pattern in her thoughts so chaotic that if she didn't stop to prioritize, she was convinced she would break into hives . She knew she had to water the hydrangeas and stonecrop out back. With temps in the lower nineties today they would certainly need attention. However, she also knew that it was best to water in either early morning or early evening, and since it was neither, she decided her flower garden would take low priority. That was easy, she thought. Let's try another. Fern had laundry to do , but that, too , could wait until later. She could wash, dry, and fold while catching up on her Tivo. The thought of sitting Indian-legged like Pocahontas while drowning in warm socks, dryer sheets, and taped reruns seemed more like a reward than a chore. Mid-priOrity, she decided. "Carrot cake!" shouted Fern, clapping her hands together, "I made carrot cake." Fern had almost forgotten that the night before she had made dessert to take to Sunday brunch after church. Fern did not attend services herself, but she did enjoy visiting with those who were "on God's good side" as she called them. Often she would bake stiCky rolls, apple crisp, or some other sickeningly sweet confection. Out of earshot from the reverend, they would call her the "baking sinner," and with a teasing smile, she would tell them all to go to hell. The parishioners always reminded her she had an open invitation to attend prayer and she thanked them, but as of late, throwing wishes to the wind fell to almost the bottom of her list. Fern looked at the kitchen clock to check her time. She saw that it was noon and God was about to "close shop." The thought of God turning over the "open" sign 52 KI05K08 and locking the door made her giggle. She grabbed the car keys that hung on a large wooden key by the door just below the letter holder and placed them on the counter. Pulling the cake from the icebox, she was careful not to disturb the icing. Last night she carefully placed toothpicks in the top of the cake and draped cellophane over it, but didn't have quite enough to cover it all. She was careful not to puncture the exquiSitely made carrot in the center of the cake. Orange icing came to a point with deep forest green tendrils tangling and winding to spell out "Fern's Garden." It was her extra touch that her "saved" friends always complimented. Staring at the orange vegetable reminded her of something ... or to do something, she wasn't quite sure. Then it hit her like a pie in the face . How could I have forgotten to feed him? The poor thing must be starving. The carrot jarring Fern's memory couldn't have been more obvious. Her caged pet rabbit on an old folding table in the laundry room had not been fed this morning. Leaving the keys and the cake in the kitchen, she darted down the hall. When she reached the cage, her mouth went arid and thoughts of Tivo, laundry, and hungry Christians evaporated. She opened the cage door and put her hand through until her fingers sank deep into the white shag fur. The rabbit's side was warm, still, motionless. Had I been here minutes earlier, she thought, but couldn't finish the strand. She reached her other hand into the cage as she had done so many times and with practiced action she scooped the animal in her grasp and gently lifted him out. Fern raised him up and buried her face into him. She breathed deeply, and her head swam in sawdust and clover. Her poor lost la Lluvia, named after the Spanish village where her husband took �her on their honeymoon. He had given the rabbit as an Easter gift to Fern and insisted she name him la Lluvia. But Walter never could pronounce "la Lluvia" could he? "la Boobia," she whispered. This was the last gift he gave her and Fern couldn't help but feel she was losing Walter all over again. As if trying not to wake him, she tiptoed the broken cargo in her arms out of the laundry room, down the hall, and to her bedroom. Fern delicately rested the pet on the pillow that once belonged to her husband and kneeled next to the bed. With long strokes from top to tail, she caressed him softly, realizing only minutes after that this was the first time she had used her husband's pillow since he had died. Each night for the past three years, Fern would remove it at bedtime and set it in the sitting chair. By using it she was afraid it would lose his smell, but three years past and still she could not bring herself to sniff the case. Her sweetest la Lluvia now dented deeply the pillow her husband laid his head on for so many nights, but she gave it little mind. Her heart was crashing, but with dry eyes and without lips moving she said, "I cannot bury another thing I love." Three years it had been since Walter had died, and her life was so much less without him. Looking out the bedroom window at the cornflower sky and butter sun, she was reminded of the day she buried him. There were co-workers from his office at the gravesite, along with neighbors and relatives, but Fern could hardly distinguish their faces through her tears. MULTIPLE (HOICE by Amy Foltz reduction relief with intoglio KIOSK08 S3 �She heard howls coming from someone, wrenching sobs that would drive the devil away, but didn't realize at first that the horrible sounds were coming from her. After recognizing her own voice behind the wails, she looked up from the rain of tears to what she thought were crowds staring. I'm crying too much, she told herself. No one normal cries this much and with a silent prayer to a god she really didn't think was there said, "Please Lord ... help me stop." Her nose stopped running. The pinch in her throat loosened, and as if by magic, her weeping ceased almost instantly. Her tears dried and the breeze cracked her face. She felt her eyelashes drying and sticking together from the stiffening mascara, but not another tear formed. Her hand shook terribly as she dropped dirt onto the immaculate white casket, but not a sniffle or sob attended. That was the last time she wept. Her prayer worked like a charm, but for days after when she was knee-deep in grief, Fern couldn't help but feel damaged. Even this previous January when her mother Lily passed, Fern could not cry. She did all that she could, pulled the tiny hairs on her arm, bit the inside of her cheek; she even dug her nails into the side of her leg with her hand in her pocket, but nothing. Every ounce of tissue and muscle under her skin was weeping for a woman she loved more than herself, but her eyes remained dry. Her mother was her last "people" and then all that was left were household chores, cooking for strangers, and a rabbit she loved that could never say it back. Again, people are staring, she thought, while sitting in a comer at her mother's wake. How cold they must think I am. She tried to fake sniffles but it made her look as if she just smelled something bad. Her mother never had trouble showing emotion, but Fern knew Lily was cut 54 from a different cloth. Fern always rationed her tears so when she needed them, she wasn't left high and dry. Lily would cry at everything that didn't matter, and this playfully annoyed young Fern growing up ... Kodak commercials, Captain and Tennille's "Muskrat Love," porcelain figurines of boys in rain boots sitting beneath umbrellas. "Wait. " Fern's head lifted. She began to search every room in her memory and traveled far back to find rooms she had forgotten existed. She remembered her annoyance about just how radiant her mother looked after she cried. It was as if her mother only bloomed when she wept. She picked up la Lluvia and held him to her breast as if she were feeding a child. Defiantly, she said aloud, as if it were an incantation, "I will not bury another thing I love." The warm meat tasted dark and its texture was that of a brown paper bag through which something oily had leaked. Fern added no salt but kept it natural, never once thinking how unnatural this may seem. She knew others never placed here may find her reaction hard to swallow, but Fern wanted this dear creature, her sweet la Lluvia to pass through her, nourish her, stay with her. Using only fingers, she tore tenderly the meat from the bone. It let go so simply as if it knew its purpose. Gradually, in the early evening hours, Fern let go too . Salty showers rained once again from her eyes and seasoned her plate below, reconstituting memories of clumsy-speak husbands, wilted mothers, and gifted snowball rabbits. KIOSKOB I �A MAN TALKING I took him to Manchester. They have Iowa's largest fish hatchery We fed the fishes and did the whole fish thing. We took a pretty good hike. I took him to a cave. I think there were some coyotes living in it. It was a good drive. We saw some deer and some wild turkeys. -Someone asks a questionThree and a half, but he's built like a five-year-old, And has hair down to here. We were driving north of Cedar Rapids. He lives in a pretty small town ... And there were military helicopters Doing these exercises, And he's a pretty smart, vibrant kid. He started going bang, bang ... Yeah you get em. Then one started doing a tailspin, And he started shouting "I got em! I got em!" Yeah you got em. Nah, it was a good day DORAN ABERNATHY KIOSK08 55 �STRANGE the things we visit in nightfall August as summer loses her breath. Like the memory of my father building snares back when my hair fell straight across my brow. Coon-catching he called it. His hands burrOwing dirt and piling inside too-old potato rinds, peels of bananas, coffee grounds and at the crest of the mound plaCing a polished soup-can lid or slice of abalone. A metal grate staked over it and covered in earth He'd tum and teach, "The raccoon'll reach through this little hole you see and dig through all this garbage, but it's that shiny thing he'll latch to with his hand or paw or whateveryougoddamncallit. Fist full ... he can't pull it back through and all he can think to do is hold tight to that piece of moon and not let go .. . so he's trapt. " And lately you've been on my mind and how your iridescent eyes enticed mine even the night you burned Troy to the ground and now I've found, hard as I try, I can't let go of it. RANDY UHL 56 KIOSK08 I �A LESSON IN THE SNOW BY BRIAN JOHNSON E very day the thought of going to school terrified me . Sounds weird, yes. But it was so true. A huge part of this is explained by a condition called Asperger's Syndrome, which I have. Asperger's is basically a mild form of autism, a mental condition that affects the way our brains operate. People with autism aren't necessarily "weird," they just see things differently and struggle in different areas . Some people might see us as dumb , but this isn't true. I was a straight-A student throughout high school and into college. I'll jump at the chance to be on stage or speak in front of a crowd-something my mom or dad would outright dread. But I have trouble with those things that most people would call "simple." Things most - people don't even think about. Making friends and socializing have always been, and still are, challenges. To use a concrete example, it would actually be much easier for me to stand up and read this story in front of two hundred people than to casually read it for two friends . I am a person of absolutes, and was even more so when I was young. A painfully strict, down-to-the-letter, "black and white" person. When the teacher said "no talking" it meant you never talk, ever. Unless called on to answer a question in class, I never spoke in grade school, even when another kid said something to me. This is why school was so rarely a happy place. It created endless stress for me, but I couldn't help it. My biggest fear was doing something wrong, disobeying the teacher's rules in any way. The rules in class were the rules . Period. No deviation was ever allowed. To have my name written on the board (which meant you had to stay in for 5 minutes from recess because you did something wrong) was unthinkable. I didn't know what would happen if I ever got into trouble. Actually, I do know. It did happen-just once. I was at the small wood desk in my kindergarten classroom. We were all cutting out snowflakes from blue construction paper. Our teacher was going on and on, reading the directions for our next step . With the scissors in my fROSTED FOUR byBrenda Lussier digitol photograph hand, I slipped. I started to cut the blue circle. The next thing I heard was the teacher's voice. "Brian, that's a warning." My face turned red and instantly my whole body was hot. I didn't say anything the rest of the day. The only thing I can remember was a feeling of despair, it was still with me when I got home. Lunchtime was another area of stress and worry for me many days . The lunchroom was a lot like the playground, noisy and crowded. For years in lower elementary school, I went home to eat at lunchtime. A hot meal was always KIOSK08 57 �ready, and I could relax- if even just for a half hour- in a way that I never could at school. Most days just getting home at 11 :30 in the morning for lunch was an internal struggle. As soon as the clock hit the 11 :30 mark, I knew it was time. Continuously, for five to ten minutes beforehand, I watched both hands of the clock to monitor this. Often, the teacher or the teacher's aide didn't catch it. It's obvious now that this was nothing but a small oversight on their part. But when it happened, I was distraught. I would sit in my seat as the clock ticked. The big hand went past the six, and I knew that it was time. If the teacher never said so, though, I didn't move. I wouldn't have thought of it. That was the number one rule- the law- in my mind. Don't disobey. Unless the teacher says to do something, you do not do it. The first few moments I turned red in the face, right away. I sat so impatiently. My legs tightened together and I could feel heat rush up my body. My face probably tightened, too . I knew I needed to go, but I couldn't. After a couple of minutes, my emotions intensified. If nearly 5 minutes had passed, I would almost definitely be crying. I cried soft, but very audible tears at my desk. Finally, the teacher would say, "You can go ." I was released. Even at recess, I stood around and basically did not do anything. This was by choice. The whole commotion of the playground greatly unnerved me. The strict, peaceful schedule that I was used to inside was gone. Now everyone was going in a hundred different directions. Some played on the long red slide in the comer. Other kids stood and hollered as they rode on the rusty, multi-colored merry-go-round. 58 Most of them crowded, flailing their arms in different directions and yelling at random, on the huge bridge in the center of the playground. So I stayed back, pacing from one side of the giant, orange-colored brick wall to the other. I walked past kids who were "against the wall" (the outside eqUivalent of having your name on the board, which meant they couldn't play anymore because they'd gotten in trouble) . I also passed teachers and other kids. Mainly, I just walked back and forth and thought about whatever came into my head. I did this until the bell rang. Yes, these times were hard when I was young. Despite all this, in third grade, life in school was a little more fun for me. All thanks to a teacher, whom I still have fond memories of today, Mr. Alfredson. He was a tall man with short brown hair and several dimples. Mr. Alfredson was not your typical teacher, and I mean that in the best sense possible. He made me laugh, not just worry, while I was there . We did daily exercises in grammar where he'd write a sentence or two , and we would, as a class, find the spots where the grammar or punctuation or capitalization needed changed. Once, the sentence was something like "Bob and me went. ... " It obviously should have been "I" instead of "me." A girl raised her hand and said, "Change 'me' to 'I.'" So Mr. Alfredson erased the word "me" in the sentence. And then, instead of writing the word "I," he drew a picture of an actual eye. "No! The other 'I,'" she said. "Oh ... wrong kind of 'IT he said, turning his head around. The whole class laughed. Mr. Alfredson shared moments with me, too. I was out at recess one day, and KIOSK08 I �he was "on duty. " All the teachers in elementary school took turns supervising the playground at recess. It was a cold day in the middle of winter. So everyone who wanted to play in the snow had to put on snow pants and boots. I didn't wear either because I never played. I was walking around, like I did every day, and I happened to pass by him. "Hey, why don't you come play?" he asked energetically. We were standing right next to a giant mound of powdery snow. "Come on in!" he coaxed me. Then he pushed me-literally-into the drift. Every part of my blue jeans and heavy red-andblue coat were wet. I was almost in shock, lying in the snow, with my deep-blue snow pants still on their grey hanger in the classroom. Several kids near us protested. "But he's not wearing any snow pants! " They chimed in at once. 'That's okay!" Mr. Alfredson said in front of me and the other kids. "Sometimes you got to break the rules." "We don't need no snow pants! " he said, looking at me. He continued on, as I continued to roll around in the tall white mountain of snow beside him. At that moment, he wasn't just asking that I loosen up and have fun . It wasn't just a suggestion. He- the teacher- was telling me to break the rules . AMANDA by Jessica Niemeyer digital photograph KIOSK08 59 �CLIMBING MT. FUJI BY RACHEL BELLA..IRS I thought I was a pretty open-minded person. I got along with everybody, well, almost everybody. I never gossiped or talked behind somebody's back. Of course, there are always those people who give me a headache. People who make me want to duck into the painkiller aisle at Wal-Mart just to get away from them. My roommat~ in Kyoto was one of those people. You'd think that since both of us came to study in Kyoto, Japan, we would have had something in common. She was into freaky anime and manga, the kind that just edges into porn and has no plot whatsoever. I don't know how she could stand the stuff. She was studying Shinto and Buddhism, the major Japanese religions, because they have all sorts of funky myths. She was also taking brush painting because she thought her scribbles were works of art. I came to Japan to study the language and history. The Japanese have such a weight of tradition that America just doesn't have. Plus, the architecture is gorgeous. The way they can tum a bunch of rocks into an austere pure garden is amazing. ' My roommate just didn't get me. And I tried to get along with her, I really did. Just the other day she invited me along to an izukaiya, a Japanese bar. Normally I avoided bars since I was still underage, but Darin was going. He's was the guy I kind of liked, so I thought I'd give it a shot. That was a mistake. The night started off pretty well. It was twilight when we finally got everyone together. We walked. The evening was blessedly cooler than the muggy September day. In Kyoto, summer hung around in dripping heat waves well into October. Ronni's bright orange hair was still visible in the fading light. She was wearing her favorite shirt, a white zip-up with green bands around the upper arms and "Ireland" plastered on the front. I wondered why she was in Japan if she liked Ireland so much. Her earrings didn't match, which made sense when conSidering she had two 60 piercings in her left earlobe, three in her right, and a silver stud peeking out the top of one ear. I shook my head, another sign that she wasn't exactly normal. The izukaiya was a dinky place full of Japanese businessmen perched on bar stools and huddled at tables. Apparently, most of the people in my group were regulars because as soon as the hostess saw us she broke into a big grin and waved at us to follow her. We all squeezed into a little back room, barely big enough for ten boisterous Americans. I ended up in a comer, knees tucked to my chest, watching as the drinks flowed and inhibitions diminished. The jokes turned raunchy, the language coarsened, and my roommate was flirtier than normal. After one particularly dirty round of pointless cussing, in which almost everyone's mother got slammed, I'd finally had enough. "Why do you do that?" I asked my roommate. "Do what?" "Cuss. Can't you think of something better to say?" "Cussing is very versatile. You can use it for anything. When you're mad, when you're happy, make a point, anything-a great way to express yourself." "But can't you be more creative? There's got to be more things you can say besides bringing up a cuss word. They're just plain nasty! " "Well, miss high and mighty, maybe we'll have to corrupt you," she said. "Oh, hey! Look what's on the bottom of this sake glass!" She proceeded to shove the glass under my nose so I couldn't escape the picture of two people involved in an act I'd rather not have seen. It sure wasn't doggy style. I pushed the glass away rapidly and snapped at her. "Stop it! " "Ach, lass, ye know ye like it." I'm not sure why, but my roommate had lapsed into a Scottish accent and KIOSKOB I �cuddled next to me like a cat to sunshine. I was more than a little creeped out to say the least. "What are you doing?" "Have ye never done a little honest flirtn'? Twill do ye good, mark me words." She gave me a saucy wink and linked arms with me . "Hey! Let go!" I was mortified. What would Darin think? I glanced over at him just in time to catch him try to hide a smirk in his glass of beer. "Now ye just sit tight lass. Ye can pretend ye're a Scottish maid and I'm yere betrothed." "No! That's just weird! " ''I've always wanted to be a Scottish man." "Let go!" "It's the accent, ye know. " "I said, let go!" "Nothin' hotter than a fockin' accent." "You're crazy!" I wrenched out of her grip, stalked out of the room, and almost slammed the door before remembering that it was Japanese quiet hours. Plus, it was a sliding door. I was fuming as I walked back to the dorm. This was why I hated alcohol. It made people behave in the strangest, most embarrassing ways. It wasn't logical. You couldn't predict it. At that moment, I wanted to be anywhere but there, but most of all, I wanted to be home. When I got to my room, I picked up the phone and called my mom. My roommate walked in just as I hung up the phone very gently, I didn't want a broken phone on my tab . I was angry after a two-hour conversation that left me just as stuck as before. I wondered if her sense of timing was horrible or if she'd been eavesdropping. She swayed as she walked, which told me she hadn't stopped drinking when I'd left the bar. I glared at her, willing her to leave me alone. No such luck. "Hey! Wondered where ya went! " She grinned at me. "Ya should'a stayed and gotten slightly hapsy with us." She blinked slowly "I meant happy But I was thinking I'm slightly tipsy " She giggled crazily at her own mistake. She obviously didn't remember why 1'd left. "Uh huh." I tried to ignore her but she was having none of it. "Who were ya caHin'?" "My mom." "What for?" "Why is it your business?" "Oh ho! " she said. "And here I was tryin' ta be friendly Ya got somethin' ta hide?" "No." I crossed my arms. "I think ya do!" she crowed. "What is it? Ya failin'?" "No." "In trouble with the law?" "No! " "Breakin' up with yer boyfriend?" "No!" I exploded. "I just want to go home! But that's not happening, so I'd appreciate it if you left me alone!" I got into my futon, pulling the covers up to my ears. "Well, fine. " She sniffed. "I'm going to hang out in room 23 . Girl's got some new anime she invited people to watch." She staggered back out the door, leaving me to contemplate the conversation with my mother. It wasn't the first time I'd called her. The first had been after that horrendous thirteen hour flight from Dallas to Kyoto. I hadn't been able to sleep a wink between a baby bawling directly behind me and the extremely uncomfortable seats. Exhaustion made me nearly hysterical to be in such an alien place, and it took the better part of an hour for my mom to calm me down. The reasoning she'd used then had been the same as she'd just used now. I'd paid money and made a commitment so I'd just have to stick it out. This time, she suggested I ignore my roommate as much as KI O SK08 61 I �62 and how to talk to people. I think that's very efficient." "Really." "Uh, huh. The Japanese are very economical that way. They're good at it. Take the trains, for instance. They're never lateand you can get anywhere on them. I love the fact that you don't need a car. You can just sit back, relax, and let someone else drive." "Uh huh." same level of Spoken Japanese as me, but a different section. We hit it off really well and so every day we studied together. One day, our assignment was to figure out what our names meant. Japanese names combine kanji to make a special meaning, like sun-child. I didn't know if my name had a meaning, so I quickly looked it up. "Guess what? My name means noble." I was hoping to impress him. Darin grinned. "Well, it's very noble to help me with homework every day, Trisha." I batted my eyelashes at him. "You're welcome. I just love Japanese. It's so cool how they have a whole different system for polite speech. Everyone knows their place MIDNIGHT RIDE by Amy Foltz intnglio pnnt possible, advice I intended to follow. I had a sinking feeling my roommate would not be very cooperative. As I figured, my roommate was extremely hard to ignore. Even at school it was nearly impossible to get away from her, but I worked at it and eventually she stopped bothering me so much. Darin helped. I saw him struggling with his homework one day and decided to offer my assistance. Turns out, he was in the "The Japanese have such good ideas, too. Do you know how many things you can get from vending machines?" "Beer and cigarettes. That's cool." "I don't really like that but I'm just in love with all their different drink flavors . My favorite is melon creme soda fanta. Food here is just fun. They have such crazy combinations. I had a raw egg on my spaghetti the other day. And I've seen green pizza. I'm not sure what to make of that." "Yeah, when I was telling my sister. .. " "Oh! You have a sister? That's so cool! I have a brother. He's younger than me. My parents always joke that if he'd been first they would've only had one kid. I was the good kid." I laughed. "My brother's a little troublesome." KIOSK08 I �'That's too bad." "Yeah, but I've learned to live with it. So, how about this sentence? I think you may have translated 'sleeping' wrong." We had many pleasant conversations like this. He was interested in]apanese festivals and architecture, so I planned field trips to see famous buildings around Kyoto . There are so many temples in the area it would take a lifetime to see them all. We went to a bunch of festivals . Only the very traditional ones: the ones that had lines of women dressed up in yukata danCing to the shamisen. I was able to escape my roommate by going out and exploring the city with Darin. Darin was very sympathetic about my troubles. He would patiently listen while I told him my roommate's latest escapade. He never interrupted and always nodded his head understandingly I would always buy him dinner after the outings and then we would study together until dorm curfew at ten. It was a very nice routine. I was really excited when I learned that Darin was going on a trip to Tokyo at the end of the semester. When I asked him why he hadn't told me sooner, he blinked at me and told me he wanted it to be a surprise. I started planning in a frenzy because it was almost too late to get tickets and hotel rooms . I was so happy I broke my long habit of ignoring my roommate to tell her the news . "Guess what I get to do! Darin and I are taking a trip to Tokyo at the end of the semester! I'm looking up hotels and things right now." "Oh, he invited you along? How nice . So that makes four of us . That's cool you're doing the planning. You're just anal enough to get it done ." I couldn't believe my ears. "Wait, you're coming?" "Yeah, didn't you know? It was Kai's idea really She's always wanted to see Tokyo but she didn't want to go alone so she asked me and Darin to come along." She grinned evilly at me . I was speechless. How dare my roommate come along and spoil the fun? I didn't know much about Kai except that she was glaringly noticeable. She wore her hair in rainbow dreadlocks and her clothing usually clashed hOrribly Her favorite things to wear were black and white striped knee socks, purple capris, and a fuzzy bucket hat that was leopard-spotted in red and black. I shuddered just thinking about it. I had to plan for them? I cornered Darin in the hallway "Why didn't you tell me that my roommate and this Kai person were corning too?" He looked sheepish. "You never asked." I tried to be reasonable. "But I needed to know about them in order to get tickets and a room!" "Yeah, about that. None of us are really good at planning stuff. But you've already got places looked at and prices figured out. Could you get their tickets and stuff, too? Please? They'll never get it done otherwise." He looked at me with those sad puppy eyes. Well, I couldn't very well tell him no, so I added them into my plans. I complained bitterly to Darin every chance I got. Maybe he would see things my way and reconsider. I was almost convinced he'd come around when he got the news that his sister was having surgery It was a family emergency he said. Nothing he could do. He had to fly home at the end of the semester instead of staying an extra week to go to Tokyo. I was absolutely shattered. I'd already bought the tickets for us girls so we had to go. Darin had told me he was waiting for money to come from his parents before he bought his, so he didn't have any tickets. I didn't even have that excuse to try to make him come. I was stuck going on a trip with one person I absolutely despised and another I didn't really know or like. KIOSK08 63 �I was even less happy when we got to our hostel in Tokyo and found out we would have to share our room. With a guy! What were they thinking, putting three girls in a room with a guy? He and my roommate hit it off fabulously, of course. T EHPlE byW lynch yeth digillli pholllgraph 64 I knew they would. His Australian "G'day mates! " greeting fed her love of accents. I went to bed at a decent, early time because I was worn out from walking around Tokyo and trying to find where we were staying. The other two weren't any help; they'd just complained. I was in that stage of sleep where you're too sleepy to wake up, but still awake enough to be able to hear things. Then my roommate and Kai started talking to the Australian. I was appalled. First of all, my roommate decided it would be great fun to share a bed with the Australian just to freak me out. Secondly, I learned way more than I ever needed to know about Kai's personal life. About how she'd lived in a commune for many years, how many people she'd had sex with, the drugs she'd tried, her favorite things to do when she got drunk, her plans to start her own commune. Who'd have guessed someone with such a cute baby face like hers could do all that! And my roommate encouraged her by comparing sex notes with her! I never really slept that night and was very grumpy the next morning as we discussed our plans to climb Mt. FUji. Once we got to the mountain and started up the trail, Kai and my roommate ignored me , which made me even grumpier. I was in charge of the map for the routes, but they didn't pay any attention to me. So I just shut up and let them take a wrong tum on the path. 1'd show them. An hour later, they still hadn't noticed they'd taken a wrong tum and I wasn't too sure where we were. The mountain was covered in pine trees that all looked the same to me, and it was a cloudy day, making it difficult to navigate by the sun. When we came to a three-pronged fork in the trail, they both looked at me. I peered intently at the map , trying to hide my blush of dismay when I realized I had absolutely no idea where we were. Impatiently, my roommate yanked the map , knocking my camera out of my hand. I quickly picked it up , but when I tried to tum it on it made a funny buzzing noise, like a dying fly. "You broke it!" I exclaimed. "Do you know how much this camera cost me? And now it's useless!" KIOSK08 I �"Aw, keep your pants on. Let me see. Maybe I can fix it." "You think I'm going to just let you see it after you just broke it? Are you crazy?" "No need to get so upset. It's just a camera!" "Upset? Upset! I have every right to be upset! I'm lost out in the middle of nowhere with you, you," I struggled to come up with an appropriate epithet. "Freaks!" I finally spat. "Shit! Trisha, there's no need for that! " My roommate clenched her fists , eyes dangerously narrowed. Kai just looked hurt. "There you go with that stupid cussing again!" My voice squeaked on the last word. "Shit. Fock. God damn. Whore. Son of a bitch," she said calmly "You're so stupid you can't come up with real words!" I screamed at her. "Fock Fock Fock Fock!" she yelled back. I tried to cover my ears to block out the words, but the litany rang in my mind. Desperate to get her to stop, I shouted the worst thing I could think of. "You're probably gay! " "And what would a tight-ass like you know? You think you're so perfect! You want to know why Darin really left? Because he couldn't stand you being so self-righteous and controlling!" My heart thundered in my ears. I felt numb. No . It couldn't be true. He had a family emergency It wasn't me . It wasn't. "I hate you!" I sobbed. I turned and ran up the left fork of the trail, away from those awful words. My breath came in ragged gasps. I didn't know if I was running from her or myself. I tripped over a root and fell hard. I didn't get back up . My knee and side hurt. I could feel rocks digging into tender parts of my body I relished the pain. It distracted me from my anguished thoughts. How long I lay there, I don't know. When I finally sat up I was cried out and thirsty My stomach rumbled. I stood up and brushed myself off. We'd bought lunch at a little convenience store at the foot of the mountain, and I looked around to see where the bag of food had gone. I'd just picked it up when I saw blurry shapes materializing out of a now foggy forest. My eyes widened in astonishment. Monkeys. They were a pale gray with pink faces and white patches of fur near their rear ends. Although there were about ten of them, they were eerily quiet. They were large, too, about as tall as my knee when they were on all fours . I watched as one made its way up to me. I was frozen in place, unsure whether fight or flight was the better option. Suddenly, the monkey looked me full in the face and grabbed my lunch. The jerk of the bag leaving my hands broke my paralysis. "Hey! " I yelped. "Bad monkey! " I ran after the thief, trying to recapture my meal. Abruptly, the monkey turned around and growled at me, shOwing its teeth. " 000000kaaaaaay" I held up my hands and slowly backed away Looking for an escape route , I realized I was now surrounded by about thirty monkeys, all of whom were staring at me. I had a bad feeling about this. I heard rustling to my left and whipped my head around. Kai and my roommate appeared on the trail and stopped dead. Kai's mouth fell open. I couldn't tell by her expression what my roommate was thinking but now was not the time for me to hold a grudge . My eyes sent her a silent plea for help . Her lips compressed into a thin line and my heart sank. She looked at the monkeys and back at me. "Don't look them in the eye," she said firmly, but quietly Kai nodded. "Yeah-that's a challenge to them." "Just start walking slowly away We'll follow. " KIOSK08 65 I �I did as she said, quashing a sudden desire to bolt into the woods. I nearly stopped breathing once I got to the outer circle of monkeys, but after a moment's hesitation, they scampered aside to let us through. It was all I could do not to start sprinting. My roommate picked up the pace once we were all a few feet away from monkeys. We rounded a comer in the trail and took off, determined to put distance between us and the animals. When we couldn't run anymore, we all flopped down in ragged heaps, panting like we'd just run a marathon. As we eyed each other, I started giggling. It must have been the shock and nerves because I couldn't stop. Amazingly; my roommate and Kai joined in. We were all laughing so hard we were crying. I finally wiped my eyes and glanced over at my roommate. She raised an eyebrow inquiringly. I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. I licked dry lips and tried again. "Ronni," I began. "Yes?" I swallowed. Looked down. "Thank you," I mumbled. Silence. That was worse than if she'd yelled at me. Timidly, I looked up. Her arms were crossed. She was staring at me. Finally, she sighed. "You're welcome." Kai looked at both of us, rolled her eyes , and said, "Well, that was an adventure. Shall we tread on?" Ronni and I smiled wryly and nodded. Eventually, we figured out where we were. We ran into some very nice Japanese hikers who had us laughing at their attempts at English and our attempts at Japanese. When they asked us why we were on this side of the mountain, we told them about the monkey attack. They were in stitches. I had to admit it was pretty funny. They kindly pointed us on our way and we made it down the mountain without further mishap . 66 Neither Ronni or Kai ever mentioned the fight or my apology, which was perfectly fine with me. We were civil to each other as we left Tokyo , but silences were awkward. The silences were not quiet. The things we were not saying were too loud. But, at least we weren't yelling at each other. To celebrate our victory over the monkeys, we went back to the little izukaiya upon returning to Kyoto . When we told the hostess our story, she gave each of us a free drink. I had no clue what to get, so Ronni ordered me a tequila shot. And I tried, I really did, but I'd never had a shot before, so how was I supposed to know you needed to swallow the stuff before biting the lemon? It was awful; it burned my throat and the taste hung in my mouth like an unwanted relative. Ronni told me that you either love tequila or hate it, I fell in the latter. It sure does give you a buzz, though. I was almost game to try again some other night, but before I knew it, it was time to go home. I had very mixed feelings as I waved goodbye to Ronni. I didn't hate her anymore , but I still wasn't sure if I liked her. It made me a little uncomfortable that she'd come to the airport to see me off. She really didn't need to do that. As I settled back into the tiny airplane seat, I heard a baby start squalling somewhere behind me. A comer of my mouth qUirked up in an ironic smile. Life goes on, but for me it wasn't so simple anymore. I shifted around in my seat, trying to find a somewhat comfortable position, and thought about all the things that happened to me in the past semester. I didn't remembered much fondly. I sighed, looking out the window. Somehow, we'd taken off and I hadn't even noticed. I could see the panorama of Kyoto spread below me, the ocean stretching forever and the sun rising in the East. I shook my head, closed the shade, and settled down and tried to sleep. KI OSK08 I �~lJ~ CHINATOWN COCAINE BLUES 2008 Anika called from a red taxicab, coked out, scared of razor tom vinyl and the smell of burnt hair in the backseat. The cabbie was wearing a turban, eating a bear claw, saying unspeakable things in Hindi and Americanese. Chicago was in mourning, but she was still in stilettos. I was back home in her pink polka dot panties, the pair I wore when she wasn't around to scratch the itch. I walked into the bathroom, tiles the various shades of puke splattered on the wall like a scrabble board, under a double word score. Listened to her talk about John Wayne Gacy, Martin Scorsese, homicidal taxi drivers. Her voice was scratchy and erratic, strangely bravado like an old Lou Reed record. Old Lou and I must have had similar experiences cause my mother said she saw her in Chinatown, but you know, as Lou says, you can't always trust your mother. Anika said she wanted to take me to Africa, walk around barefoot eat breadfruit, mash casaba root with our bare feet, have a donkey cart adopt slave children from Ghana, make love every Wednesday in a mosquito net. That's what she said. It all sounded well and good to me. She'd gone to Chicago to find us a place to live, but instead all she found was a gram of cocaine in an Ed Debevic's bathroom. Bought it from an amateur pornstar in a wheelchair. Apparently amputee porn is big in Chicago. Apparently everything is big in Chicago. Danced till six in the morning to Talking Heads, 'This ain't no disco, this ain't no foolin' around," she said, but she was always foolin' around. She loved me; she'd see me soon, but part of me knew I'd never see that blonde red-headed coke baby again. My mother said she saw her in Chinatown kissin' a chinaman. And you know, sometimes, you got to trust your mother. D ORAN ABERNATHY KIOSK08 67 I �LIVING HISTORY FARMS DINNER They made my lie down in the parlor with low ceilings and stuffy drapes. Real dust from the 1800s. People pretending serving potatoes gravy made with lard, cream. I was 10 years old and I was sick ''You see back in the colonial times they used to have funerals at home display the bodies in the parlor lay them on couches in the middle of the room friends would come have some cornbread stare at the body play the organ have an old timey funeral it was very nice." I lay in the parlor laughter from the dining room, the snakes in my stomach hissing and squeezing thought about those bodies in the parlor maybe ten feet away a hundred years ago . Didn't feel much different. A UDREY BANTLA 68 KIOSK08 I �PAGE FROM THE PAST THE BARTH CHURCH From my home in 'Kriesgafong' I can look out over the land And far away in the distance The Barth Church steeple stands Der fuhrer's legion silenced it Its message choked within ... But, no, its message still rings clear for men like you and me Of home and love and soon of liberty. Thank God. JAMES WILLIAM McKENZIE HUTCHINSON Stalage Luft One Barth, Gennany April 1944 - May 1945 Editor's Note: This piece was written by a Momingside alumnus during his time in a German PO. W camp during World War II. His grandson, Momingside assistant professor Tug Buse, provided it for the Kiosk. KIOSK08 69 I �CONTRIBUTORS NOTES WRITING _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __ ART- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Doran Abernathy is a fonner Morningside student. He Philip Andrews is a junior majoring in Graphic Design and Advertising from Stonn Lake, IA. He contributed his art last year. currently lives in Sioux City and is moving to the Black Hills this summer. josh Beckwith is a junior majoring in Studio Art and comes Rachel Bellairs is a senior English Education major from Clarinda,lA. This is her first year contributing to the Kiosk. from Sioux City IA. Sarah Chambers is freshman majoring in Art Education and jessi Bergin received a BA in English Writing in 2005. She comes from Sheldon, IA. currently lives in Burlington, IA and is a Head Start Teacher. Amy Foltz is an art instructor at Morningside College teaching Trey K. Blackburn is a junior Theater and English Literature double major from Knoxville, IA. This is his first year contributing to the Kiosk. Stephen Coyne is a Professor of English at Morningside College. He's served as faculty advisor to the Kiosk since 1989. His short stories and poems have been published in numerous literary journals. jonathan Green graduated from Morningside College in 2007 wrth a major in Journalism and now makes his home in Thennopolis, WY. Laura Homan is an English major from Lebanon, IL. This is her first year contributing to the Kiosk. Audrey Hantla is a junior majoring in English. This is her second year contributing to the Kiosk Last year, her poem "Confession" was awarded second place. She is currently studying in Northern Ireland. Brian johnson is a senior from Bronson, IA. He will be graduating in May with a major in Mass Communication and a minor in Theater. This is his first year contributing to the Kiosk. Tavia Knudsen returns to the Kiosk this year. She was first pub- courses in drawing, design and print making. Kimberly jessen is from Everly, IA and has contributed her art to the Kiosk the past two years. She graduated in December of 2007. She had majored in Photography and minored in Studio Art. Kate Kes is a senior from Northfield, MN majoring in Graphic Design and Photography. She is the Visual Edrtor for this year's Kiosk and W eb Editor for the Collegian Reporter, Morningside's college newspaper. After graduation she plans on attending graduate school wrth plans to teach graphic design in the future. Brenda Lussier is a senior from Hubbard, NE. She is majoring in Studio Art and Music Education. She still has one more year to go at Morningside college and is finishing up her Music Education major. She contributed to the Kiosk last year. Wyeth Lynch is a junior in Photography and International Affairs. He comes from a farm in Madison County. His postal code is Prole, IA but he went to school in Martensdale, Iowa (both not in Madison county). So you could say he grew up on a fann in South Central Iowa He contributed the Kiosk last year. Billy Mallett, from Salix, lA, is a senior Graphic Design major. He contributed to the f<josk last year. lished in 2006. Phil Lieder is a junior from Stewartville, MN.This is his second year contributing to the Kiosk Colin O'Sullivan is a junior at Morningside College. He is working toward his B.5. in Chemistry This is his second year contributing to the Kiosk Mack Maschmeier, a junior majoring in Graphic Design and Studio Art, comes from Fremont. NE. He is the Editorial Cartoonist for the Collegian Reporter, Morningside's college news paper. He had also contributed to the f<josk last year. Renne Morgan is a junior majoring in Biology jessica Niemeyer, a senior majoring in Photography and Kiel Ploen is a first time contributor wrth his poem, "An Odd Bit." Kyle Thayer is an English major from Clarion, IA. This is his first year contributing to the Kiosk. Business Administration! Marketing comes from Sioux Falls, SD. After graduation she plans on opening up a photography studio wrth John Page. john Page, a senior majoring in Graphic Design comes Randy Uhl received his BA in English Education from Morningside in 1990. In 2006, he received I st place for his story "Under Her Skin." In 2005, his poem "Rare Birds" was awarded $10,000 by Poetrycom. He continues to contribute to the Kiosk after eighteen years. from Brookings, SD. After graduation he plans on opening a photography studio with Jessica Niemeyer. Shannon Sargent and john Bowitz are both from Sioux Crty, IA. Shannon is an alumnus with a studio art degree. John is a Morningside faculty member. Their collaborative works can been found in The Briar Cliff Review. Andrea Thompson, a senior majoring in Graphic Design and Photography comes from Grand Island, NE. After graduation she plans on going to graduate school. Anne Torkelson is a junior Art Education major from Norfolk, NE. She contributed to the f<josk last year. GrantWittstruck is a senior majoring in Photography and comes from Jefferson CH:y, M0. Last year he received 3rd place and edrtor's choice. He has been published in several magazines and newspapers. Copyright 2008 by the Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication all rights revert to the authors and artists. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of the Kiosk staff or Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be suitable for children. 70 KIOSK08 �I �M MORNINGSIDE COL G E 150 I MORNINGSIDE AVE. SIOUX CI~ IOWA 51 106 The Morningside College experience cultivates a passion for life-long learning and a dedication to ethical leadership and civic responsibility. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College. Through its several titles—Manuscript, Perspectives, and Kiosk—the magazine has a long history of celebrating creative writing and art on campus. It began publication in 1938 under the title of Manuscript before changing its name to Perspectives in 1953. Then in 1971 it took another name that it is known by currently: Kiosk. It is still published annually by the Morningside College English Department. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1938- Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Morningside College Library Morningside College English Department Ponder, Marcie: Digital Creator Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical PDF Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Title A name given to the resource Kiosk Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource "The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children," (The Kiosk, 2003). Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. kiosk THE LITERARY MAGAZIN E OF MORNINGSID E COLLEGE 2008 kiosk VOLUME 70 2008 THE LITERARY MAGA Z IN E OF MORNIN GS IDE COLLEGE KIOSK08 3 I STAFF Editor in Chief Greg Anderson POETRY & PROSE Assistant Editors Marcie Ponder Colin 0 1 Sullivan Tyrel Drey Audrey Hantla Rebecca Bauer ART Visual Editor Katie A. Kes Assistant Editor Grant Witts truck Faculty Advisors Stephen Coyne John Kolbo Terri McGaffin ABOUT OUR JUDGES: Brian Bedard is a Professor of English and Director of the Creative Writing Program at the University of South Da- kota. His short stories, poems, and essays have appeared in a number of literary journals and magazines nationwide. His second collection of stories, Grieving on the Run, won the 2007 Serena McDonald Kennedy Award in Fiction from Snake Nation Press in Valdosta, Georgia, and was published by that press in March of 2007. The South Dakota Council of Teachers of English recently named him South Dakota Author of the Year for 2008 . Ann McTaggart is a local artist and resident of Sioux City with a painting studio in the Commerce Building downtown. McTaggart first earned a B.S.N. and B.A. in Studio Art from Morningside College, then continued at the University of South Dakota to obtain a B.FA. and M.A. in Painting and Fine Art Studies. Ann has exhibited locally and throughout the Midwest. Darren Maurer attended Southeast Community College in Milford, NE, graduating at the top of his class in Graphic Design and Illustration. He has worked as a designer and illustrator since 1986. 4 KIOSK08 LETTER FROM THE EDITOR U ntil the fourth grade, I loved drawing. I your soul on the page or the canvas and would dump a box of Crayola Colored try to create something without knowing Pencils on our living room floor, grab a in advance whether it will tum out to be a beautiful work or a waste of time and restack of paper, and draw for hours. I would sources. draw anything-lizards with wings, wizards It takes even more courage to put that with wheels for legs-whatever crept into finished creation out there for others to see my brain. and judge. I applaud everyone who subBut in fourth grade, mitted their creations to the Kiosk this year, we started having very even if they weren't accepted. We learn by structured art lessons. trial and error, and rejection is an imporGood old Mrs. E. would show us an example of tant part of becoming a better artist. Be what she wanted, and braver than I was as a fourth grade artist, then we had to recreand keep plugging away. ate it as best we could. These days, when Simon Cowell is reviled for telling people that they can't sing We were on our way to becoming carbon-based well enough to be given a national recording contract, we realize that it also takes copy machines, and I was no longer feeling courage to evaluate the work of others and make decisions that will invariably overlike much of an artist. One day, she gave us a little more leelook some promising work. I want to thank this year's editorial staff, especially the Viway. We could draw any animal we wanted. sual Editor Kate Kes, for her hard work and The catch was that we had to use a photo courage in making the Kiosk possible. On from National Geographic as a referencebehalf of the whole staff, we also want to and we would be graded on accuracy. I chose a penguin, but soon realized that T kiosk kiosk penguins make pretty H boring subjects for \ E drawing. So I spiced - -, H him up: My penguin . . ... I . , ;.i ~ soon sprouted green t '\ .. 0 feathers, goat horns t.) :."." .'. S and a pogo stick. H Mrs. E. walked by my desk, took one look KIOSKS OF THE PAST thank President Reynders for his generous at my drawing, and said, ''That isn't right. from left to nght support, art department faculty members That isn't what a penguin looks like. You 2005, 2006,2007,2008 John Kolbo and Terri McGaffin and Engneed to start over." lish department secretary Marcie Ponder, I was crushed. I crumpled up my work who helped me do countless things along and threw it in the bin, along with any remaining courage I had for the medium. the way. I also cannot give enough thanks to Steve Coyne. Without his guidance, I Never again would I draw anything for wouldn't have had the courage to take on public consumption. this enormous task; I wouldn't even have But courage is exactly what all artists and writers need. It takes courage to lay known where to begin. • ~ .. , ~., ~ .,' , K10SK08 5 I CONTENTS WRITING Till Kingdom Corne (Or The Cows Horne) DORAN ABERNATHY Watching the Mustached Man Clean the Glass Doors AUDREY BANTLA 15 Wedding STEPHEN COYNE 16 Where Are My Glasses? COLIN O'SULLIVAN 17 8 ~s c ~lJ~ .. .. ~ 2008 23 Bonding With Brother TREY The Lily Lie LAURA HOMAN 24 2,174 AUDREY BANTLA 31 When Irish Eyes are Smiling KYLE THAYER 32 Avoiding Pregnancy PHIL LIEDER 33 An Odd Bit KIEL PLOEN 34 The Villain JONATHAN GREEN 36 Where's the Inspiration? JESSI BERGIN 42 The Island AUDREY BANTLA 43 Spring Rain TAVIA KNUDSEN 51 Dry Spell RANDyUHL 52 A Man Talking (Lifted) DORAN ABERNATHY 55 Strange RANDyUHL 56 A Lesson in the Snow BRIAN JOHNSON 57 Climbing Mt. Fuji RACHEL BELLAIRS 60 Chinatown Cocaine Blues DORAN ABERNATHY Living History Farms Dinner AUDREY BANTLA 67 68 Page From the Past JAMES HUTCHINSON 69 K. BLACKBURN , ~41~ .~ 2008 "o"l<V w' '" 2008 '" ~ n ~f'~ 2008 All entries are considered objectively by the judges with no artist name or special consideration for any piece. Assistant editors are eligible for contest placement but not prize money 6 KIOSK08 ~~ p~ ART Wincing Self-Portrait 1 MACK MASCHMEIER t41~ 2008 :f.'S c Barn 8 JOHN PAGE ~ll~ .. .. ~ 2008 Untitled KIMjESSEN 10 The Uglies MACK MASCHMEIER 13 The Snapping Turtle's Head SHANNON SARGENT &: JOHN BOWITZ 14 Untitled JOSH BECKWITH 18 Locked Door KATE KES 27 Fragile ANNE TORKELSON 28 Twisting Recline JOSH BECKWITH 30 Rainy Day ANNE TORKELSON 38 ,,0"1<'. ~, '" ~ n 2008 Marina JOHN PAGE 44 Fort Warden GRANT WITTSTRUCK 46 Railroad SARAH CHAMBERS 48 Bridge Pan JOHN PAGE 48 Calamity Jane Packaging KATE KES 48 Cliffs of Mohr ANDREA THOMPSON 49 Untitled JESSICA NIEMEYER 49 Man or Machine BILLY MALLETT 49 Boats in the Lake District RENEE MORGAN 50 Michael Phelps MACK MASCHMEIER 50 Graphic Photography PHIL ANDREWS 50 Multiple Choice AMY FOLTZ 53 Frosted Four BRENDA LUSSIER 57 Amanda JESSICA NIEMEYER 59 Midnight Ride AMY FOLTZ 62 Temple WYETH LYNCH 64 .Ji,l£~ °ll~ \~j 200B ~lof~ 2008 KlOSK08 7 I TILL KINGDOM COME (OR THE COW COMES HOME) BY DORAN ABERNATHY H BARN :f.'S by John Poge digitol photogroph, H DR 8 KIOSK08 c ~'J"~ ~~~... 2008 ams Prairie, Missouri. The clouds kept falling and the rain begun to drop. The leaves on the trees turned green shades of monochrome and rattled their little pinnate tambourines. Cows up the hill, on the other side of the house, chewed the last of their cud and walked gingerly to the trees . Peter Pickenpaw stood in the drizzle rain, next to the carport, expressionless, furrow-less, but that tall gray suit that hung forlornly off his shoulders like a smoking jacket on a sales rack. In a metaphor, the albatross lay snug around his neck. Peter, slunk at attention, stared blankly at the pink Cadillac in the carport. It was his wife Constance's car. She sold Mary Kay Cosmetics in the Greater Missouri Valley and had apparently just slept with a nineteen-year-old boy named Ben Hummerstrum. There is no way of telling how many ways there were of knowing, even if they were all just inferential subtleties ... Fool me thrice shame on the both of us. Ben's truck was parked adjacent in the driveway. Peter's baby blue Pinto was sideways in the grass. Ben was a local kid Constance had hired to paint the carport puce. An overturned ladder and an open can of Sherwin Williams' was all Peter could see had been done since he'd left. He'd gone to work in jefferson City that morning, where he used to be a weatherman for Fox KZjZ Channel 3. He was home early, fired for forecasting eightyeighty and sunny (it was Sixty-three) . That and he'd been recently alleged to be an odds fixer for an illegal gambling ring. As would be later reported in the Jefferson City Gazette, Peter had owed a large sum of money to a St. Louis outfit for gambling on the weather. Weather gambling was all the rage in Missouri. (The payout from beating the odds on an inch of rain during the second week in December was better than the Rams beating the point spread on any Sunday.) Peter had gotten into trouble by betting the house , quite literally, on three inches of rain during the drought in june. As compensation for his mistake , he'd agreed to fix his ten-day forecast and keep the house . Unfortunately for him, he'd left a paper trail at the weather desk. Hack meteorology and his wife's infidelity was just the beginning. He was starting to go bald and gray, and he was only forty-three. His father's land, the land he'd inherited and lived on was about to be foreclosed by the mob or some such subsidiary. The jig was up, his wife was a sleaze bag, he was a sleaze bag, and he probably just had a hit put out on him for botching a weather job . You couldn't see it in his face , but a coil had sprung loose in his brain. The jack in the box had most definitely come out to play. He just had a funny way of showing it. Back on earth, Ben Hummerstrum walked out onto the porch, zipping his fly, and was startled to see Peter staring at him from the carport. Ben was sort of handsome , Peter supposed, a stocky kid, with a big nose , gravy brown hair, and a Gumby drawn jaw line , sturdy on his feet , but noticeably nervous . "Uh, hi , Mr. Pickenpaw .. . didn't get a chance to start, couldn't find a stirrer ... and I had to go back to the paint store to-" "Cover the earth!" Peter exclaimed, putting his fists in the air in a rah-rah motion generally reserved for pep rallies. The Sherwin Williams reference was lost on Ben, who just stood there dumbly, not sure what to do, but ready to make a break for it. Peter put his hands back down. His rectangular, hollow face retained its unscrupulous shape, which to Ben was even more unnerving than the sudden outburst. "Are you okay sir?" "Me , oh yeah I'm fine . How are you Ben?" "Urn fine ... it's starting to rain." "Oh, you can't paint in the rain!" Peter said grinning again, pointing a finger in Ben's general direction . "Yeah I know, I was just going to the bathroom, before 1-" "Where's Constance?" Peter asked in earnest, still standing by the carport, staring off into the fog . "I think she's taking a shower upstairs , I uh ... heard the water running" "Did you flush? " Peter asked, staring at him again, feigning seriousness. "What? No ... I mean yeah, I did ... sorry," said Ben. Peter scowled, "That water gets scolding hot when you flush Mr. Hummerstrum! " Ben was starting to panic. He hadn't even gone to the bathroom, although he had thrown the condom Constance gave him into the toilet. .. Had he flushed? KlOSK08 9 I UNTITlED by Kim Jessen digitol photograph 10 KIOSK08 There was a long drawn out pause. Peter was milking the pail full , down to the last squeeze. "Well ... " he said, after a moment of staring straight up into the air, squinting with his long brow wrinkled in contemplation. "Constance won't be happy. You better go . She gets quite irritable when people flush ... Bad plumbing." Ben had already begun stepping tentatively to his truck. "Sorry, Mr. Pickenpaw, I'll start first thing tomorrow ... if the sun's out. " "Oh it will be son. The sun is always shining somewhere ... Cover the earth!" Peter had his fists in the air again. Ben had no idea what Peter was talking about. He just got into that truck and leapt off into the fog, fast as he could. Peter kept his hands in the air for a moment, standing by the carport, as the rain began to run off the tin roof and onto his crew cut. He looked up at the green gable of his house, and out to the hill where most of the cows had lain under the cottonwoods. Then he put his hands down and walked briskly to the shed behind the house, smiling mischievously the whole way. In the shed, he got a length of rope, turned around and trotted off, up the hill, where at least one cow was about to cow home . That last part he said to himself, (in the present tense of course) smirking like a twelve-year-old with a frog in his pants. Wrangling a cow wasn't as easy as Peter had hoped it'd be . He'd never had much to do with cows, except when he stood by the fence and fed Matilda mixed greens. Matilda was the smallest and oldest and dimmest of the cows. Peter had named her Matilda after his grandmother, a little spry woman that lived till she was a hundred-and-three. He hadn't named the rest of the cows, they weren't his cows . The dairy farm down the road just rented the land so they could eat his grass. Peter didn't mind, or particularly care for the cows , except Matilda , she was the sweetest, dumbest cow ever to be sent out to pasture . Peter had hoped he could just put his jacket on a post, roll up his sleeves, and put a lasso around some poor saps neck. It turned out to be a great deal more trouble than that. The herd scattered when he came near them, and after some grass stains, a wet pant leg, and a waterlogged loafer, he was about to give up. Then he saw Matilda down stream, drinking out of the ravine . She was a skinny old heifer, part Holstein and part Guernsey. Demure as a daisy, dried up like Bisquick, sweet as buttermilk. Peter gingerly slipped the noose around her neck as she lapped-up water in a placid little pool off from the stream. Matilda was meek, and mild , and dumb enough to go along with just about any cockamamie scheme. It didn't hurt that she was four-fifths oblivious. They walked daintily down the hill, a little slick now. The rain was coming down steady as they walked , past the cottonwoods down to the gable house , as the gray mist enveloped the rounding hill and faded the house away into one oblique nowhere . And out of it came Peter and Matilda rounding the hill from the bleak Missouri nowhere , walking hand in rope through the gate , down to the driveway, where the willows stood in a chorus line rattling their little pinnate tambourines. With a little elbow grease , Peter got Matilda up the porch steps, through the screen door and into the living room. From there he started gently leading the little old cow up the stairs. Constance was just getting out of the shower. She took very long showers. She had a very meticulous routine, and loved prune fingers for some reason or another. She had just toweled off and was putting on her robe, when she heard strange noises coming from the hallway. Matilda was starting to panic. Every cow has a breaking point. She had no idea what she was doing up those stairs. She started pulling away, as Peter stood there, palms claming, frantically trying to hold onto the skittish bovine. They played a sort of man versus beast tug of war for a moment, breaking a leg off the banister and knocking a periwinkle vase over the railing. Then came Constance, running barefoot into the hallway, cursing something awful. She saw Matilda standing there and slipped on the hardwood, hitting her head pretty good on the door end. Out cold. Matilda stopped fussing. Peter stood wide-eyed, a cow in hand, an unconscious wife on the floor. What now cow? Constance came to , in the gable , in a chair, in her make-up room, bound and gagged by duct tape. A cow eating a salad on her right, and Peter pacing to her left is all she could see. There was what felt like a flexi-straw protruding through the tape over her mouth, and what tasted like a chocolate Slim-Fast strapped to her chest. She wished it were strawberry, but it goes without saying that was the least of her concerns. Constance was beautiful from a distance . She was built like a waitress at a Doowadiddy's, with a platinum blonde bob , and a bosom you could take a nap in. The closer you got though , the more you c~me to notice that all that was a body suit and a wig on an old maid . She had a murder of crow's feet , fake eyelashes, and the dullest sadness in her irises. Her lips were perpetually agape, showcasing her snaggleteeth, and that one gold crown that shown brightly from the recess of her hole . Not to say, aesthetics have much to do with beauty, but Constance was a looking glass in the mirror. Peter wasn't much better in most respects , but at least he was somewhat interesting. "Mmmffffhsshhshshshfffckrrrrr!" said Constance. Peter stopped pacing "Honey, I can't here you with that tape over your mouth. You're all consonants ... " He was staring at her now, rather creepily, and then he stopped and looked at Matilda, who was just finishing her bowl of mixed greens. He opened his mouth to say something, and then clutched his teeth again, standing there in bewilderment with his hands extended out in front of him. After a moment, he blurted out, 'Tm not sure why I brought Matilda up here, I thought it was a metaphor or poetic justice or something, but now I just feel bad. She's such a sweet cow, Constance. Cows can't climb down stairs you know; they're top heavy, they'll buckle their knees from the weight and fall face first into God knows what. I suppose you'll have to knock out the wall and get a crane or something and put her in a harness . Oh Jesus Matilda, a harness ... " He was hugging the cow now, after pantomiming like a low front was coming in on the green screen. He collected himself, and knelt KIOSK08 II I down on one knee in front of Constance, who was writhing and cursing incomprehensibly. "Listen to me . I'm leaving. I'm taking your car and your money from Mary Kay . .. and your mom's jewelry. You shouldn't have slept around, and I shouldn't have bet on the weather, but maybe things will work out better this way." Then he smiled that sly sideways smile and said, "You can screw Ben Hummerstrum whenever you please. " Just as he said it, he knew he shouldn't have . Peter recoiled in horror as Constance got up on her feet, hobbling, still taped to the chair, and charged at him with a ferocity he'd never seen before . It all happened so fast. Peter ran by the window to get behind Matilda, who was starting to panic again. Constance lunged at the both of them just as Matilda had had enough. She struck a mighty blow for such a little cow, head-butting Constance in the side of the chair. Peter stood, panic stricken, watching in horror as Constance lost her balance and fell headfirst, screaming into the windowpane . Everything came to a slow crawl. Constance was slumped over in the window, her hair still wet, with shards of glass imbedded in her neck, twitching. Chocolate Slim-Fast ran down her pant leg with the blood that was beginning to pool at her feet. Matilda and Peter were in a state of shock. Peter walked over slowly to see if she was dead , just as the twitching stopped. She was ... Peter did a curious thing after that; he lay down at her limp , dragging feet and started laughing and weeping uncontrollably. The tears streamed down his cheeks, in tributaries along a wrenching expression emptying into a river of blood and Slim-Fast. It was strange behavior for a strange scene, a sort of out of body expe12 KIOSK08 rience . Peter was beside himself, he could almost see himself behaving so absurdly, but could do nothing to control it. It felt like someone had put a nerve agent in some laughing gas, and thrown it into the hallway. The laughing turned to weeping, the weeping turned to laughing, and so on. Matilda didn't know what to do. After some time the absurdity subsided. Peter came to some of his senses, stood up , and took Matilda into his bedroom. He left the room for a while , as he cleaned up some of Constance's mess and came back into his bedroom with a salad bowl of water in one hand, and mixed greens in the other. Peter kissed Matilda on the nose as he set the bowls down in front of her. Then he grabbed the jewels from the jewelry box and the money from the make-up case, said one last farewell to Matilda and closed the door behind him. When he walked out onto the porch, the clouds had dropped all around him. The sky was falling, as the rain washed everything from memory. He walked whistling to the carport, got in that pink Cadillac and pulled out the RandMcNally from the backseat. He decided to head west on the red roads, not the interstate, less conspicuous, and besides there was plenty of banal, beautiful countryside ahead of him. As he drove down the gravel , the willows in the rearview shook their leaves and waved their little pinnate good-byes. Near the border of Kansas , the weather was getting particularly nasty. A low front the weathermen in the know called an Alberta Clipper was coming in head-over-toe. Ominous signs in the sky, lightning and thunder surrounded that pink blur speeding through the whiz and whirl of John Brown's carnal hills. God was having a bowel movement and about to shit all over the sunflowers. Peter didn't mind, he and God had already soiled his gray suit, and he was beginning to feel as light as a Coo-coo feather again. Peter drove that redline, pell-mell in the rain, from the bloody tributaries of the Missouri River to Bird City. He had an inkling he was destined for Kingdom Come (but had no idea how right on he was), and laughed maniacally when he saw a bumper sticker that read, "In Case of Rapture, Car Will Be Unmanned." Peter wanted Jesus to descend from heaven that instant and cause a million car pile-up from sea to shining sea. He grinned at the thought of that and hollered, "Cover the Earth! Pave the planet!" at on-coming cars, as he tooted his horn to the rhythm of the windshield wipers and swerved erratically. Peter knew the rest of his life, and his old one, were closing in on him. From here on in, he thought, the rest of this story would write itself right off the page, and into the blissful abyss . To that, he dropped the hammer and with it, came the earth ... Ironically and regrettably for Peter, his life did a contradictory thing and wrote itself right off the page and into the back page headlines, bylines, and prolonged infamy of the American Dream gone awry. A grocery store manager from Walla Walla, Washington found the pink Cadillac, abandoned in the loading dock of a Piggly Wiggly's. When the deputies arrived, there was an owl on the hood of the car, biting off the head of a mouse, blood splatter on the windshield, and running down the side. The next day, it was the front-page picture in the Walla Walla World Herald. There were reports of a dimwitted thirty-something waitress from Big Ai's Diner in Bird City, Kansas that had disappeared with a mysterious man in a gray suit with grass stains . He'd reportedly walked in, flirted with the aforementioned waitress, ordered a hot roast beef sandwich, and ate it with giddy delight. After he'd finished, he wrote something on a napkin and slipped it to her as she picked up his plate. The next thing Big Al knew, his third best waitress was leaving abruptly in a pink Cadillac with said man in question. Two days later she was found half-naked in the hallway of an Indian casino in Idaho, coked out, blathering about a cow in a gazebo and a THE UGLIES by Mock Moschmeier pencil man named Peter Chickenpaw who had promised her she was going to be a Mary Kay cover girl. That was that and this was something else ... The last paragraph of Peter Pickenpaw's life ended three days later at the Kingdom Come Inn, in Portland, Oregon. It was a slum hole motel, right next to the airport, with three channels of porno, but no HBO . In room 12B, Portland KIOSK08 13 I police found the body of a man who had signed in at the Kingdom Come under the assumed name Esau C. Sorrow but was later identified as Peter Pickenpaw. There were signs of forced entry and a single gunshot wound to the head, with a note on the nightstand that read, "NEVER UNDERESTIMATE THE WEATHER." Peter was slumped against the headboard, his pants off, his jacket on, smiling with a frown on his face . The burden and ecstasy were protracted expressions of nothing more . You could almost see a dead albatross around his neck decomposing right before your eyes. As of late, Peter was right under the skin of reality, decomposing in the blissful abyss . Epilogue Hams Prairie, Missouri. Matilda was put in a harness and lifted out of a hole in the gable. She was set down, nice and easy, with only minor injuries, and sent out to pasture again. She had shat all over the bedroom, which Ben Hummerstrum was paid to clean up. Officially, Peter was ~harged with first-degree manslaughter, Illegal gambling, and capital fraud, but none of the charges were ever taken to court. The carport did get painted puce, but Ben was never compensated. THE SNAPPING TURTLE'S HEAD by Shannon Sargent and John Bowitz mixed media "I ltit:tN~,,"f'\N fr- TVRTL.E..; EAt;> 'yj ~I "fTIT iiii' HI'<Ntlf KePi IlRAWI frbt-lt 14 ~ KIOSK08 I WATCHING THE MUSTACHED MAN CLEAN THE GLASS DOORS One light turns on then another in the thick dark. When the world should still be sleeping there is a man wiping windows for the coming rush for the parade of oily fingers and palm prints, which leave their trail their clues by half past ten and this Sherlock will be here again when the world should still be sleeping wiping away the evidence they left behind. He surveys the work he has done pacing in front of the window tearing long sheets of beige paper in large crumples, spraying electric blue liquid into patterns - polka dots here, horizontal rows there wipes the window - wax on wax offwith a scientific attention to detail, He has done a good job. I wouldn't even know the glass is there. AUDREY HANrLA KI OSK08 15 I WEDDING A courtyard and a straight-up fountain where the water rose until it blossomed at the top and shed wet petals, which splashed back into the urn and made sounds like static- white noise for a wedding. The minister's voice was just a murmur under that racket, and for all we could tell this pair might as well have taken their vows from the fountain. We careworn couples, scarred by the love wars, might have cried had we heard the usual promises, so impossible so sincere. No , it was a relief to hear what the fountain had to offer insteadIt advised rising. Rise and do not worry about the fall to come. Better emerges from worse, health from sickness, and riches from poverty. The heart jets blood toward the sunshine of thought and the sky of breath, but sobs come tumbling back and pool in the chest. No matter, the fountain said. The heart goes on with its work, like a proper marriage, fed by its own failings . STEPHEN COYNE 16 KIOSK08 WHERE ARE MY GLASSES? BY COLIN A 0' SULLIVAN relationship's survival often necessitates that visions of a loved one be blurred. The mind distorts inconsistency and airbrushes over imperfection. I open the door to three happy dogs. Tongues are lapping, tails wagging, paws pawing at my blue jeans, a blend of their odors all about. Their back paws dance on the blanket Laura got for Christmas, once muted lavender, but now dirty purple and stained, a fur infested mess. It's a mess in there, but I'm not surprised. The dogs haven't been let out. There is urine and feces on the rug-that's a lovely smell. The living room is padded with blankets, a comforter, shoe boxes, bed and throw pillows, a sack from Target, another from Kohl's, and raw hide bones saturated with the dogs' saliva and blood. The dogs are methodically wearing away at an incomplete frame-decorating project. Some pictures and seashells are glued to frames, some portraits are helpless and decapitated, heads and torsos ripped and tom. Spots of white shell dust on the carpet indicate some shells met a similar fate . "Shit!" "Hey honey, what's wrong?" Laura says from the bedroom. "Oh, one of the dogs shit," I say. "Either Sara or Otis. Gracie's would be larger." "Mere!" says Laura. It's her cute way of saying come here. Everything she does is cute. 'Just a second." I have to let the dogs out, then clean up the poop. I'll need one paper towel to pick up the poop and three to soak up the pee. What would I do without paper towels? I walk around the comer of the living room. Laura's arms are stretched out, palms pointing at me, and she has a wide smile. "Mere!" Speaking makes her smile open up as the "-ere" is drawn out, sounding like a cartoon bomb falling off a cliff. She is pinned against the bed. An unseen force has held her in bed for days, maybe weeks. Or has it been months now? She is in bed waiting for my embrace, needing it, squirming for it. I stumble over the clothes, and shoes and such. I fall into her arms. Her whole body wiggles, I force my hands under her back, her arms around my neck. She kisses my cheeks, like a woodpecker hunting for food. Her smell is strong and sweet, body mixed with bed odor. I roll myself over to the other side of bed and settle in next to her. "Hi!" I say to her. "Hi!" She returns. "So how's your day?" "It was ok; calculus was kind of rough," I say. "Yeah." she says, and then kisses my nose. I am so close to her face that my eyes cross. We have a long kiss. Our tongues tangle, let my hands explain calculus and chemistry, her fingers tell me about the last episode of Next Top Model. This bedspread has to go. I taste the salt on her neck; my feet and hands push and tug at the covers. The area behind her ear tastes sour; the smell of her incubated body, trapped under the covers, is free. It intoxicates us. I am not out of control, but under a new control. A powerful king has risen, and he has a plan for his kingdom. The boundaries are redrawn, the fields tilled, and the peasants rise up in glory, a new king has been crowned and the future looks good. The mood settles, somewhat abruptly, and we enjoy a smoke. The IV is playing, but I can't focus. I flick my ashes in the overflowing tray resting on my chest. "Do you have to work?" she asks. "Yeah, at two," I say to her, staring blankly at the television. "That's not bad, when you done?" she asks. "Six or seven," I reply. KIOSK08 17 I "I wish you never had to work; I wish we could be together all day long-forever. " "Well, I have to work," I say. She turns her attention to the TV It is as if I have to defend the need to work. I don't know if UNTITLED by Josh Beckwith mixed media she means it that way. Am I just being too sensitive? I have to pay the mortgage, buy groceries, cigarettes and gas. There really isn't an option. I have three hours until work, and I figure a nap would be fitting. I look at Laura. She is knee deep into a reality TV show. I recognize the one hit wonders and now-grown-up child actors. The show makes me want to puke a little bit. Laura notices me looking at her. "What?" she asks. "Nothing, I think I'm going to take a nap ," I half say and half ask. "OK," She has the bedspread wrapped around her like a flannel cocoon. I grab the blanket off the floor and pull it up to cover my ears. I begin a breathing exercise; I focus on the 18 KIOSK08 breath entering my nostrils, track it as it flows into my lungs, I imagine it traveling deep into my belly. As I exhale, I imagine the air being drawn up the length of my spinal cord and over the top of my head. I place my attention on the air leaving my lungs, exiting through the nostrils. My body is moving like the waves of an ocean, a rhythm of waves throwing themselves at the beach and getting pulled back by a relentless and powerful sea. I am shocked into a reality of Laura digging into a bag of potato chips, every movement of her hand releases disruptive crackle-waves. I raise my head off the pillow to look at her. She points the open end of the bag at me. "No" I say. My head returns to the pillow. I add the crackling sounds of a Hy-Vee brand Doritos bag to my mantra. It has been seven months since Jon died. He was her brother and my best friend. His death has been hard for both of us. I too am intimate with the pain she feels . She struggles hard with death's demons, but today decides she can return to work. Not just any job though, she doesn't want to work at some mindless job making no money and working for some creep. But that's every job. It is hard for her to look for work, which in itself is a big step that will take time to be ready for. She has many ideas. She could work at a veterinary clinic, she loves animals. She can see about working at. .. well ... she likes animals. I have a hard time feeling sorry for her during this job quest. Maybe it's because a quest means one has to leave the house. When she does leave it's after five in the afternoon and almost always in the direction of a bar. I have asked her if staying up late at night is why she can't wake up until after three. Her answer, "You're an asshole." She has to take baby steps, can't walk through Rome in day. There are days she wakes before me. For a time my vision of her clarifies. But this promise to find ajob returns me to my myopia. Her hair is in tangles, smoke seeps out between her lips in a slow and steady exhalation. She nervously taps her cigarette. Her attention is on the computer screen of her laptop. She takes a drag from the cigarette then returns it to the ashtray. Something is wrong; she is avoiding interaction. A thick shield protects her from interruption. I imagine what is going on in that head of hers. The weight of sadness slows every action, depresses the flow of signal molecules across synaptic junctions. Is it hard to get the air into her lungs? Are her ribs fighting movement? Laura's upper right eyelid spasms, telling of a struggle between her mind and body. At times she can make me feel like I am the most important person in the world by her smile or the way she holds my cheeks between her hands to lightly support my head as we kiss. She can also be so far away in her own existence that I feel irrelevant. Her mind is her lover, her friend, and protector. While in these trances, nothing else matters; I don't matter. Sometimes I will feel it when she holds me- as if forcibly pulling, holding me tight against her reminds her we are here. But will I ever understand, be allowed to understand? She is a mysterious sea of want and denial, a home to countless shadows. In these shadows, I cannot see reality clearly. "Hey." I say. I am happy to see her out of bed. "Hey." "What!; up?" I ask "Nothing, I woke up early." I try to catch her glance, but no use. "You want breakfast?" "Nope," She says Gracie, our Husky- Dalmatian mix, is curled up tight next to her. Laura is Gracie's mom, and I the step dad. Gracie's brown eyes follow me as I cross the living room. Our two Boston terriers, Sara and Otis, prance behind me. Sniffing and snorting as they struggle to step on my heels . Gracie is comfortable in Laura's world of dissociation, a privilege one earns with tests of reliance and endurance. Such a struggle for a gift that is so easily withdrawn. Gracie's knowledge of coexisting with Laura and her shadows is far greater than mine. I go to the kitchen and grab a glass of water, start some coffee brewing and let the dogs out to the back yard. I come back into the living room. Gracie offers the only eye contact in the room. She has what I want, a place next to Laura, a seat in her inner circle, the role of protector. I don't like being on the outskirts of her world. On the outskirts I am always sorry for no reason. I am at a loss for words. Laura looks up at me. Her pupils are wide and her expression is dull. "Gracie get," I say with a snap of my fingers, she harrumphs her way off the couch. I settle in next to Laura. I put my arm around her, but earn little response. "What's up?" "I'm MySpacing." She says. "So?" "What?" "I have a new restaurant idea," I say. "What?" she says. "I want to call it Gary's Philadelphia Chinese," I tell her. "Do I even want to know?" "This is going to be awesome. See it'll be gourmet Philadelphia Chinese." I explain. "You'll have your moo goo gai pan, Szechwan beef, general Tzao's chicken, sesame shrimp, all that stuff. Sizzlin' hot Chinese food ." "That sounds great." "Oh, that's not all," she knows that's not all; I know she knows. "So you have this awesome Chinese, but then you top it with cheese, gourmet cheese. You can choose KIOSKOB 19 I from sharp cheddar, Colby jack, Swiss, all of them. You hungry yet?" "And ... " she says. "Then you melt the cheese," I continue, "Bake the crap out of that cheese until it's golden brown." 'That's really gross." " Just wait. Then you throw sauteed onions and green and red peppers on top , shazam! " "Doesn't Chinese already have peppers and onions?" she asks. "Yeah, but this way the peppers are on top , ya know?" "You are an idiot," she says. I like getting her out of her head. I like to see her let go of the mess that surrounds her. I like it when she smiles. She thinks I'm funny. She laughs when no one else gets it. For reward I get to be with her, cuddle next to her under the covers. Chill in her cave, learn her. And this works; this makes sense to me . The one I love needing me, and me needing her. During the eighties and nineties everyone was against codependency. Now I am in a relationship that thrives on it. We depend on it, and it depends on us. This is safe and Simple. "Hey, Herold and Jen want us to come over tonight." "OK, what are we going to do?" she asks. "I don't know, just hangout," I say. "Let's see what's going on." We end up going to Jen and Herold's. She is a different person in public. She is all laughs, excited about life and happy about us. We hold hands and whisper in each other's ears. We have inside jokes about chameleons and zucchini. Our noses touch, and cheek is next to cheek. She treats me like a man; she sees me when I walk into the room, notices when I leave. Her long dusty blonde hair frames her beautiful face . She tells everyone how much she loves me. 20 KIOSK08 She talks of our plans for the future , and it is wonderful. She dances in circles with their kids and tells them memorized Dr. Seuss rhymes. "Not in a box, not with fox, " she says. "Not in a train, not in a plane." Jen and Harold's three children laugh and squirm as she tickles their bellies and riddles her words. "Hey, tell them about your new job," I say. "Oh, yeah, I got a job at Buffalo Alice," Laura says. "I'm only working weekends, but there's always shifts opening up ." Buffalo Alice is a bar downtown, on Fourth Street. I have to say, having a girlfriend working in the bar should not be a bad thing. The positives are I get any drink for a dollar, can always get beer after two, and I don't feel weird going to the bar by myself. Sounds great right? The first problem is that I like to drink too much. I don't necessarily drink often, but when I start it is difficult to stop- a run away train with no breaks and a conductor with a concussion. Cheap drinks are not the best thing for someone who's already trying to get away from life's reality. ''I'll have one distorted view of reality and two shots of jealousy, please." The next problem is the after hours parties. Laura spends all night serving drinks to drunk people, and by the end of it she needs a drink. She can always find someone having a party after the bars closes, and so we go. But I don't always go , giving rise to problem number three. She's picking up shifts during the week when I have to go to school the next morning, and sometimes on the weekends I'm wasted by nine at night and need to go home . The insecurities I have about our relationship seem to have doubled. She is a beautiful girl, who also likes to drink too much. The thought of her getting drunk and hanging out with guys until four in the morning drives me crazy. See, we hooked up a few times while she was dating her last boyfriend before we officially started going out. I lay awake at night wondering if she has tendencies of a cheater or if I am such a great guy that our experience was special. She told me, 'Tve never cheated before." But I was there when she did. How did she think we hooked up? Stories I have heard about her cheating ways replay in my head, as I toss and tum. Is the saying, "once a cheater always a cheater" always true? It is nearing four AM and still no word from her. The dogs are deep in sleep, curled up and snoring at the end of the bed. It is difficult because I am happy Laura has a job but the night is now morning. How can she have money to go out and drink but not enough to help with bills? A car door slams. I hear Laura's voice through the open window. A minute later she is stumbling into the bedroom. In an instant fear and worry tum to anger. I'm mad she is getting home so late; I'm mad that I have to wake up early and I haven't slept a minute. She throws her purse on the floor and crawls into bed. She kisses me, and I act like I am just waking up . The anger is hot in my veins, and I don't know what to say. I want to tell her I can't do this anymore; the late nights are too much for me . I need more help with the house and dogs and bills. I want her here not out with god knows who . But what do I finally say? "Where have you been?" I say. How creative. "After work I went with Kim and Tiff to Bill's . Then we met up with Braden and we went to his house for a while and now I'm home with you . My favorite ." She pulls my face to hers and shoves her tongue into my mouth. Her mouth tastes thick of alcohol and cigarettes. "It's freaking late," I say. "I know," She says. She posnlOns herself on top of me and goes in for anoth- er kiss. She starts breathing hard . She starts licking my ear, loud and sloppy licks. I pull away "Why didn't you cam" I know where this is leading and I try to resist. "Honey, I didn't want to wake you." She pulls at my shirt; I finish the job. She runs her nails through my chest hair and then suckles my neck. The air is sour with booze. One of my rules of engagement is to never deny your partner naughty time, no matter the time. If you say no once, it is like opening the No gate. They start saying no even when they're horny, just because they know how much it sucks for you. Her finger tips draw circles around my nipples. Once they are hard, she tugs lightly at them. I grab her hips and pull her closer, our hips move in unison until it hurts to have her on top. I move her over so I can get on top . She tries to take her shirt off while rolling over and gets tangled. I help the shirt over her head and off her arms . Helping a woman take her pants and underwear off is one of my favorite things to do in life. It may be my life's greatest ambition. I like to savor it, but Laura has no time to cherish the moment. In no time she is lying naked. We roll around like crazed monkeys. "You're already done?" she says. Sexing it up with drunk Laura is kind of like selling a used car to a rich girl. She's never satisfied. "Well, yeah. " I say. I'm worn out and ready for some sleep, but that's not part of the itinerary. "Oh, OK. .. " she says, but I can tell you it's not. "I'm sorry, I'm tired and I guess um ... " "You know sometimes I just want you to screw me." She says, "Do you think you can do that?" "Yeah, I want to, too ." This is when the conversation gets weird . Let's just say the next few minutes are me explaining and justifying why I don't treat her like a whore . It is the weirdest conversation I KIOSK08 21 I have had with a girl. It is so confusing. I was pissed at her for coming home so late , and now she is pissed at me because I don't do it properly. It just feels like a burden. This conversation is followed by her crying. She does this almost every time she comes home from the bars. She is happy, we have sex, and she finds something to argue about then ends up crying about her brother. I fall asleep holding her in my arms . I wake up worn out, still angry, ashamed, and sad. I start my coffee brewing and try to figure out what to do . Last night was crazy. I feel so confused. I try to read the paper, but the words jump all over the page. I don't know who to talk to . This is not something you can just talk to anyone about. I want to leave her right now, I want to throw her out, wake her up 22 KIOSK08 and get her out of my house. The drinking and fighting are horrible . I don't know what to do . She is so helpless and sweet one minute and then the next she is an evil thrashing little demon. I feel like I can't sit down, I can't relax, I have to keep moving. I start to clean up the house a bit then get ready for work. I take a long shower and thoroughly scrub myself with soap twice over and rub shampoo into my scalp until its hurts. Then I just let the hot water massage my forehead . Some times we can't hear our own stories. They are read to us by our daily experiences and told by the people closest to us. The shower has opened my eyes. I am ready to see matters more clearly now, so I ask myself, "Where are my glasses?" BONDING WITH BROTHER Steam rolls Shit It happened again Shit shit shit Clarabelle groans and steams more Open the hood and wait The game has become tedious: Wait for the car to cool Chat with brother (He knows more about cars anyway) Wait for the car to cool Kick the tire (I never realized just how cool brother was) Curse Wait for the car to cool Pour the water I consistently lose this game Sit in the car Pray Drive home Cautiously and with flashers Ignore angry glances (Who drives under 55 on the four lane 7) Pull in the driveway Steam rolls Shit TREY K. BIACKBURN KIOSK08 23 I THE LILY LIE BY LAURA HOMAN I 'm getting really tired of this music. They should get some new CD's or whatever that music comes from . Being in this damn elevator every day for the past three months is a little too much, and these flowers are heavier than you'd think they'd be. The bell dings for the fourth floor, and I step off into the sterile hallway of the hospice section of the nursing home. The smell of bleach is always strongest right here. Walking down the long hallway, I pass the woman who sits in the wheelchair all day staring down the hall. I say hello to her, but she hasn't responded in weeks . The head nurse, Susie, waves at me as I walk into the care room. "Hey Mom, how you doing today?" I say, as if she will respond. "It's beautiful outside. The birds are singing and spring is coming." Only silence follows as she sits staring straight ahead in the angled hospital bed. She looks so weak and old. She's only sixty-eight. I never really thought of my mom as old before now. Her face is pale, with sunken eyes and wrinkles outlining every smile or frown she's ever had. Her hair is limp and scraggly. She hasn't eaten for who knows how long. How much longer can her body take this punishment? I look around this room I've been in hundreds of times, and I notice how small it is. The room is plain with only one window allowing in a small breeze and a little light. There are a few odd paintings of unrecognizable landscapes only doctors seem to have. The bedside table has a vase holding dead lilies. "I brought you more flowers today They're lilies, your favorite ." "Oh aren't those pretty Miss Grace?" Susie says walking into the room. Once again, Mom makes no response. "How's she doing today? Anything changed?" I have to ask, even if I already 24 KIOSK08 know that the answer will be the same as every other day The first time her disease started to show was about a year ago . I'll never forget the day I got the phone call from her neighbor and friend, Mrs. Peterson, telling me that my mother had been wandering up and down the street for hours . Mrs. Peterson had even called out to her asking what she was doing, but Mom didn't respond. I left work, headed to Mom's house, and saw her on the side of the road at the end of her block. I pulled the car over and went after her. Calling "Mom" didn't faze her, so I started calling her name. After about five "Graces," I caught up with her and touched her on the shoulder. She was startled, like she'd been deep in thought. "Mom, what are you doing?" I said. She looked at me as though she didn't know me. It was a very strange feeling, your mother not knOwing you. "Do you know where I live?" she said like a small child. I must have given her a very strange, confused look. I can only imagine what it must have looked like. My mom couldn't remember where she lived? Was she serious? "Good joke, Mom. LetS take you home." She followed me back to my car looking a little worried, but she got in anyway I had to tell her to buckle up, like she'd never been in a car before. What was with her? When we got out of the car, Mom looked around curiously, inspecting the area. "This is my house?" She looked at me for reassurance. "Yes, Mom, you've lived here for 10 years. Don't you remember it?" I know it was a stupid question. Obviously, she didn't remember otherwise she wouldn't be so confused, but I was having a hard time understanding. We walked up to the door and stood there for a few seconds before I put together the fact that she probably didn't know where her keys were either. I grabbed mine out of my pocket and opened the door. I walked in first and held the door for her. She stood in front of the step looking into the dim house. "C'mon Mom-It's okay" "Alright," she stepped inside. "But it doesn't look right." Standing in the entryway, she looked around while I walked farther into the house. That's when I noticed the state the house was in. My mom, usually the cleanest person I've ever known, had not cleaned the house in weeks. There were dirty dishes stacked up in the kitchen and even left out on the table. Clothes strewn on the furniture , trash on the floor, and the TV had been left on. Mom was living like a messy college student. I picked some clothes off the couch and settled her down in front of the TV I knew she'd been forgetting little things, but I didn't think it was this bad. ''I'll be right back. Just watch TV for a second." I felt like I was baby-sitting. I walked over to the neighbor'S house and knocked on the door. I'd known Mrs . Peterson for most of my life; she and my mother have been good friends . She opened the door, and asked if my mother was alright. She then led me into her living room. "I got her inside watching TV Do you know what's going on with her? She couldn't remember where she lived, and she didn't seem to recognize me." I explained what had happened, and the look on Mrs. Peterson's face got progressively more worried. "I was afraid that's what had happened. She's been forgetting things more and more nowadays. Gracie never used to be forgetful, but now I'll invite her over for tea and such, and she'll never come. I call over there and she says she forgot; she'll laugh, and say something about a senile moment, but I just don't know. " Mrs. Peterson sat down on her couch and looked down like she was thinking, or maybe even praying, I couldn't tell. I looked around the house noting how clean it was, especially compared to Mom's . Everything was in its place, no dishes in the living room, clothes all out of Sight, and the trinkets and knickknacks were dust free . I was lost in thought when Mrs. Peterson started speaking again, making me jump a little. 'The other day Gracie came over wearing the oddest assortment of clothessweatpants and a nice blouse. You know your mama. She doesn't wear sweatpants in public, especially not over to someone's house. She is far too proper for that. I asked her what she was wearing and she looked at me like I'd asked her the price of fish in Egypt or something. Things like that have been happening more and more lately I'm worried about her, Nicky" I cringed internally at the use of the name "Nicky". I hate that name, but I never felt like I could correct her. She had always been so fond of it, ever since I was little. Mom calls me that damn name too, and Mrs. Peterson had just thought it was so cute she'd never stopped using it. Blaming myself for not coming around more to check up on Mom, I asked to use the bathroom, mostly for a chance to think. The bathroom was clean and smelled like flowers . I sat down on the edge of the tub and put my face in my hands. I don't think I've ever sighed so much in my life. I didn't want it to be what I thought it was, Alzheimer's. It's a terrible word. It's been almost a year since that dreadful phone call. A parade of doctors has seen her since then and they all tell us that she KIOSK08 25 I has a very intense kind of Alzheimer's. It is one that moves rapidly and drastically through the mind. As time went on, it became harder and harder for her to recall memories, and she became depressed. Finally, she withdrew into herself and hasn't spoken since. "She hasn't moved all day-didn't even grumble when we gave her a bath." Susie says. "Nick, it's been months since the last time she spoke. I'm so sorry." I know it's probably hopeless, but I can't bring myself to give up on her. Susie leaves me to my own thoughts and leaves the room. A book sits open on the table on the other side of the bed. Why didn't I notice that before? It looks like someone must be reading to Mom. Who could be doing that? Not many people know she's in here or that she has this condition. "Hello Darla." I hear Susie say from the nurse's station. I don't give it much thought. Someone walks into the room and my curiosity gets the better of me. "Susie, who's been reading this book?" I tum around to face her, but it isn't Susie. It's a little girl. Well I suppose "little" doesn't really fit her. She's, oh, probably about nine or so. When did I start to feel so old? I'm only forty-four, but I feel like I'm eighty. ''I'm not Susie, but I'm the one reading the book." The girl says, with her head raised proudly. "It's a book that's supposed to be for someone older, but I can read it no problem." "Oh .. .uh, who are you?" ''I'm Darla!" she says, as if I should already know that. Wearing a big smile, she walks over to the table, picks up the book, and scans the page. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Darla. I'm Nick." "I know who you are, silly." Darla rolls her eyes and laughs, but I'm confused. "Really? How do you know that?" 26 KIOSK08 "Cause, she told me." She says, pointing at my mother. I am shocked. My sensible side tells me this was a ridiculous child fantasy and could not possibly be true, but my hopeful side yearns to know more, to make it real. "How did she do that?" I have to know. "She smiles. The guy's name in this book is Nick, just like you. And when I read the name, she smiles." Darla looks very impressed with herself for figuring this out. I know I must look skeptical. I feel skeptical. Could this really be true? Could my mom still show emotion after all this time of no emotion at all? "You read to my mom?" "Yep. My grandma had the forgetful sickness too. She couldn't remember anything anymore and had to live in a place like this. She liked to read but forgot how to, so I read to her. Then she went to heaven. I like to come here and read to other people who forgot how to, like your mom." Darla says. Susie walks into the room. "It's a lovely thought," she says. "But I think Miss Grace's good days are gone, Darla. Perhaps you should move on to someone else's room. Maybe go read to someone who will still enjoy your company." Susie smiles sadly at Darla and fluffs her hair. "Miss Susie, I know she can hear me. I just know it!" Darla says firmly, crossing her little arms. "And I'm not moving! I like reading to Miss Grace." Susie nods her head with a grim smile on her face, seeming to understand that she won't change Darla's feelings, and leaves the room. Susie must have missed the first part of my conversation with Darla. Otherwise, I think she'd have something medical to say about why Mom reacting couldn't be true. I want to believe Mom's still there, somewhere inside. I want to see it. "Darla, will you start to read, please?" I say, in the crazy hope of seeing this miracle smile. Darla settles herself on the end of the bed and begins. It's some obscure book I've never heard of, but she reads happily like it's the best fairy tale she's ever heard. She reads on, and I stare at my mother, waiting. Darla comes to a point where she says "Nick" and glances at my mom, too, while continuing to read. Mom makes no movement, no expression, and my teetering hopes come crashing down. I can feel myself breaking apart, and I look at Darla. She is disappointed. We were so excited, but nothing happened. I stand up and walk around the bed to the table with the dead flowers next to the new ones. I pick up the old ones and start to walk out. "Lilies," a weak, raspy voice says. A voice that sounds so familiar. I must be going crazy, but I stop anyway. I tum around hoping against hope and damning my stupidity for even thinking it might be possible. I look at my mom, inspecting her, trying to tell if she really had spoken, but her face remains impassive. "Keep reading," I tell Darla. Maybe this reading thing makes her brain remember things, or maybe I really have just lost my mind. Darla reads on glancing desperately at my mother from time to time. Maybe she heard it too . That would mean I'm not crazy, or both of us are. I'm not sure which one I'm hoping for more. "Nick arrived at the house and walked in the door," Darla reads and then looks furtively at Mom. "Take your shoes off, Nicky," My mother says. "Oh my God! She spoke! Mom! Mom, I'm right here. Look at me. Can you hear me? Please, Mom, please talk to me. It's Nicky!" I am practically screaming at her. I know that this probably isn't the best way LOCKED DOOR by Kate Kes photograph, film to communicate, but I can't control myself. My mother spoke. Even with me screaming at her, her face is impassive. It's as if she never spoke at all. Susie comes running in asking what's wrong. She must think that I've finally lost it. "She talked! Mom talked!" "She hasn't spoken in months, Nick." Susie looks at me like she's telling me that my puppy died. "She's not going to start now." "But she did! She told me to take my shoes off!" Oh great, that sounds even more insane. Way to go Nick. "Miss Susie, she did! I was reading the book and said that he walked inside the KIOSK08 27 I house and she told him that! She did!" Darla is nearly bouncing with excitement, and I have a nine-year-old backing up my story, not exactly a prime witness. Susie looks at us patronizingly. "Well, show me." Susie and I practically grew up together. She's Mrs. Peterson's daughter and only about two years older than me , but right now I feel like a child again, with the adults just allowing me my dreams, nodding their heads and smiling. Darla FRAGilE byAnne Torkelson Sculpture 28 KIOSK08 begins to read another section out of the book, but nothing happens. We try again several more times, but still no response. After some time, Susie walks away. Darla goes home shortly after that too. I am left alone in the room with my mother. I keep talking to her in hopes that she'll respond, but eventually I fall silent. My mother falls asleep and I sit there watching her. It's getting late and I know I should be going but I can't drag myself away right now. I find myself bowing my head to pray. Praying is not something I do . "God, please help my mom. I'm not expecting a cure or anything. I just want a chance to tell her I love her and for her to really say it back. Not in my mind, but in reality. I just don't know how much longer I can take this. She can't hold on much longer, I know. Please God, help her somehow." I whisper amen and lean my head back in the chair. I feel so tired. Birds are singing. It's morning! I look at my watch-half past ten. I'm late for work. I pick up the old flowers I'd set on the floor next to me last night and stand up . Mom's still asleep, so I don't disturb her. I walk out quietly and shut the door behind me. The morning nurses greet me as I pass them, and I smile. Now with dead flowers, I walk down the bleached hallway into the elevator. The same song is still playing. I feel like I'm Bill Murray in a perpetual Groundhog's Day cycle, repeating the same day all the time. Only there's nothing to be learned. I get home, call into work, and tell them I'm sick. I deserve a break. I start to go through some of Mom's things that I've moved from the house into my apartment. I come to a box that's marked "Nick's Movies." I used to love running around with a camcorder and recording any old thing. I had no idea that Mom had kept those . I open the box. "Christmas '87 ," "Spring Fest '89," and "Mother's Day '91 ," are just a few of the videos . I make a movie marathon for myself, starting with Christmas. I laugh at my terrible camera skills and the random things I recorded . By Spring Fest, I'd gotten a bit better at walking around without too much dizzy- ing movement. Mother's Day is the one I'm afraid of. I slide it into the player and watch my mother on the screen happy and healthy, completely aware of who she is and the world around her. I remember the day well. I'd made her pancakes and burned them terribly, but she forced them down with motherly love. She laughed at the present I'd brought her from an old craft store. It was a cheap lily flower pin. I hadn't known what flower was her favorite , so I guessed. "How did you know this was my favorite flower? " she said. "I just guessed. Was I right, Mom?" "Yes," she said with a laugh. "You were very right, indeed." She wore that pin every day up until the time when her memory faded. I wonder now where it is. There is a knock at the door, and I pause the movie. Mrs. Peterson is calling my name and saying "hallo, hallo ." "I'm coming, Mrs. Peterson. I'm coming." What in the world is she doing this far from home? I open the door, and I cannot for the life of me remember her first name . Could I really have grown up around her without knowing that? "Hello , Mrs. Peterson. What are you doing way out here?" "Hello, Nicky. I just came to see how you were doing." She comes into the living room. "How's your mama, dear?" "I'm doing just fine. Mom's the same as always." I say, not mentioning the happenings of yesterday. I don't want to give the poor old woman the same crazy hope I had . That hope is gone from me now anyway. "Susie called me yesterday saying you were having a fit. Said your mama had talked to you and such." She is frowning and her eyes are full of concern. Do I look sick or something? Damn it. I should have known that Susie would call her mother on me . "Oh, it's nothing to worry about. I just let it get the better of me is all. " I hope she doesn't sense the lie. If she does, she is polite enough to let it pass. "She loves you, Nicky." Mrs. Peterson's wrinkled face softens, and she looks at me with tender eyes. "She always will. Whether she remembers your face or not she will always be your mom." I feel tears begin to burn my eyes, so I look away from her. The 1V still glows with the frozen image of my mom. She's sitting on the couch laughing and holding the pin up to her shirt. I turn back to look at Mrs. Peterson, but she is staring at the Tv, her own tears welling. "Susie tells me you bring her lilies. That they're your mama's favorite flowers." She says it so quietly I can barely hear her. I nod my head, but I'm confused. What does that have to do with anything? Realizing that she can't hear my nod, I clear my throat. "That's right. " A devilish look crosses Mrs. Peterson's face like a teenager about to tell the latest gossip. "You want to know a secret?" she says, crinkling her eyes with a smile and looking back at me. "Sure," I say wondering where she could be going with this. Has she lost her mind too? "Years ago when you made her burnt pancakes for Mother's Day and gave her a pin with a lily on it, she told you that you did wonderfully because that was her favorite flower, right?" "Yeah." "Well, my dear, she lied to you. You were so proud of your gift and the fact that you'd thought it up, bought it, and surprised her all by yourself she didn't have the heart to tell you that she hated the KI OSK08 29 I damn flower." She let out a deep throaty laugh. "And it really backfired against her. Every time you bought her a present, for years after that, it would have a lily on it." "She lied?" I say, confused. "She could have just told me." "Oh ha ha, good joke Nicky, but you would have been one broken-hearted little boy if that had been the wrong flower. Your mama knew that. So she told you lilies were her favorite, and she kept that lie up for all these years." She says, with a sweet smile. "But- " "She loves you, my dear." She turns back to stare at the image on the screen. "She loves you." The room settles into silence. I turn my attention back to the TWISTING RECLINE by Josh Beckwith Acrylic 30 KIOSK08 TV as well. Shifting in her seat, Mrs . Peterson sighs. I sit in my chair, thinking about my mom's lifelong lie. She'd lied to me every birthday, Mother's Day, and Christmas. I'd always given her flowers on her birthday, and they'd always been lilies. I walk back into my room where the frozen picture of my mother putting the lily pin on is still lingering on the TV In that image, she has a wide smile on her face, one full of love. I promise myself that I will always remember her just like that: young, beautiful, and full of life. With tears running down my cheeks, I stare at the picture on the TV and say, "I love you too, Mom. I love you too ." 2,174 MILES When you're sixty eight and still kickin' it, we'll take a trip down the Appalachian trail and make trail mix, with things we gather. That same coffee mug you'll carry for all 2,000 miles, through New Jersey and Vermont, That same shirt you'll wash in rivers, scrubbing red plaid alongside wide-eyed trouttheir scales are small rainbows on mirrorsstopping into town to rinse your feet in spewing gutters, the rusted gutters of cafes. Cafes are cheating, you'll say. Not roughing it. Ha! I'll say. These awful chili fries are rough enough. I'll add them to the trail mix, along with the razor blade, the fork, and the space blanket. Along with the Polaroid of Geoff, the one legged hiker, and the wild boar he befriended. When Geoff stops to rest, leaning on his crutch, wiping away the sweat of the afternoon sun, the boar lingers, and sniffs the space where Geoff's foot had been, and snorts heavily, expecting food. AUDREY BANTLA KIOSK08 31 I WHEN IRISH EYES ARE SMILING Why do you damned Americans find me so interesting? I'm nothing more than a regular full-blooded Irishman, yet you all find it so intriguing that I came to Iowa of all places, I have an Irish accentI hold my liquor better than youI speak twice as fastI have been to more countries then you can find on a map. Americans are the most ignorant race on the face of the planet. I tell you tosspots I don't have a job, I live off pots of gold at the end of rainbows and capture the leprechauns to become my servants. I have over thirty of them, I keep at least two under my bed You hear my accent, and instantly stereotype Drunk Potato Scavenger Four leaf clover collector Blarney stone kisser Shamrock enthusiast Shillelagh swinging Brawler. KYLE THAYER 32 KIOSK08 AVOIDING PREGNANCY Kiri, the healer, told the couple to move their arms and yell "We're not ready for you!" She said, "You don't need condoms to maintain your freedom and certainly no oral contraceptives." The way it works, you see, is that the spirit of the child enters at the point of climax. If you tell it not to come, it won't, but you must be careful. Because if the spirit does come inside, you will have a child. It is very important for both of you to flail your arms in a pushing motion and yell as loud as you can when you reach that point. It will work and the spirit will not join your union and you will not have a pregnancy. After a year of practicing this method, Susanna got pregnant. John, the music-therapist, had to play faster songs so he could treat more patients and save up money for their coming baby. "It's a boy." Suzie said. "Oh, did you get an ultrasound?" I asked. "No, Kiri told us. Kiri said, 'He's a very strong spirit. We should be honored Because he chose John and 1.' We weren't ready before, but Kiri says that we are now." PHILLIP LIEDER KIOSKOB 33 I AN ODD BIT On a hot morning On a little beach On a pond in Iowa I was told to pick up trash Latex gloves, a five-gallon bucket. I went forth across the mini-desert There were cigarette butts There were beer cans There were diapers There were pop bottles There were swimsuits There were fast food sacks And other odd bits. I would cuss at the hooligans who defiled this place by carving gang signs in all of our signs. Los Lobos, 16th Street Locos, Beaners were here and such. I painted over it at least ten times this summer. I knew they left all the cigarette butts beer cans, diapers, pop bottles, fast food sacks, swimsuits and other odd bits. Near the water's edge some plastic stuck out of the sand. Odd bit I leaned over, picked it up and hoisted a large-mouth bass from the sand. 34 KIOSK08 A great trophy now in hand on a Necromancer outdoor show. Maggots roiled about like boiling rice pudding. Horrified by my thumb in the cellophane jaws, I cringed. My reaction to toss it provided much fish-food and I fought my gag reflex as the smell lingered. KIEL PLOEN KIOSK08 35 THEVILLAIN BY JONATHAN GREEN . W ith a bottle of Ancient Age in his left hand and a case of Coors in his right, Jeremy Tout tried to fumble the door to his apartment open. It was a Friday night, and he was desperately trying to figure out what to do for supper. Walking into the living room, he placed the beer in his dorm fridge that he now used for booze. He put the bottle of whiskey on top of the fridge, and grabbed a clean, if somewhat dusty lowball and poured himself a healthy dose . He had neglected to buy soda, so straight whiskey and beer were the choices tonight. Tout sipped his dram while he meandered into the kitchen. Clicking on the cheap fluorescent light over the sink, he read for the hundredth time the bumper sticker he had hung there: May god be with you on your quest for a clue That's about how he felt tonight; indeed, it was how he felt most nights. He grabbed a banana and walked back into the living room, turned on some music, and turned out the lights, firing a few tea light candles as he walked from fixture to fixture . And then he stood up again. He quickly ate the banana, and walked to the garbage, throwing away the peel. Tout walked back to the couch and resumed his seat. And then he quit his seat, again. This time, he had forgotten his cigarettes. Tout grabbed them from the desk across the room, thinking himself very clever to remember the matches and ashtray. A third time he settled into his preferred comer of the couch, letting his legs dangle over the edge, he slouched. He sloshed the whiskey around in the glass, and finished it before lighting a cigarette. The Diamond sparkled as he scrapped it 36 KIOSK08 along the sole of his boot, and then he placed the glowing orb to the tip of the Marlboro , inhaling that first drag, a mixture of sulfur and smoke. It burned, but no more than the whiskey. ... and thinking of whiskey, he poured himself another, between puffs of the cigarette, and he drew a beer from the refrigerator. Tout hastily drank the whiskey this time , now that he had acclimated to it. He did not yet open the beer; it was some matter of personal pride to him to drink straight spirit without conSidering a chaser. He put the glass down on the fridge, and then put out the Marlboro in the ashtray, also on the fridge . Looking through the glass of the dispensary for spent smokes, he noticed, again for the hundredth time, the bumper sticker he had affixed to the top of the fridge : The least you can do to a man is kill him That particular sticker was a good one to contemplate when he was drinking, Tout thought, and grabbed the beer, cracking it open to the satisfying sound of a little more relaxation just sips away. He had thought about that particular bumper sticker so long now it wasn't even thinking. Like a path trodden through golden grass in his head, he had trampled a circular path around the thing. The grass would not grow anew; he just walked the same path over and over again, thinking and thinking. On the one hand, he could completely understand the sentiment: once you're dead, there isn't much left to complain about. It'd be like a big nap and the alarm clock would never go off. Sounded kind of nice. But on the other hand, death was bullshit. Tout was young, but he had seen enough death to know that it wasn't some- thing to be celebrated. A character on a TV show had once said that there was no dignity in death, or something like that. Something like that. His head swirled around the conflicting ideas of death as a permanent holiday and death as being the end of everything. Could you enjoy a holiday if you couldn't think anymore? No , but you couldn't be pained, either. The music skipped, a loud, electronic, obnoxious sound, and jarred his mind out of the rut. Without willing it, without meaning it, without even realizing it, his head settled back down to a slightly different spot than it had found itself in before the jolt. Just outside of the rut. Tout had always thought that the bumper sticker implied something painful. But now the words reformed in his skull, rearranging themselves in a new way. Death is of the greatest insignificance His mind had gone off of the rails, like it sometimes did. More rarely now did he enjoy these superfluous moments of inSight, but when they did come there were manna. He was racing around in the badlands in his brain, feeling out the dynamics of this new idea, this reassessment. It was almost to a destination of sorts, the excitement rising in him. Trout Sipped beer as coolly as if he were matching socks after laundry. But inside there was a symphony tuning before the show, and the tension was mounting. The candles seemed to bum brighter for a moment; the music was louder. Something whacked him in the temple , and he thought he might pass out for a moment. He was seeing stars. Nearly dropping his beer, Tout steadied himself with his free hand, feeling ill. With some sense of balance regained, he put that left hand to his temple, trying to discover what had struck him. The candles returned to their dull flicker, and the music was again a familiar tune he knew much like the palm of his hand: intimate, close, loyal, boring, familiar, familiar. There was another knock on the door. The blow to his head had been a knock. He had been so engaged in his thinking that it had hurt when his concentration had been broken. The knock was harder now, but it did not hurt at all. Tout, beer in hand, walked slowly to the door. The floor creaked below his feet, but there was yet a third knock when he had put his hand on the handle , already turning. The knob had turned as far as it could travel, and his palm slipped across it as he continued to twist. His palm was sweaty. He pulled the door open. Trout nearly thrust the door closed again. The vestibule light was off, and there were but three tea lights burning in the apartment. The door obscured two of them, and the third was directly behind him. The only light bounced around him, hitting her face indirectly. But he would have known the face in darkness; even with the music playing he knew the sound of her breath. If he hadn't been so deep in thought when she had knocked, he would have known that, too, he thought. He stood there, feeling his hair turning grey; the vitality draining out of him. The least you can do to a man is kill him Death is of the greatest insignificance Jeremy Tout felt nothing happening, he felt himself suffering the greatest insignificance. His breathing had stopped; the beer was slipping from his fingers. All of the weight of his body was suddenly below his knees, the rest of him a shell and ready to float away. He had fouled his one chance to slam the door closed before this happened. But hope KIOSK08 37 I had trumped experience, instinct was bested by longing. He had failed to do the hard thing, and now he was suffering a long death. She stood there, looking back at him, inspecting him, critiquing him. He felt her breath, and he shuddered. Her gaze moved upon him and felt lighter than a feather across his skin. The hair on his neck, in a last act of desperation, stood straight. He could feel his heart dying. RAINY DAY byAnne Torkelson Mixed M edia 38 He exhaled. Time returned to normal. His palm had been sweating, but now everything was . It seemed as if he had sweat through his shirts in a matter of seconds. Chemicals were coursing through his body in a way that he could only begin to understand, in a way he could not control. He inhaled. Control seemed to return. He released the doorknob , and transferred the beer to that hand, to try and stem the sweat. He swallowed. "Come in." He slowly backed away from the door, pivoting to his right, as if he were but an extension of the wooden thing. She crossed the threshold, a step at first, examining the lay of the furniture , and then advanced ahead a second step. She was clear of the door. Tout closed the door behind her, and turned to her. She was facing away from him. He looked at the back of her head, trying to focus his mind. His glance drifted down ... But he marshaled his control and placed his gaze directly on the back of her head again. He forced himself to take a quick swig of beer, trying to regain some sense of normalcy. This, of course, would have been normal five years ago . He walked ahead of her a step, to the coffee table, and set his beer down. Again, he turned, this time to her. "Can I take your coat?" She nodded, and they came together for a moment. He put his left hand on her left shoulder, gently grasping her coat, while she lowered that side of her body, allOwing the wool that had draped her figure to gently slide down her arm. Her arm was not stiff, but fell to her side straight. He moved behind her, taking up the coat, as she arched her shoulders as if to stretch, only to let the slack in her body move to the right side. The rest of the coat fell away from her, limp , into his hands . He hung her coat from the tree next to the door. She had already seated herself. "Something to drink?" She gently shook her head. Tout nodded and walked to the end KIOSK08 I of the couch: his spot, next to the dorm fridge . He bent over, put that clammy left hand on the bottle of whiskey, but then thought better. Tout left his hand there for a moment, though, and tried to herd the tomcats running around inside his gut and head . He stooped further and grabbed another beer from the fridge, carefully set it down on the table and collected the first can, finishing the last drink. Tout walked to the garbage and dropped the empty can in. He returned to his seat, his spot. He sat, and leaned forward, opening the second beer. The sound was the same; the sound was somehow different. The furnace was running, but he was cold. The flicker of the tea lights looked more like that from the cheap fluorescent in the kitchen than warm candle fire. He again forced himself to drink. "How are you?" he asked. There was a bit of beer in his mustache, and a stream dribbled down his chin, wetting his beard as well. She cocked her head and squinted, almost imperceptibly. Wrong question. "Howls Frank?" Tout asked. "He IS dead." Again the weight inside shifted. He was sitting. His feet were iron bricks, his ass, lead. He thought he might sink through the couch and fall through the floor beneath. Gravity would pull him to the center of the earth. The least you can do to a man is kill him He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them again. The light from the tea lights was still cold. Any warmth had left now; he was cold, almost shivering. He was sweating again, more. "How?" She scoffed. "You killed him." He grimaced and set his jawbone like a stone, pushing his tongue out against his teeth, probing them, making sure they hadn't rotted and fallen away. He forced another drink of beer and, trembling, poured more whiskey. The beer in his left hand, the bottle in his right. "I really wish you would quit drinking." He took a long drink of the whiskey. It, too, dribbled down his chin, and a few drops dripped onto his chest. He took another long drink, emptying the glass. He set it down on the fridge, and he lighted another Marlboro. "Drinking won't bring him back. It won't make you feel better, either." He could feel that insignificance boiling up in him again, like a fire leaving only ashes behind. He took a drag. "When is the service?" He drank beer. "Yesterday. " They both sat there in silence for a few moments. He finished his cigarette, and punched it out in the ashtray. She reached her hand out, now stiff, like there were competing forces at work. She wiggled her hand in a circle, twice. Tout handed her the ashtray, and she removed a small pipe from a purse Tout had not noticed. She produced a lighter, and put spark to bowl. "That won't help either, Rachel." He drank beer. The least you can do to a man is kill him Tout hadn't done much for Frank. "It helps me deal with you." Her voice was flat. She inhaled and coughed a moment later. "1'11 have a drink of water. II Tout walked to the kitchen, fumbling for a glass in the near darkness. He opened the freezer, grabbed a handful of ice cubes, and then poured water. He took the glass to the couch and offered it to her. His arm was half extended, with the glass at its terminus. She finished KIOSK08 39 I inhaling, and set the pipe down, taking the water. She snorted a wisp of smoke out of her nose and exhaled a moment later. She coughed again and drank water. Tout drank beer. Again she stuck her arm out. "You want some 7" Tout shook his head. "I've got enough vices as it is." "If man is the sum of his vices, you're the biggest man around." She sipped water. "Didn't you have a bumper sticker that said that once?" "No , I just said it a lot." She tapped the bowl against the ashtray and then smoked what she had missed. "Well, you were half right anyway." Tout lighted another cigarette. "If man were the sum of his vices, you would be the biggest man around. But man isn't the sum of his vices. You are a real piece of shit." She said the last sentence with a diction that could cut smoke. "What happened to Frank?" She snorted, this time because something was funny. "I told you; you killed him. He drank himself into old age , and old age killed him, and you drove him to drink." "Why are you here?" "I just wanted to let you know what I think of you ." With that, she stood and grabbed her coat. She did not tum around and she did not even put the coat on. Sh~ transferred the purse into her right hand , under the coat draped over her right arm, and she opened the door. She did not bother to close it. Tout drank beer. He could hear her footsteps walking down the vestibule. The outer door opened. He heard the screen door creak on dry hinges. The screen door slammed shut. The phone rang. Tout drank beer. 40 The least you can do to a man is kill him The phone rang. Tout drank beer. The phone rang. "Hello ." Tout said into the receiver, as a pronouncement, not a greeting. "You're supposed to follow me you asshole ." Cell phones don't click when they hang up . But she was gone . Tout stood. May god be with you on your quest for a clue Tout walked to the vestibule, and then turned the comer, breaking into a trot. He managed to get to and through the screen door without killing himself or destroying the door. Tout could see Rachel walking down the block. He sped up to catch her. She was crossing the street now, to a car parked in a gap between the street lights. Tout didn't run to the end of the block but crossed diagonally. She slammed th~ door. He was running toward the rear of the sedan. He couldn't see inside. The car started. It began to pull away. Tout was nearly there now. At the stop sign, the car did stop. The right tum signal flashed . The car went around the comer as Tout jumped the curb. The car hit him and stopped. Tout collected himself and feebly stood. He approached the passenger door and fumbled for the handle. As he pulled, and noted that it was locked .' the window slid down. As the tinted window disappeared, things behind it became visible. First Tout saw his sister, who was staring straight ahead. The window continued upon its descent. Then Tout saw his father. The warmth was back. The streetlights were a pleasant golden, and their radiation reflected off dew down on the dirt, the grass, and the road . This was the wrong KIOSK08 I car. He felt dizzy, like he had bumped his head or drunk too much Where had the other car gone? "Hello , Jeremy," his father whispered. "How are you son?" Tout collapsed onto the sidewalk He felt the wet of the pavement soak through his jeans and then his undergarment. His back was against the door, and he was drained. He felt his fatherls hand in his hair, tousling it like when he was a child. "I had a nightmare," Tout said, also a whisper. Death is the ultimate insignificance "Itls alright. Jim here . You Ire with me now." Tout was getting wet. Was it raining? His pants were soaked, and the dew had crept up to his gut now. "Wherels sis?" he bumbled. "11m here," she said, but coldly. "Jim here," Tout said. "Jim here," his father whispered. The dew was heavy and coming faster now. His gut and his pants were wet. His was standing in a puddle, his vitality flowing out of him as if she had turned on a spigot. She was looking into his eyes, and he gazed back at her. She was crying. She crouched down on her knees, and put the gun on the floor. She stood again, looking into his eyes, and he gazed back at her. "The least you can do to a man is kill him," she said, crying freely now. Tout could feel the insignificance building, the moisture descending. She stood there , looking back at him, inspecting him, critiquing him. He felt her breath, and he shuddered. Her gaze moved upon him and felt lighter than a feather across his skin. The hair on the neck, in a last act of desperation, stood straight. He could feel his heart dying. He exhaled. He collapsed. She joined him. He stood there, feeling his hair turning grey, the vitality draining out of him. The least you can do to a man is kill him Death is of the greatest insignificance Jeremy Tout felt nothing happening; he felt himself suffering the greatest insignificance . His breathing had stopped; the beer was slipping from his fingers . All of the weight of his body was suddenly below his knees ; the rest of him was a shell and ready to float away. He had fouled his one chance to slam the door closed before this happened. But hope had trumped experience, instinct was bested by longing. He had failed to do the hard thing, and now he was suffering a long death. KI OSK08 41 I WHERE'S THE INSPIRATION the whiskey goosebumps and the whiskey shits and the whiskey freefall and my whiskey hips that have only the weight of my skirts that sway rarely -they lack flirt and I reach for a bottle of bourbon or cheap whiskey to work on there's nothing to work on in the morning but the growing frustration and loathing of self and therefore everyone and pity and should we extrapolate some meaning from the way we organize our soup cans can we find a way of seeing through the chicken noodle into the profound - or are we bound to repeat Pete and use his method- alphabetical order of invention- how often we cook in the kitchen or should we stop and mention mean is the average connotation and alleviate it at that I drag on I swagger some I blame the whiskey (it blames me) JESSI BERGIN 42 KIOSK08 THE ISLAND BY A UDREY BANTU y ou see Ana, there was a time when I was not very honest, no , no , not very honest at all. I was a bad man, but your mother straightened me out. I'm getting ahead of myself. Would you like two scoops of chocolate or vanilla? Both? You are smart girl. See when I was little, about your age, I wanted to be a magician. But my father, he shook his head and laughed at me, told me to go into carpentering like him. "11 n'est pas pratique, Henri. Non pratique." He wanted me in an honest, hardworking career. "Manual labor will make you a good man," he said "An honest man." Still, I did not listen to him, no , no , and your Uncle Claude and I would make the cat disappear. Well, first we learned how to make small coins and rocks disappear. My Maman did not like that at all. I could hide it behind my hand and up into my sleeve and many other things, but I will not give away my special secrets. I went to Universite, to study theatre and business, and it was a lot more working than I expected, but do not think your father is a lazy man. Well, perhaps at the time I was. In my spare time, I would do my shows of magic, making money. Your Uncle Claude was very good at convincing, and he convinced me to not study as much as I should. "Henri!" he'd say, ''There are places we could be right now. Ladies we could be entertaining. Put away your books and let's go." I did some bad things, Ana, and Universite was not happy. I got a little job handing out fliers by a small theatre, but that job was no fun . I began to entertain myself by borrowing the watches of passersby, and selling them back for a small price. "Did you drop this?" I'd say. It was the look on their faces that amused me. First, confusion, and then flusterment. Yes, yes, I know it was wrong, but it was a nice way to pay for my lunches. That's how it started, and then Claude taught me the better tricks. The mustard trick, and selling roses to tourists while unzipping waist bags. We went to fine restaurants , and at the end of the meal-after the soup and the wine and the salad and coffee, we would place a cockroach on the plate. Free! I lived this way for a long time. I would have a small job that was very easy, and would in the meantime work on my magic and get a little extra money with my special tricks . They are not nice tricks, Ana. And I am ashamed now, but at the time I was very stupid, and thought they were fun. Now my Papa never found out about this, but my Maman probably knew. She would glare at me as I came to visit sometimes, peeling her potatoes with a brutality I had never seen, and say, "Up to your old tricks, Henri?" and I would say, "Working in a bakery? Yes, I am very tricky at baking." I think one of my friends, maybe Matteo or Patrick may have released the beans to her. "One day you will tell me the truth, Henri," said Maman. "And my son will be a good boy." My favorite place to work was Nice, especially in Spring time. Americans and Germans and Poles would come for Carnaval; the crowds would be big, distracted by the giant puppets and dancers, and I could slip here and there in the crowds and pick up wallets. One morning, during Carnaval, I went into a bakery for breakfast, paid for my scone, and saw a pretty American woman. She was not very smart; she was carrying a big bag that was wide open and was buttering a croissant with smiling on her face . I knew from her smiling she must be a tourist, having her first real croissant in her first French bakery. I saw an opportunity. I bumped past her, spilling butter on her shirt. KI OSK08 43 I MARINA by John Poge digitol photogroph "Pardon, Mademoiselle. So SOrry," I said, and took a few napkins from the counter. "It's alright," she said. "No, no , no. I am such a clumsy." I knew I could distract her with my charming accent, like I had to so many ladies so many times before. "Let me help." Her face was turning red, and while she was watching me wipe the shirt, I slipped her wallet out of her bag and put it in my pocket. "This is for the best," she said. "The shirt's a little too obvious." There was a United States flag on her shirt. "Tourist," she said. She had little creases around her mouth like she laughed all the time. "No, no, no, you are just local, just like me," I said. Then I squeezed the napkin into a ball and threw it into the trash can. "Two points for me! " 44 KIOSK08 She smiled, and there was more creases on her face. She was laughing at me. "What? You think we have no basketball here, mademoiselle?" I said, and began to make my exit, walking backward out the door. "Then you are stupid, stupid American." She waved. It was very wrong for me to steal your mother's wallet, Ana. That is one thing I would like you to remember. Would you like another cherry on your sundae? Ok, dear, have three. Anyway, it was the last thing I ever stole, and it got me your mother, so maybe just that one thing was okay after all? As I walked to my hotel that night, I got a chance to see her wallet more closely. She was Cynthia Gordon, was 26, 5 feet 5 inches. She was an organ donator. She was also very pretty. I also had her passport, visa, and euros. I turned the comer, said hello to Emmilio the doorman and stopped by the lounge for a quick drink before 1'd go to sleep. There she was! Sitting with the same United States flag shirt and big bag, talking to Damon, the barman. They were laughing very loudly, even Damon was laughing, and I have never even seen him smile. I tried to tum around before she saw me, but it was too late. She saw me and waved. "Henri, here for your cognac?" said Damon. He had already poured it, so I had no choice. "Yes." Cynthia pulled out the chair beside her, and I sat. Her wallet was burning a hole in my pocket. "Hey stranger," said Cynthia. "Hey who?" I said. "Never mind." "What do you think of Nice?" I said. "It's nice." She turned to Damon, a laugh leaking out. "Nice is nice!" The two laughed as if they had known each other all their lives. Damon's thick mustache was dancing, and he was spilling the orange juice as he poured it. Cynthia finally stopped laughing and turned to me in her chair. "Say, guess what happened to me today?" I knew exactly what had happened, but I am a very good actor, and so when she told me her wallet was missing, I acted surprised. "It was my fault for putting everything in that wallet- my passport, ID, most of my spending money, flight numbers" She traced the top of her glass with her finger as she spoke. She had very small fingers . "They told me not to do that, but I have a problem with authority, and I couldn't resist." "You poor, poor dear," I said. "Damon, could I have another?" said Cynthia. 'Tll make you a nice one," he said, and they laughed again. Who was this girl that could make the statue-like barman, whom I had known for years, and never saw once even smile, laugh like a little boy? He placed two glasses, one large one filled with milk and a small one filled with syrupy chocolate, in front of her. "Merci," she said, and took little sips of each, puffing her cheeks before swallOwing. She must have seen my confused look. "This way they don't mix until I want them to ." Americans are so strange. She smiled. ''I'll be here for at least two weeks waiting for the paperwork to clear." "You poor, poor dear," I said. No you see, she had said, really it was all for the best. She was here for a leadership conference, for her graduate universite, and hadn't had much time to really enjoy herself. Everyone had left, as she struggled to straighten out her paper work. Her university would help cover the theft. The weight of her wallet became smaller in my pocket. "And so you are here for two weeks with no plans?" I said. She tipped back the little glass of chocolate, and the cocoa made a grainy river down to the edge. She set it down, and seemed to see me for the first time. "What will I do to pass the time? Hang around with you?" "You poor, poor dear," I said. Not doing it right? Is there really a bad way to build a sundae? What is so wrong with the chocolate and vanilla ice cream being in the same bowl? You are obsessed with this "mooshing" idea, Ana. It is so silly. All the ice cream will end up in the same place, your tummy. You're just like your mother. Did you know, she would drink one drink of milk and then have one spoonful of chocolate, one after another? She also had a separate spot on her plate for sauce and for pasta. What are you doing now? I tell you it is a shame to use three bowls to eat one delicious sundae- you're really missing out. I think you may be wrong about this "mooshing" idea, I think it might be a nice thing. Why are you upset? Haven't I the right to eat my sundae any way I want to? Now there, what's the matter? Fine, fine , you win. Here, now don't be sad, they're all separate again. Sometimes I wonder if I shall ever understand you. And if you don't stop worrying about cherries and chocolate how will I ever finish telling my story? One of the lessons I learned is that you can't hide something forever. Your mother had charmed me instead of me charming her. In a week we claimed the city as ours, and I showed her the hidden streets and unknown places of Nice. We owned Ie Pub d'Alfonso, and Pierre's Crepes et Steaks. Lucrece would cackle at us, behind her big wart- I tell you Ana, her wart was as big as this cherry right here- and KIOSKOB 45 FORT WARDEN byGrant W ittstrucK digital photograph by the end of the week, she knew Cynthia by name, and her usual order. I was happy with her not knowing I had her wallet, with her stuck in Nice with me , running down halls of the hotel, from her room to my room, borrowing films from the lobby like, "Attaque des CowBoys de Mutant," happy with her head on my shoulder, telling me , 'Tm glad I'm stranded here ." We were on an island, she said. An island called Henri's hotel room 331, and she was content to stay, eat coconuts, and order eggs from downstairs. We would just lie on our island, watching the planes fly overhead, doing nothing to call them to our rescue . We would stay and catch fish with our bare hands, she said, and I would introduce her to island natives: my papa and maman, and Matteo, and Claude, whom I had told her much about. She could not meet Claude, not now. I would have to telephone him first, tell him to not say all the truth to her. She could not know about my habits. Even if she met Maman, she might say something suspicious, out of spite. Cynnie hadn't asked me how could I pay for living such rich hotel, how could working in a small bakery pay 46 KIO SK08 for our outrageous dates, and she would start asking soon. "What is it?" Cynthia must have seen the worrying on my face . "It is nothing. I am just tired from a whole day running around the Promenade with you . You stole my bicycle too many times." Stole. Why did she have to use that word? I kept glancing at my bureau, the top drawer, where I had stashed her wallet. "No, somethings wrong. What's wrong?" "Just a little sleepy But we can sleep all morning tomorrow." I had to get to the drawer somehow, find a better place to put it. I tried not to look at it-tried to think of something to do to distract her. "We'll sleep till noon, then I will sneak into the kitchen past those cooks, and make you eggs myself. Maybe I'll find you a coconut, too ." Cynthia's face sank, and looked at me the worst way in the world. Her lip was pouting out. "I know when you're lying." She said it whispering. "What do you mean? I would never lie to you." I could not convince myself of that; I must not have convinced her either. "Is it something in the drawer? You're acting strange." "Cyn, no- " I couldn't stop her. She got to the top drawer before I could. That second that she stared at the pink wallet- her wallet,was the worst moment in the world. I thought of our week together, how she kept stealing my bicycle, and riding it in circles around me , how I chased her but never could catch her. I thought of the long nights on the Promenade, walking from the pubs into the cool night air but feeling so warm- how surely it was all over now. "It was you?" She wouldn't look at me . I stumbled on words, but in the end, couldn't deny it. "Yes." She was left, crossed the hall, and went to her room. I followed . She was stuffing clothes into her suitcase. "Cynnie, please." "Don't call me that." She was frantic now, grabbing everything in handfuls and dropping them into the suitcase. "I didn't know you- I was going to tell you ." "But you didn't. You didn't tell me. Is this what you do? Steal from trusting, naive people like me-stupid Americans-so you don't have to work as hard?" How could I say no? I tried to touch her shoulder, tried to calm her, but she shook me off. "I can't believe I fell for this," she said, moving past me to the bathroom. She grabbed a bar of soap, some hotel towels, and put them in her bag. "I was going to stop- as soon as I got to know you, I was going to stop." "Our dates-the ferry ride- how did you pay for those?" "Don't ask me that." "How did you pay for them?" She finally was still, looking at me for the first in all of this, holding a toothbrush and floss. It was as if my answer would decide whether or not I could be forgiven, but I couldn't lie, not to her face , not the way she was looking at me . "We can start over," I said. "Oh]esus." She tried to leave the bathroom, but I stood in the doorway, and she bumped against me. "We can try again. " I put my arms around her. "We'll start all over." She shoved my hands off and got past me, gathering her things. "I don't even know who you are ." "I want to tell you. " 'Tm finding a new hotel, Henri." There was one thing I could say, one thing I could do to fix this, but it would be hard. There would be risks. 'Tll prove it." She hesitated. I took her to see Maman and Papa, took her to the little apartment they shared, where Maman was making a casserole of noodles and chicken, and the room was full of the smell, and Papa was stretching his hands at the end of a long day. They were surprised to see me, I rarely visited anymore. And Maman insisted we sit down, and eat, eat, that we were not fat enough, and at the end, as Maman brought us coffee, I told them the truth. Everything. Told them how I had really made my living- of my years of pocket picking, scams, and forged checks-and why I was removed from Universite. Their faces were hard at first, and sad, but I told them about Cynthia, that she was my good girl. And I would pay back my debts, as much as I could, slowly. I still had many of the IDs of American tourists, with their addresses. I would wire them some money as I earned it, (it would be impossible to send back all the money I had stolen). I waited, looking at the hard face of my father. I remember all the things he had muttered after working in the shop , mutterings of what was right and what was wrong. He only charged fair prices, and was proud of it. Maman got up from her chair, slowly, went to the cabinet, and pulled out a cake. She sliced it, and the icing clumped up around the knife. "It's that Claude of ours that's the real bastard. He was the one that started you with magic tricks." Then she served us cake. KIOSKOB 47 RAILROAD by Sarah Chambers digitol photograph CALAMITY JANE BOOT PACKAGING by Kate Kes graphic design BRIDGE PAN by John Page digitol photograph 48 KIOSK08 (UFFS OF MOHR by Andrea Thompson digitul photugraph UNTITlED by Jessica Niemeyer digital photograph MAN OR MACHINE by Billy Mallen pen and ink, digitul KIOSK08 49 I BOATS IN THE LAKE DISTRICT, ENGLAND MICHAEL PHElPS by Renee Morgon digitol photograph by Mock Moschmeier pen ond ink, digitol GRAPHIC PHOTOGRAPHY by Phil Andrews digitol photograph 50 KIOSK08 SPRING RAIN When the sky has finished crying and the sun reaches its rays across the rounded blueness that remains , I can be found trying not to be found in the backyard by the oak tree. Traces of blue sky's tears moisten the cat-tongue bark making it peelable, pliable, and play-with able. Hunks of bark make great canoes for termite captains and their sturdy crew to sail softly down the street's stream that gathers below the curb. Unlike other insects, termites don't use twigs to steer bark vessels because they tend to get hungry along the way. Instead they let the current take over while the boss shouts orders that won't be filled. Watching these floaters drift down the clear stream makes me imagine that I'm the bark canoe, sturdy and rough around the edges. Their legs tickle my stomach as they crawl over me to reach my ears to crawl inside and nibble on my brain. Some remain in my head, enjoying their meal while others bring bits out, gnashing the ray mush between their jaws, eyes shining with gratitude for the meal I offer them. Termites always smile like they mean it. TAVIA K NU DSEN KI OSK08 51 I DRY SPELL BY RANDY U HL . S unday morning and already Fern had bees in her head. Her arm-length todo list buzzed an infinity pattern in her thoughts so chaotic that if she didn't stop to prioritize, she was convinced she would break into hives . She knew she had to water the hydrangeas and stonecrop out back. With temps in the lower nineties today they would certainly need attention. However, she also knew that it was best to water in either early morning or early evening, and since it was neither, she decided her flower garden would take low priority. That was easy, she thought. Let's try another. Fern had laundry to do , but that, too , could wait until later. She could wash, dry, and fold while catching up on her Tivo. The thought of sitting Indian-legged like Pocahontas while drowning in warm socks, dryer sheets, and taped reruns seemed more like a reward than a chore. Mid-priOrity, she decided. "Carrot cake!" shouted Fern, clapping her hands together, "I made carrot cake." Fern had almost forgotten that the night before she had made dessert to take to Sunday brunch after church. Fern did not attend services herself, but she did enjoy visiting with those who were "on God's good side" as she called them. Often she would bake stiCky rolls, apple crisp, or some other sickeningly sweet confection. Out of earshot from the reverend, they would call her the "baking sinner," and with a teasing smile, she would tell them all to go to hell. The parishioners always reminded her she had an open invitation to attend prayer and she thanked them, but as of late, throwing wishes to the wind fell to almost the bottom of her list. Fern looked at the kitchen clock to check her time. She saw that it was noon and God was about to "close shop." The thought of God turning over the "open" sign 52 KI05K08 and locking the door made her giggle. She grabbed the car keys that hung on a large wooden key by the door just below the letter holder and placed them on the counter. Pulling the cake from the icebox, she was careful not to disturb the icing. Last night she carefully placed toothpicks in the top of the cake and draped cellophane over it, but didn't have quite enough to cover it all. She was careful not to puncture the exquiSitely made carrot in the center of the cake. Orange icing came to a point with deep forest green tendrils tangling and winding to spell out "Fern's Garden." It was her extra touch that her "saved" friends always complimented. Staring at the orange vegetable reminded her of something ... or to do something, she wasn't quite sure. Then it hit her like a pie in the face . How could I have forgotten to feed him? The poor thing must be starving. The carrot jarring Fern's memory couldn't have been more obvious. Her caged pet rabbit on an old folding table in the laundry room had not been fed this morning. Leaving the keys and the cake in the kitchen, she darted down the hall. When she reached the cage, her mouth went arid and thoughts of Tivo, laundry, and hungry Christians evaporated. She opened the cage door and put her hand through until her fingers sank deep into the white shag fur. The rabbit's side was warm, still, motionless. Had I been here minutes earlier, she thought, but couldn't finish the strand. She reached her other hand into the cage as she had done so many times and with practiced action she scooped the animal in her grasp and gently lifted him out. Fern raised him up and buried her face into him. She breathed deeply, and her head swam in sawdust and clover. Her poor lost la Lluvia, named after the Spanish village where her husband took her on their honeymoon. He had given the rabbit as an Easter gift to Fern and insisted she name him la Lluvia. But Walter never could pronounce "la Lluvia" could he? "la Boobia," she whispered. This was the last gift he gave her and Fern couldn't help but feel she was losing Walter all over again. As if trying not to wake him, she tiptoed the broken cargo in her arms out of the laundry room, down the hall, and to her bedroom. Fern delicately rested the pet on the pillow that once belonged to her husband and kneeled next to the bed. With long strokes from top to tail, she caressed him softly, realizing only minutes after that this was the first time she had used her husband's pillow since he had died. Each night for the past three years, Fern would remove it at bedtime and set it in the sitting chair. By using it she was afraid it would lose his smell, but three years past and still she could not bring herself to sniff the case. Her sweetest la Lluvia now dented deeply the pillow her husband laid his head on for so many nights, but she gave it little mind. Her heart was crashing, but with dry eyes and without lips moving she said, "I cannot bury another thing I love." Three years it had been since Walter had died, and her life was so much less without him. Looking out the bedroom window at the cornflower sky and butter sun, she was reminded of the day she buried him. There were co-workers from his office at the gravesite, along with neighbors and relatives, but Fern could hardly distinguish their faces through her tears. MULTIPLE (HOICE by Amy Foltz reduction relief with intoglio KIOSK08 S3 She heard howls coming from someone, wrenching sobs that would drive the devil away, but didn't realize at first that the horrible sounds were coming from her. After recognizing her own voice behind the wails, she looked up from the rain of tears to what she thought were crowds staring. I'm crying too much, she told herself. No one normal cries this much and with a silent prayer to a god she really didn't think was there said, "Please Lord ... help me stop." Her nose stopped running. The pinch in her throat loosened, and as if by magic, her weeping ceased almost instantly. Her tears dried and the breeze cracked her face. She felt her eyelashes drying and sticking together from the stiffening mascara, but not another tear formed. Her hand shook terribly as she dropped dirt onto the immaculate white casket, but not a sniffle or sob attended. That was the last time she wept. Her prayer worked like a charm, but for days after when she was knee-deep in grief, Fern couldn't help but feel damaged. Even this previous January when her mother Lily passed, Fern could not cry. She did all that she could, pulled the tiny hairs on her arm, bit the inside of her cheek; she even dug her nails into the side of her leg with her hand in her pocket, but nothing. Every ounce of tissue and muscle under her skin was weeping for a woman she loved more than herself, but her eyes remained dry. Her mother was her last "people" and then all that was left were household chores, cooking for strangers, and a rabbit she loved that could never say it back. Again, people are staring, she thought, while sitting in a comer at her mother's wake. How cold they must think I am. She tried to fake sniffles but it made her look as if she just smelled something bad. Her mother never had trouble showing emotion, but Fern knew Lily was cut 54 from a different cloth. Fern always rationed her tears so when she needed them, she wasn't left high and dry. Lily would cry at everything that didn't matter, and this playfully annoyed young Fern growing up ... Kodak commercials, Captain and Tennille's "Muskrat Love," porcelain figurines of boys in rain boots sitting beneath umbrellas. "Wait. " Fern's head lifted. She began to search every room in her memory and traveled far back to find rooms she had forgotten existed. She remembered her annoyance about just how radiant her mother looked after she cried. It was as if her mother only bloomed when she wept. She picked up la Lluvia and held him to her breast as if she were feeding a child. Defiantly, she said aloud, as if it were an incantation, "I will not bury another thing I love." The warm meat tasted dark and its texture was that of a brown paper bag through which something oily had leaked. Fern added no salt but kept it natural, never once thinking how unnatural this may seem. She knew others never placed here may find her reaction hard to swallow, but Fern wanted this dear creature, her sweet la Lluvia to pass through her, nourish her, stay with her. Using only fingers, she tore tenderly the meat from the bone. It let go so simply as if it knew its purpose. Gradually, in the early evening hours, Fern let go too . Salty showers rained once again from her eyes and seasoned her plate below, reconstituting memories of clumsy-speak husbands, wilted mothers, and gifted snowball rabbits. KIOSKOB I A MAN TALKING I took him to Manchester. They have Iowa's largest fish hatchery We fed the fishes and did the whole fish thing. We took a pretty good hike. I took him to a cave. I think there were some coyotes living in it. It was a good drive. We saw some deer and some wild turkeys. -Someone asks a questionThree and a half, but he's built like a five-year-old, And has hair down to here. We were driving north of Cedar Rapids. He lives in a pretty small town ... And there were military helicopters Doing these exercises, And he's a pretty smart, vibrant kid. He started going bang, bang ... Yeah you get em. Then one started doing a tailspin, And he started shouting "I got em! I got em!" Yeah you got em. Nah, it was a good day DORAN ABERNATHY KIOSK08 55 STRANGE the things we visit in nightfall August as summer loses her breath. Like the memory of my father building snares back when my hair fell straight across my brow. Coon-catching he called it. His hands burrOwing dirt and piling inside too-old potato rinds, peels of bananas, coffee grounds and at the crest of the mound plaCing a polished soup-can lid or slice of abalone. A metal grate staked over it and covered in earth He'd tum and teach, "The raccoon'll reach through this little hole you see and dig through all this garbage, but it's that shiny thing he'll latch to with his hand or paw or whateveryougoddamncallit. Fist full ... he can't pull it back through and all he can think to do is hold tight to that piece of moon and not let go .. . so he's trapt. " And lately you've been on my mind and how your iridescent eyes enticed mine even the night you burned Troy to the ground and now I've found, hard as I try, I can't let go of it. RANDY UHL 56 KIOSK08 I A LESSON IN THE SNOW BY BRIAN JOHNSON E very day the thought of going to school terrified me . Sounds weird, yes. But it was so true. A huge part of this is explained by a condition called Asperger's Syndrome, which I have. Asperger's is basically a mild form of autism, a mental condition that affects the way our brains operate. People with autism aren't necessarily "weird," they just see things differently and struggle in different areas . Some people might see us as dumb , but this isn't true. I was a straight-A student throughout high school and into college. I'll jump at the chance to be on stage or speak in front of a crowd-something my mom or dad would outright dread. But I have trouble with those things that most people would call "simple." Things most - people don't even think about. Making friends and socializing have always been, and still are, challenges. To use a concrete example, it would actually be much easier for me to stand up and read this story in front of two hundred people than to casually read it for two friends . I am a person of absolutes, and was even more so when I was young. A painfully strict, down-to-the-letter, "black and white" person. When the teacher said "no talking" it meant you never talk, ever. Unless called on to answer a question in class, I never spoke in grade school, even when another kid said something to me. This is why school was so rarely a happy place. It created endless stress for me, but I couldn't help it. My biggest fear was doing something wrong, disobeying the teacher's rules in any way. The rules in class were the rules . Period. No deviation was ever allowed. To have my name written on the board (which meant you had to stay in for 5 minutes from recess because you did something wrong) was unthinkable. I didn't know what would happen if I ever got into trouble. Actually, I do know. It did happen-just once. I was at the small wood desk in my kindergarten classroom. We were all cutting out snowflakes from blue construction paper. Our teacher was going on and on, reading the directions for our next step . With the scissors in my fROSTED FOUR byBrenda Lussier digitol photograph hand, I slipped. I started to cut the blue circle. The next thing I heard was the teacher's voice. "Brian, that's a warning." My face turned red and instantly my whole body was hot. I didn't say anything the rest of the day. The only thing I can remember was a feeling of despair, it was still with me when I got home. Lunchtime was another area of stress and worry for me many days . The lunchroom was a lot like the playground, noisy and crowded. For years in lower elementary school, I went home to eat at lunchtime. A hot meal was always KIOSK08 57 ready, and I could relax- if even just for a half hour- in a way that I never could at school. Most days just getting home at 11 :30 in the morning for lunch was an internal struggle. As soon as the clock hit the 11 :30 mark, I knew it was time. Continuously, for five to ten minutes beforehand, I watched both hands of the clock to monitor this. Often, the teacher or the teacher's aide didn't catch it. It's obvious now that this was nothing but a small oversight on their part. But when it happened, I was distraught. I would sit in my seat as the clock ticked. The big hand went past the six, and I knew that it was time. If the teacher never said so, though, I didn't move. I wouldn't have thought of it. That was the number one rule- the law- in my mind. Don't disobey. Unless the teacher says to do something, you do not do it. The first few moments I turned red in the face, right away. I sat so impatiently. My legs tightened together and I could feel heat rush up my body. My face probably tightened, too . I knew I needed to go, but I couldn't. After a couple of minutes, my emotions intensified. If nearly 5 minutes had passed, I would almost definitely be crying. I cried soft, but very audible tears at my desk. Finally, the teacher would say, "You can go ." I was released. Even at recess, I stood around and basically did not do anything. This was by choice. The whole commotion of the playground greatly unnerved me. The strict, peaceful schedule that I was used to inside was gone. Now everyone was going in a hundred different directions. Some played on the long red slide in the comer. Other kids stood and hollered as they rode on the rusty, multi-colored merry-go-round. 58 Most of them crowded, flailing their arms in different directions and yelling at random, on the huge bridge in the center of the playground. So I stayed back, pacing from one side of the giant, orange-colored brick wall to the other. I walked past kids who were "against the wall" (the outside eqUivalent of having your name on the board, which meant they couldn't play anymore because they'd gotten in trouble) . I also passed teachers and other kids. Mainly, I just walked back and forth and thought about whatever came into my head. I did this until the bell rang. Yes, these times were hard when I was young. Despite all this, in third grade, life in school was a little more fun for me. All thanks to a teacher, whom I still have fond memories of today, Mr. Alfredson. He was a tall man with short brown hair and several dimples. Mr. Alfredson was not your typical teacher, and I mean that in the best sense possible. He made me laugh, not just worry, while I was there . We did daily exercises in grammar where he'd write a sentence or two , and we would, as a class, find the spots where the grammar or punctuation or capitalization needed changed. Once, the sentence was something like "Bob and me went. ... " It obviously should have been "I" instead of "me." A girl raised her hand and said, "Change 'me' to 'I.'" So Mr. Alfredson erased the word "me" in the sentence. And then, instead of writing the word "I," he drew a picture of an actual eye. "No! The other 'I,'" she said. "Oh ... wrong kind of 'IT he said, turning his head around. The whole class laughed. Mr. Alfredson shared moments with me, too. I was out at recess one day, and KIOSK08 I he was "on duty. " All the teachers in elementary school took turns supervising the playground at recess. It was a cold day in the middle of winter. So everyone who wanted to play in the snow had to put on snow pants and boots. I didn't wear either because I never played. I was walking around, like I did every day, and I happened to pass by him. "Hey, why don't you come play?" he asked energetically. We were standing right next to a giant mound of powdery snow. "Come on in!" he coaxed me. Then he pushed me-literally-into the drift. Every part of my blue jeans and heavy red-andblue coat were wet. I was almost in shock, lying in the snow, with my deep-blue snow pants still on their grey hanger in the classroom. Several kids near us protested. "But he's not wearing any snow pants! " They chimed in at once. 'That's okay!" Mr. Alfredson said in front of me and the other kids. "Sometimes you got to break the rules." "We don't need no snow pants! " he said, looking at me. He continued on, as I continued to roll around in the tall white mountain of snow beside him. At that moment, he wasn't just asking that I loosen up and have fun . It wasn't just a suggestion. He- the teacher- was telling me to break the rules . AMANDA by Jessica Niemeyer digital photograph KIOSK08 59 CLIMBING MT. FUJI BY RACHEL BELLA..IRS I thought I was a pretty open-minded person. I got along with everybody, well, almost everybody. I never gossiped or talked behind somebody's back. Of course, there are always those people who give me a headache. People who make me want to duck into the painkiller aisle at Wal-Mart just to get away from them. My roommat~ in Kyoto was one of those people. You'd think that since both of us came to study in Kyoto, Japan, we would have had something in common. She was into freaky anime and manga, the kind that just edges into porn and has no plot whatsoever. I don't know how she could stand the stuff. She was studying Shinto and Buddhism, the major Japanese religions, because they have all sorts of funky myths. She was also taking brush painting because she thought her scribbles were works of art. I came to Japan to study the language and history. The Japanese have such a weight of tradition that America just doesn't have. Plus, the architecture is gorgeous. The way they can tum a bunch of rocks into an austere pure garden is amazing. ' My roommate just didn't get me. And I tried to get along with her, I really did. Just the other day she invited me along to an izukaiya, a Japanese bar. Normally I avoided bars since I was still underage, but Darin was going. He's was the guy I kind of liked, so I thought I'd give it a shot. That was a mistake. The night started off pretty well. It was twilight when we finally got everyone together. We walked. The evening was blessedly cooler than the muggy September day. In Kyoto, summer hung around in dripping heat waves well into October. Ronni's bright orange hair was still visible in the fading light. She was wearing her favorite shirt, a white zip-up with green bands around the upper arms and "Ireland" plastered on the front. I wondered why she was in Japan if she liked Ireland so much. Her earrings didn't match, which made sense when conSidering she had two 60 piercings in her left earlobe, three in her right, and a silver stud peeking out the top of one ear. I shook my head, another sign that she wasn't exactly normal. The izukaiya was a dinky place full of Japanese businessmen perched on bar stools and huddled at tables. Apparently, most of the people in my group were regulars because as soon as the hostess saw us she broke into a big grin and waved at us to follow her. We all squeezed into a little back room, barely big enough for ten boisterous Americans. I ended up in a comer, knees tucked to my chest, watching as the drinks flowed and inhibitions diminished. The jokes turned raunchy, the language coarsened, and my roommate was flirtier than normal. After one particularly dirty round of pointless cussing, in which almost everyone's mother got slammed, I'd finally had enough. "Why do you do that?" I asked my roommate. "Do what?" "Cuss. Can't you think of something better to say?" "Cussing is very versatile. You can use it for anything. When you're mad, when you're happy, make a point, anything-a great way to express yourself." "But can't you be more creative? There's got to be more things you can say besides bringing up a cuss word. They're just plain nasty! " "Well, miss high and mighty, maybe we'll have to corrupt you," she said. "Oh, hey! Look what's on the bottom of this sake glass!" She proceeded to shove the glass under my nose so I couldn't escape the picture of two people involved in an act I'd rather not have seen. It sure wasn't doggy style. I pushed the glass away rapidly and snapped at her. "Stop it! " "Ach, lass, ye know ye like it." I'm not sure why, but my roommate had lapsed into a Scottish accent and KIOSKOB I cuddled next to me like a cat to sunshine. I was more than a little creeped out to say the least. "What are you doing?" "Have ye never done a little honest flirtn'? Twill do ye good, mark me words." She gave me a saucy wink and linked arms with me . "Hey! Let go!" I was mortified. What would Darin think? I glanced over at him just in time to catch him try to hide a smirk in his glass of beer. "Now ye just sit tight lass. Ye can pretend ye're a Scottish maid and I'm yere betrothed." "No! That's just weird! " ''I've always wanted to be a Scottish man." "Let go!" "It's the accent, ye know. " "I said, let go!" "Nothin' hotter than a fockin' accent." "You're crazy!" I wrenched out of her grip, stalked out of the room, and almost slammed the door before remembering that it was Japanese quiet hours. Plus, it was a sliding door. I was fuming as I walked back to the dorm. This was why I hated alcohol. It made people behave in the strangest, most embarrassing ways. It wasn't logical. You couldn't predict it. At that moment, I wanted to be anywhere but there, but most of all, I wanted to be home. When I got to my room, I picked up the phone and called my mom. My roommate walked in just as I hung up the phone very gently, I didn't want a broken phone on my tab . I was angry after a two-hour conversation that left me just as stuck as before. I wondered if her sense of timing was horrible or if she'd been eavesdropping. She swayed as she walked, which told me she hadn't stopped drinking when I'd left the bar. I glared at her, willing her to leave me alone. No such luck. "Hey! Wondered where ya went! " She grinned at me. "Ya should'a stayed and gotten slightly hapsy with us." She blinked slowly "I meant happy But I was thinking I'm slightly tipsy " She giggled crazily at her own mistake. She obviously didn't remember why 1'd left. "Uh huh." I tried to ignore her but she was having none of it. "Who were ya caHin'?" "My mom." "What for?" "Why is it your business?" "Oh ho! " she said. "And here I was tryin' ta be friendly Ya got somethin' ta hide?" "No." I crossed my arms. "I think ya do!" she crowed. "What is it? Ya failin'?" "No." "In trouble with the law?" "No! " "Breakin' up with yer boyfriend?" "No!" I exploded. "I just want to go home! But that's not happening, so I'd appreciate it if you left me alone!" I got into my futon, pulling the covers up to my ears. "Well, fine. " She sniffed. "I'm going to hang out in room 23 . Girl's got some new anime she invited people to watch." She staggered back out the door, leaving me to contemplate the conversation with my mother. It wasn't the first time I'd called her. The first had been after that horrendous thirteen hour flight from Dallas to Kyoto. I hadn't been able to sleep a wink between a baby bawling directly behind me and the extremely uncomfortable seats. Exhaustion made me nearly hysterical to be in such an alien place, and it took the better part of an hour for my mom to calm me down. The reasoning she'd used then had been the same as she'd just used now. I'd paid money and made a commitment so I'd just have to stick it out. This time, she suggested I ignore my roommate as much as KI O SK08 61 I 62 and how to talk to people. I think that's very efficient." "Really." "Uh, huh. The Japanese are very economical that way. They're good at it. Take the trains, for instance. They're never lateand you can get anywhere on them. I love the fact that you don't need a car. You can just sit back, relax, and let someone else drive." "Uh huh." same level of Spoken Japanese as me, but a different section. We hit it off really well and so every day we studied together. One day, our assignment was to figure out what our names meant. Japanese names combine kanji to make a special meaning, like sun-child. I didn't know if my name had a meaning, so I quickly looked it up. "Guess what? My name means noble." I was hoping to impress him. Darin grinned. "Well, it's very noble to help me with homework every day, Trisha." I batted my eyelashes at him. "You're welcome. I just love Japanese. It's so cool how they have a whole different system for polite speech. Everyone knows their place MIDNIGHT RIDE by Amy Foltz intnglio pnnt possible, advice I intended to follow. I had a sinking feeling my roommate would not be very cooperative. As I figured, my roommate was extremely hard to ignore. Even at school it was nearly impossible to get away from her, but I worked at it and eventually she stopped bothering me so much. Darin helped. I saw him struggling with his homework one day and decided to offer my assistance. Turns out, he was in the "The Japanese have such good ideas, too. Do you know how many things you can get from vending machines?" "Beer and cigarettes. That's cool." "I don't really like that but I'm just in love with all their different drink flavors . My favorite is melon creme soda fanta. Food here is just fun. They have such crazy combinations. I had a raw egg on my spaghetti the other day. And I've seen green pizza. I'm not sure what to make of that." "Yeah, when I was telling my sister. .. " "Oh! You have a sister? That's so cool! I have a brother. He's younger than me. My parents always joke that if he'd been first they would've only had one kid. I was the good kid." I laughed. "My brother's a little troublesome." KIOSK08 I 'That's too bad." "Yeah, but I've learned to live with it. So, how about this sentence? I think you may have translated 'sleeping' wrong." We had many pleasant conversations like this. He was interested in]apanese festivals and architecture, so I planned field trips to see famous buildings around Kyoto . There are so many temples in the area it would take a lifetime to see them all. We went to a bunch of festivals . Only the very traditional ones: the ones that had lines of women dressed up in yukata danCing to the shamisen. I was able to escape my roommate by going out and exploring the city with Darin. Darin was very sympathetic about my troubles. He would patiently listen while I told him my roommate's latest escapade. He never interrupted and always nodded his head understandingly I would always buy him dinner after the outings and then we would study together until dorm curfew at ten. It was a very nice routine. I was really excited when I learned that Darin was going on a trip to Tokyo at the end of the semester. When I asked him why he hadn't told me sooner, he blinked at me and told me he wanted it to be a surprise. I started planning in a frenzy because it was almost too late to get tickets and hotel rooms . I was so happy I broke my long habit of ignoring my roommate to tell her the news . "Guess what I get to do! Darin and I are taking a trip to Tokyo at the end of the semester! I'm looking up hotels and things right now." "Oh, he invited you along? How nice . So that makes four of us . That's cool you're doing the planning. You're just anal enough to get it done ." I couldn't believe my ears. "Wait, you're coming?" "Yeah, didn't you know? It was Kai's idea really She's always wanted to see Tokyo but she didn't want to go alone so she asked me and Darin to come along." She grinned evilly at me . I was speechless. How dare my roommate come along and spoil the fun? I didn't know much about Kai except that she was glaringly noticeable. She wore her hair in rainbow dreadlocks and her clothing usually clashed hOrribly Her favorite things to wear were black and white striped knee socks, purple capris, and a fuzzy bucket hat that was leopard-spotted in red and black. I shuddered just thinking about it. I had to plan for them? I cornered Darin in the hallway "Why didn't you tell me that my roommate and this Kai person were corning too?" He looked sheepish. "You never asked." I tried to be reasonable. "But I needed to know about them in order to get tickets and a room!" "Yeah, about that. None of us are really good at planning stuff. But you've already got places looked at and prices figured out. Could you get their tickets and stuff, too? Please? They'll never get it done otherwise." He looked at me with those sad puppy eyes. Well, I couldn't very well tell him no, so I added them into my plans. I complained bitterly to Darin every chance I got. Maybe he would see things my way and reconsider. I was almost convinced he'd come around when he got the news that his sister was having surgery It was a family emergency he said. Nothing he could do. He had to fly home at the end of the semester instead of staying an extra week to go to Tokyo. I was absolutely shattered. I'd already bought the tickets for us girls so we had to go. Darin had told me he was waiting for money to come from his parents before he bought his, so he didn't have any tickets. I didn't even have that excuse to try to make him come. I was stuck going on a trip with one person I absolutely despised and another I didn't really know or like. KIOSK08 63 I was even less happy when we got to our hostel in Tokyo and found out we would have to share our room. With a guy! What were they thinking, putting three girls in a room with a guy? He and my roommate hit it off fabulously, of course. T EHPlE byW lynch yeth digillli pholllgraph 64 I knew they would. His Australian "G'day mates! " greeting fed her love of accents. I went to bed at a decent, early time because I was worn out from walking around Tokyo and trying to find where we were staying. The other two weren't any help; they'd just complained. I was in that stage of sleep where you're too sleepy to wake up, but still awake enough to be able to hear things. Then my roommate and Kai started talking to the Australian. I was appalled. First of all, my roommate decided it would be great fun to share a bed with the Australian just to freak me out. Secondly, I learned way more than I ever needed to know about Kai's personal life. About how she'd lived in a commune for many years, how many people she'd had sex with, the drugs she'd tried, her favorite things to do when she got drunk, her plans to start her own commune. Who'd have guessed someone with such a cute baby face like hers could do all that! And my roommate encouraged her by comparing sex notes with her! I never really slept that night and was very grumpy the next morning as we discussed our plans to climb Mt. FUji. Once we got to the mountain and started up the trail, Kai and my roommate ignored me , which made me even grumpier. I was in charge of the map for the routes, but they didn't pay any attention to me. So I just shut up and let them take a wrong tum on the path. 1'd show them. An hour later, they still hadn't noticed they'd taken a wrong tum and I wasn't too sure where we were. The mountain was covered in pine trees that all looked the same to me, and it was a cloudy day, making it difficult to navigate by the sun. When we came to a three-pronged fork in the trail, they both looked at me. I peered intently at the map , trying to hide my blush of dismay when I realized I had absolutely no idea where we were. Impatiently, my roommate yanked the map , knocking my camera out of my hand. I quickly picked it up , but when I tried to tum it on it made a funny buzzing noise, like a dying fly. "You broke it!" I exclaimed. "Do you know how much this camera cost me? And now it's useless!" KIOSK08 I "Aw, keep your pants on. Let me see. Maybe I can fix it." "You think I'm going to just let you see it after you just broke it? Are you crazy?" "No need to get so upset. It's just a camera!" "Upset? Upset! I have every right to be upset! I'm lost out in the middle of nowhere with you, you," I struggled to come up with an appropriate epithet. "Freaks!" I finally spat. "Shit! Trisha, there's no need for that! " My roommate clenched her fists , eyes dangerously narrowed. Kai just looked hurt. "There you go with that stupid cussing again!" My voice squeaked on the last word. "Shit. Fock. God damn. Whore. Son of a bitch," she said calmly "You're so stupid you can't come up with real words!" I screamed at her. "Fock Fock Fock Fock!" she yelled back. I tried to cover my ears to block out the words, but the litany rang in my mind. Desperate to get her to stop, I shouted the worst thing I could think of. "You're probably gay! " "And what would a tight-ass like you know? You think you're so perfect! You want to know why Darin really left? Because he couldn't stand you being so self-righteous and controlling!" My heart thundered in my ears. I felt numb. No . It couldn't be true. He had a family emergency It wasn't me . It wasn't. "I hate you!" I sobbed. I turned and ran up the left fork of the trail, away from those awful words. My breath came in ragged gasps. I didn't know if I was running from her or myself. I tripped over a root and fell hard. I didn't get back up . My knee and side hurt. I could feel rocks digging into tender parts of my body I relished the pain. It distracted me from my anguished thoughts. How long I lay there, I don't know. When I finally sat up I was cried out and thirsty My stomach rumbled. I stood up and brushed myself off. We'd bought lunch at a little convenience store at the foot of the mountain, and I looked around to see where the bag of food had gone. I'd just picked it up when I saw blurry shapes materializing out of a now foggy forest. My eyes widened in astonishment. Monkeys. They were a pale gray with pink faces and white patches of fur near their rear ends. Although there were about ten of them, they were eerily quiet. They were large, too, about as tall as my knee when they were on all fours . I watched as one made its way up to me. I was frozen in place, unsure whether fight or flight was the better option. Suddenly, the monkey looked me full in the face and grabbed my lunch. The jerk of the bag leaving my hands broke my paralysis. "Hey! " I yelped. "Bad monkey! " I ran after the thief, trying to recapture my meal. Abruptly, the monkey turned around and growled at me, shOwing its teeth. " 000000kaaaaaay" I held up my hands and slowly backed away Looking for an escape route , I realized I was now surrounded by about thirty monkeys, all of whom were staring at me. I had a bad feeling about this. I heard rustling to my left and whipped my head around. Kai and my roommate appeared on the trail and stopped dead. Kai's mouth fell open. I couldn't tell by her expression what my roommate was thinking but now was not the time for me to hold a grudge . My eyes sent her a silent plea for help . Her lips compressed into a thin line and my heart sank. She looked at the monkeys and back at me. "Don't look them in the eye," she said firmly, but quietly Kai nodded. "Yeah-that's a challenge to them." "Just start walking slowly away We'll follow. " KIOSK08 65 I I did as she said, quashing a sudden desire to bolt into the woods. I nearly stopped breathing once I got to the outer circle of monkeys, but after a moment's hesitation, they scampered aside to let us through. It was all I could do not to start sprinting. My roommate picked up the pace once we were all a few feet away from monkeys. We rounded a comer in the trail and took off, determined to put distance between us and the animals. When we couldn't run anymore, we all flopped down in ragged heaps, panting like we'd just run a marathon. As we eyed each other, I started giggling. It must have been the shock and nerves because I couldn't stop. Amazingly; my roommate and Kai joined in. We were all laughing so hard we were crying. I finally wiped my eyes and glanced over at my roommate. She raised an eyebrow inquiringly. I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. I licked dry lips and tried again. "Ronni," I began. "Yes?" I swallowed. Looked down. "Thank you," I mumbled. Silence. That was worse than if she'd yelled at me. Timidly, I looked up. Her arms were crossed. She was staring at me. Finally, she sighed. "You're welcome." Kai looked at both of us, rolled her eyes , and said, "Well, that was an adventure. Shall we tread on?" Ronni and I smiled wryly and nodded. Eventually, we figured out where we were. We ran into some very nice Japanese hikers who had us laughing at their attempts at English and our attempts at Japanese. When they asked us why we were on this side of the mountain, we told them about the monkey attack. They were in stitches. I had to admit it was pretty funny. They kindly pointed us on our way and we made it down the mountain without further mishap . 66 Neither Ronni or Kai ever mentioned the fight or my apology, which was perfectly fine with me. We were civil to each other as we left Tokyo , but silences were awkward. The silences were not quiet. The things we were not saying were too loud. But, at least we weren't yelling at each other. To celebrate our victory over the monkeys, we went back to the little izukaiya upon returning to Kyoto . When we told the hostess our story, she gave each of us a free drink. I had no clue what to get, so Ronni ordered me a tequila shot. And I tried, I really did, but I'd never had a shot before, so how was I supposed to know you needed to swallow the stuff before biting the lemon? It was awful; it burned my throat and the taste hung in my mouth like an unwanted relative. Ronni told me that you either love tequila or hate it, I fell in the latter. It sure does give you a buzz, though. I was almost game to try again some other night, but before I knew it, it was time to go home. I had very mixed feelings as I waved goodbye to Ronni. I didn't hate her anymore , but I still wasn't sure if I liked her. It made me a little uncomfortable that she'd come to the airport to see me off. She really didn't need to do that. As I settled back into the tiny airplane seat, I heard a baby start squalling somewhere behind me. A comer of my mouth qUirked up in an ironic smile. Life goes on, but for me it wasn't so simple anymore. I shifted around in my seat, trying to find a somewhat comfortable position, and thought about all the things that happened to me in the past semester. I didn't remembered much fondly. I sighed, looking out the window. Somehow, we'd taken off and I hadn't even noticed. I could see the panorama of Kyoto spread below me, the ocean stretching forever and the sun rising in the East. I shook my head, closed the shade, and settled down and tried to sleep. KI OSK08 I ~lJ~ CHINATOWN COCAINE BLUES 2008 Anika called from a red taxicab, coked out, scared of razor tom vinyl and the smell of burnt hair in the backseat. The cabbie was wearing a turban, eating a bear claw, saying unspeakable things in Hindi and Americanese. Chicago was in mourning, but she was still in stilettos. I was back home in her pink polka dot panties, the pair I wore when she wasn't around to scratch the itch. I walked into the bathroom, tiles the various shades of puke splattered on the wall like a scrabble board, under a double word score. Listened to her talk about John Wayne Gacy, Martin Scorsese, homicidal taxi drivers. Her voice was scratchy and erratic, strangely bravado like an old Lou Reed record. Old Lou and I must have had similar experiences cause my mother said she saw her in Chinatown, but you know, as Lou says, you can't always trust your mother. Anika said she wanted to take me to Africa, walk around barefoot eat breadfruit, mash casaba root with our bare feet, have a donkey cart adopt slave children from Ghana, make love every Wednesday in a mosquito net. That's what she said. It all sounded well and good to me. She'd gone to Chicago to find us a place to live, but instead all she found was a gram of cocaine in an Ed Debevic's bathroom. Bought it from an amateur pornstar in a wheelchair. Apparently amputee porn is big in Chicago. Apparently everything is big in Chicago. Danced till six in the morning to Talking Heads, 'This ain't no disco, this ain't no foolin' around," she said, but she was always foolin' around. She loved me; she'd see me soon, but part of me knew I'd never see that blonde red-headed coke baby again. My mother said she saw her in Chinatown kissin' a chinaman. And you know, sometimes, you got to trust your mother. D ORAN ABERNATHY KIOSK08 67 I LIVING HISTORY FARMS DINNER They made my lie down in the parlor with low ceilings and stuffy drapes. Real dust from the 1800s. People pretending serving potatoes gravy made with lard, cream. I was 10 years old and I was sick ''You see back in the colonial times they used to have funerals at home display the bodies in the parlor lay them on couches in the middle of the room friends would come have some cornbread stare at the body play the organ have an old timey funeral it was very nice." I lay in the parlor laughter from the dining room, the snakes in my stomach hissing and squeezing thought about those bodies in the parlor maybe ten feet away a hundred years ago . Didn't feel much different. A UDREY BANTLA 68 KIOSK08 I PAGE FROM THE PAST THE BARTH CHURCH From my home in 'Kriesgafong' I can look out over the land And far away in the distance The Barth Church steeple stands Der fuhrer's legion silenced it Its message choked within ... But, no, its message still rings clear for men like you and me Of home and love and soon of liberty. Thank God. JAMES WILLIAM McKENZIE HUTCHINSON Stalage Luft One Barth, Gennany April 1944 - May 1945 Editor's Note: This piece was written by a Momingside alumnus during his time in a German PO. W camp during World War II. His grandson, Momingside assistant professor Tug Buse, provided it for the Kiosk. KIOSK08 69 I CONTRIBUTORS NOTES WRITING _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __ ART- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Doran Abernathy is a fonner Morningside student. He Philip Andrews is a junior majoring in Graphic Design and Advertising from Stonn Lake, IA. He contributed his art last year. currently lives in Sioux City and is moving to the Black Hills this summer. josh Beckwith is a junior majoring in Studio Art and comes Rachel Bellairs is a senior English Education major from Clarinda,lA. This is her first year contributing to the Kiosk. from Sioux City IA. Sarah Chambers is freshman majoring in Art Education and jessi Bergin received a BA in English Writing in 2005. She comes from Sheldon, IA. currently lives in Burlington, IA and is a Head Start Teacher. Amy Foltz is an art instructor at Morningside College teaching Trey K. Blackburn is a junior Theater and English Literature double major from Knoxville, IA. This is his first year contributing to the Kiosk. Stephen Coyne is a Professor of English at Morningside College. He's served as faculty advisor to the Kiosk since 1989. His short stories and poems have been published in numerous literary journals. jonathan Green graduated from Morningside College in 2007 wrth a major in Journalism and now makes his home in Thennopolis, WY. Laura Homan is an English major from Lebanon, IL. This is her first year contributing to the Kiosk. Audrey Hantla is a junior majoring in English. This is her second year contributing to the Kiosk Last year, her poem "Confession" was awarded second place. She is currently studying in Northern Ireland. Brian johnson is a senior from Bronson, IA. He will be graduating in May with a major in Mass Communication and a minor in Theater. This is his first year contributing to the Kiosk. Tavia Knudsen returns to the Kiosk this year. She was first pub- courses in drawing, design and print making. Kimberly jessen is from Everly, IA and has contributed her art to the Kiosk the past two years. She graduated in December of 2007. She had majored in Photography and minored in Studio Art. Kate Kes is a senior from Northfield, MN majoring in Graphic Design and Photography. She is the Visual Edrtor for this year's Kiosk and W eb Editor for the Collegian Reporter, Morningside's college newspaper. After graduation she plans on attending graduate school wrth plans to teach graphic design in the future. Brenda Lussier is a senior from Hubbard, NE. She is majoring in Studio Art and Music Education. She still has one more year to go at Morningside college and is finishing up her Music Education major. She contributed to the Kiosk last year. Wyeth Lynch is a junior in Photography and International Affairs. He comes from a farm in Madison County. His postal code is Prole, IA but he went to school in Martensdale, Iowa (both not in Madison county). So you could say he grew up on a fann in South Central Iowa He contributed the Kiosk last year. Billy Mallett, from Salix, lA, is a senior Graphic Design major. He contributed to the f<josk last year. lished in 2006. Phil Lieder is a junior from Stewartville, MN.This is his second year contributing to the Kiosk Colin O'Sullivan is a junior at Morningside College. He is working toward his B.5. in Chemistry This is his second year contributing to the Kiosk Mack Maschmeier, a junior majoring in Graphic Design and Studio Art, comes from Fremont. NE. He is the Editorial Cartoonist for the Collegian Reporter, Morningside's college news paper. He had also contributed to the f<josk last year. Renne Morgan is a junior majoring in Biology jessica Niemeyer, a senior majoring in Photography and Kiel Ploen is a first time contributor wrth his poem, "An Odd Bit." Kyle Thayer is an English major from Clarion, IA. This is his first year contributing to the Kiosk. Business Administration! Marketing comes from Sioux Falls, SD. After graduation she plans on opening up a photography studio wrth John Page. john Page, a senior majoring in Graphic Design comes Randy Uhl received his BA in English Education from Morningside in 1990. In 2006, he received I st place for his story "Under Her Skin." In 2005, his poem "Rare Birds" was awarded $10,000 by Poetrycom. He continues to contribute to the Kiosk after eighteen years. from Brookings, SD. After graduation he plans on opening a photography studio with Jessica Niemeyer. Shannon Sargent and john Bowitz are both from Sioux Crty, IA. Shannon is an alumnus with a studio art degree. John is a Morningside faculty member. Their collaborative works can been found in The Briar Cliff Review. Andrea Thompson, a senior majoring in Graphic Design and Photography comes from Grand Island, NE. After graduation she plans on going to graduate school. Anne Torkelson is a junior Art Education major from Norfolk, NE. She contributed to the f<josk last year. GrantWittstruck is a senior majoring in Photography and comes from Jefferson CH:y, M0. Last year he received 3rd place and edrtor's choice. He has been published in several magazines and newspapers. Copyright 2008 by the Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication all rights revert to the authors and artists. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of the Kiosk staff or Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be suitable for children. 70 KIOSK08 I M MORNINGSIDE COL G E 150 I MORNINGSIDE AVE. SIOUX CI~ IOWA 51 106 The Morningside College experience cultivates a passion for life-long learning and a dedication to ethical leadership and civic responsibility.  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Kiosk: Volume 70 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Subject The topic of the resource Student Publication Description An account of the resource The Kiosk contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-28 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Anderson, Greg: Editor in Chief Ponder, Marcie: Assistant Editor, Poetry and Prose O'Sullivan, Colin: Assistant Editor, Poetry and Prose Drey, Tyrel: Assistant Editor, Poetry and Prose Hantla, Audrey: Assistant Editor, Poetry and Prose Bauer, Rebecca: Assistant Editor, Poetry and Prose Kes, Katie A: Visual Editor Wittstruck, Grant: Assistant Editor, Art Coyne, Stephen: Faculty Advisor Kolbo, John: Faculty Advisor McGaffin, Terri: Faculty Advisor Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Abernathy, Doran: Author Hantla, Audrey: Author Coyne, Stephen: Author O'Sullivan, Colin: Author Blackburn, Trey K: Author Homan, Laura: Author Thayer, Kyle: Author Lieder, Phil: Author Ploen, Kiel: Author Green, Jonathan: Author Bergin, Jessi: Author Knudsen, Tavia: Author Uhl, Randy: Author Johnson, Brian: Author Bellairs, Rachel: Author Hutchinson, James: Author Maschmeier, Mack: Artist Page, John: Artist Jessen, Kim: Artist Sargent, Shannon: Artist Bowitz, John: Artist Beckwith, Josh: Artist Kes, Kate: Artist Torkelson, Anne: Artist Wittstruck, Grant: Artist Chambers, Sarah: Artist Thompson, Andrea: Artist Niemeyer, Jessica: Artist Mallett, Billy, Artist Morgan, Renee: Artist Andrews, Phil: Artist Foltz, Amy: Artist Lussier, Brenda: Artist Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2008 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-28 Kiosk Manuscript Perspectives student publications http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/b96b5342b140fa362cf7c63c45855deb.pdf 0e3705e406d8d7b6c753dda24ec9d1fa Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Future of the Liberal Arts College, The Subject The topic of the resource Education (Higher) Description An account of the resource A PDF transcript of the discussion that aired on the "Wake Up, America!" Radio Forum Broadcast over the Blue Network. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Fullerton, Adam Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2014-12-12 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-12-12 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-12 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF 3.95 MB 14 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Future-of-the-Liberal-Arts-College_MHD_1943_01-01_01.pdf Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger PDF Text Text 183 l 4 Lf-3 THE FUTURE OF THE LIBERAL ARTS COLLEGE As Discussed on the "Wake Up, America!" Radio Forum Broadcast, October 17, 1943 •. .•. Over the Blue Network DR. HOWARD L. B E V I S President, Oh io State University DR. CARTER DR. DAVIDSON EARL A. ROADMAN President, Knox College President, Morningside College Moderator- FRED. G. CLARK PRICE 10 CENTS "WAKE UP AMERICA I'' EVERY SUNDAY 1:00 P. M. EASTERN TIME OVER THE BLUE NETWORK �The American Economic Foundation is a non-profit educational organization supported entirely by voluntary contributions. The "Wake Up, America!" Forum is open to any speaker with a worthwhile message that does not involve controversial religious or propaganda activity. Suggestions for speakers and topics are welcomed. The Foundation welcomes contributions from its well-wishers. All contributions are deductible from taxable income by ruling of the United States Treasury Department. See last page for listing of Advisory Committee. Because the American Economic Foundation is an educational organization, it naturally follows that it has no opinion on the subjects discussed on its "Wake Up, America!"' Forum, and that the statements and opinions of the speakers are their own. �THE FUTURE OF THE LIBERAL ARTS COLLEGE MR. CLARK: For two centuries, the liberal arts college has been a basic influence in the development of our nation. Today three factors have joined together to make the future of the liberal arts college problematical. First is the war with its unavoidable impact. Boys who normally attend college are now in the armed forces. Second, and more lasting, is the extreme difficulty experienced by the liberal arts colleges in the past ten years in securing financial aid. Third, and more fundamental still, the liberal arts colleges must justify their continued existence in terms of their present contribution to national life. These institutions have a glorious past. It was in their classrooms that the type of American leadership was determined. Jefferson, who authored the Declaration of Independence, was such a firm believer in the liberal arts movement that he considered his two outstanding achievements to have been the writing of the Declaration of Independence and the founding of the University of Virginia. Benjamin Franklin, termed the first civilized American, was the father of the first public library, the first philosophical society and fathered the University of Pennsylvania, all in harmony with the liberal arts tradition. Taft, Wilson, Theodore Roosevelt and Franklin D. Roosevelt were all trained in colleges and are examples of leaders from the liberal arts tradition. The church has played a vital part in the origin and development of these colleges, such as Harvard, Yale, Brown, William and Mary, and thereby provided a moral and spiritual influence which civilized the American wilderness. In our discussion today, it must be remembered that by the nature of its operation, no college or university is self-supporting. The tuition fees cannot cover operating expenses. Every institution, therefore, needs financial support if all the deserving young people who are qualified to benefit from higher education are to receive it. College endowments have always come from well-to-do persons whose interest in helping young people obtain higher education prompted them to extend aid. T,he present income tax and inheritance laws have reduced these gifts almost to the vanishing point. For example, in 1941, the educational endowments and bequests in the seven principal American cities were less than 58 million dollars. In 1942, the total was less than 12 million dollars. In other words, the money formerly given to liberal arts colleges is to a great extent being given to the Government in taxes. Under these conditions, it would seem that the privately-endowed college must either secure its help from the Federal Government or cease to operate. Three principal issues present themselves: [ 1] �[ 1] Can the Government justify the subsidy of liberal arts colleges with public funds when the basic idea of publicly-supported universities has usually been professional or trade schools? [2] If the liberal arts colleges are subsidized by Government, what effect will such subsidy have on their operation? [ 3] Do the liberal arts colleges demonstrate a reason for continued existence? For the answers to these, and many other questions, we present our distinguished panel: Dr. Howard L. Bevis, President of Ohio State University, Dr. Carter Davidson, President of Knox College and Dr. Earl A. Roadman, President of Morningside College. The first question I find here is addressed to Dr. Roadman from Dr. Thomas E. Tweito of Morningside College: What is a liberal arts colle~e? DR. ROADMAN: Defining a liberal arts college quickly is quite like the little boy who was asked to come and go swimming. He promised to come in ten minutes. He said he had a history of the world to write. Now, a liberal arts education seeks to do primarily three things: First, increase the inquiring interest in information-information about the past history of the world, information about global geography, information about science, about people, celestial and terrestial affairs. This desire for information in all branches is a preparation for specialization. In the second place, the liberal arts education seeks to establish an eagerness for tomorrow as well as a knowledge of the past, an eagerness which is sufficient to believe that tomorrow will see the accomplishment of what ought to be done. In the third place, a liberal arts education, especially church-related colleges, are supposed to develop character that people will be good enough to want that the privileges which they have may be extended to all of the people of all the world Now, that is in terms of function, of course. The liberal arts college in popular mind is supposed to be a small college, usually a churchrelated college; but we know today that all universities have a department of liberal education and so the functional definition is more important than the type of definition. MR. CLARK: Dr. Bevis, have you a comment to make on that answer? DR. BEVIS: I would like to ask Dr. Roadman whether he would seriously disagree with my statement that I have on a note here as to the function of a liberal arts college--that it should aim to fit the student to be a citizen, a cultivated person, or a spiritual, or perhaps you might want to say, a religious person, and a self-supporting person. It seems to me that we can't leave that fourth category entirely out of consideration of a liberal arts college. MR. CLARK: Dr. Davdison, would you like to add your comment? DR. DAVIDSON: I .rather like the definition that was in The [2] �Saturday Evening Post for this week in an article by President Morley, of Haverford College, in which he said he thought that a liberal arts college had as its main function, first, the stimulating of curiosity, healthy intellectual curiosity; and, second, the stimulating of critical acumen, ability to evaluate the experiences in the things of life; and, third, the strengthening of moral character. I think those three would be a pretty good basis for building any college. MR. CLARK: I think we understand now pretty well what a liberal arts college means. Dr. Davidson, the next question is addressed to you from Dr. William F. Peirce, of Edgewood, Maryland: "In the future, to what sources can the liberal arts college look for financial support?" DR. DAVIDSON: Of course, that is one of the questions that has been making men like myself get gray-haired early; but the answer to it might be that if Americans wake up--that fits in with the title of this program, "Wake Up, America!"-to the fact that there is a close connection between liberal arts education and the preservation of our own democracy, if we believe that strongly enough and see it clearly enough, then I think, in the main, financial support for the future will come from individual gifts from thousands and even millions of individuals, giving each a small amount, but making a great total, just as they give today to their church, to their community chest and to the war bond drive. Now, I will agree with what our Chairman has said. If taxes and other restrictions are going to make it impossible for large fortunes to be built in America and given away to charitable enterprises, then perhaps the corporations must take their place. Our corporations are the greatest beneficiaries of our system of free competition in this country and, therefore, I feel it is incumbent upon the corporations to give the main financial support to those free institutions such as the colleges. MR. CLARK: Excuse me, Dr. Roadman has a comment. DR. ROADMAN: I would like to ask Dr. Davidson if he feels sure that the people of America understand that up to 15 per cent of their income is deductible from the taxable amount when devoted to colleges and charity. DR. DAVIDSON: When I look over the list of gifts, I am sure most of the people in America do not understand the 15 per cent exemption. [Laughter] MR. CLARK: Dr. Bevis! DR. BEVIS: Dr. Davidson, you are completely leaving out of account the contribution to liberal arts colleges that is being made by the state government, I take it. DR. DAVIDSON: Oh, no; lots of our liberal arts colleges are located on the campuses of our state universities; are a great part of the state universities. I wouldn't want to exclude them in any way from the picture. MR. CLARK: The next question is addressed to you, Dr. Bevis, [ 3] �from Dr. J. E. Kirkpatrick, Professor of Education, Morningside College: "What existing conditions have tended to make a need for the revitalization of the liberal arts college?" DR. BEVIS: Mr. Clark, I object a little to the phrase "revitalization". It seems to assume that they are dead. I don't think they are dead; but passing that without further comment, I suspect that a good deal of the current difficulty is that of financing the smaller schools. This difficulty has been contributed to, I suppose, by the fact that easier and easier access has been had to larger institutions, perhaps to a certain overtendency to crystallize the liberal arts programs in some of the specifically liberal arts colleges; perhaps, too, to the felt need to which I referred a moment ago, the need that many students, perhaps most students, have to include something of the element of preparing themselves to make their livings as well as to live their lives. Those things, I think, perhaps have contributed to the need for revitalization, if there be such, that is now being felt. MR. CLARK: Dr. Davidson, do you think there is a need for revitalization? DR. DAVIDSON: I agree with President Bevis that we aren't dead yet. And, as a matter of fact, when I look back over the last twenty years, I ask myself if the liberal arts college isn't one of the most vital of institutions that has been in existence in this country since the last war. It is an institution which is giving birth to new members all the time, such as Bennington College and Sarah Lawrence College that have come into full growth, you might say, in the last twenty years; an institution which has been growing in total enrollment throughout the country during the last twenty years, an institution which has grown in its financial strength-it is within the last twenty years, for example, that Oberlin College received its great gift which made it the wealthiest of all the small colleges in America-and an institution which is growing in ideas, such ideas as have been evidenced by the St. John's plan, the Bard College plan, the Antioch College plan and the many other plans of our liberal arts colleges throughout the country. I would say an institution that gives those evidences of vitality was very much alive. MR. CLARK: Dr. Davidson, the next question is addressed to you, also, from Dr. M. E. Graber, Dean of Men at Morningside College: "If Government subsidizes college education, should the subsidy be given to the student or to the institution?" DR. DAVIDSON: That, too, is a rather delicate question because I have seen too many fathers and mothers send money to their children in college, with the intent they should pay their college bills with it and then see it go to the soda counter. [Laughter] Although for the purposes of bookkeeping and of making sure that the money gets into education, some of the money may be made payable direct to the college business office. Nevertheless, I believe very strongly that any Government aid should be given to the student, presumably after the war, largely to war veterans, as an aid to the individual student, not to the colleges as a subsidy for the institution. The student must be free to pick his own college and the college must be left free to steer its own course. [ 4] �MR. CLARK: Dr. Roadman has a comment. DR. ROADMAN: Well, I would like to add that I think in spite of Dr. Davidson's suggestion that some students misappropriate money sent to them, that colleges are still educating the students and not the parents and that the parents should send the money to the students. But there seems to have been so much worry in Felix Morley's article to which you have referred in The Saturday Evening Post, under the title, "Can the Colleges Survive?" Now, just in defense of that word "revitalize", I think it is a much nicer word than "suryive". [Laughter] Do we know enough about post-war conditions to justify all this hysterical worry? DR. DAVIDSON: When it comes to figuring out what the world is going to be like after the war, I admit that I am stuck. I feel pretty much like the old Southern uncle who said, "When I wurks, I wurks hard; when I sits, I sits loose. When I thinks, I falls asleep." [Laughter] I agree there is no point in becoming hysterical about the post-war situation, but I always like to blueprint the future a little bit, just as I understand you, Dr. Roadman, have got a blueprint of the future development of Morningside College Campus. And I can foresee one or two things that are likely to be in the picture after the war. One is that there will be ten million Army and Navy boys and girls and even a larger number of industrial workers who will need to be retrained and reeducated for living in a peacetime economy. In the second place, I feel that there will be a huge national debt which will necessitate high taxes and result in financial problems over many years to come. Those two things, I think, are pretty well in the cards. MR. CLARK: The next question is to you, Dr. Bevis, from Dr. Raymond Walters, President of Cincinnati University: "Do you believe the professional schools wi11 continue to require liberal arts preparation for admission after the war?" DR. BEVIS: I haven't any doubt of it. In the first place, it is clear to me as an ex-professional man-I used to be a lawyer when I worked [laughter]-that the training of professional men and women must be more closely related than ever to the surrounding areas of knowledge; and, in the second place, it is also becoming increasingly clear, I think, to all of us that the relation of the professional man to the public, to his general situation in the community, calls more and more for his having the kind of knowledge that will enable him not only to pursue the narrower aims of his profession but also those broader aims of citizenship and living in the community. MR. CLARK: The next one is to you, Dr. Roadman, from Dr. Stringfellow Barr, President of St. John's College at Annapolis Maryland: "Can we hope to revitalize"-there is that word again-"the liberal arts without requiring four years of mathematics, four years of language and logic and four years of laboratory science?" DR. ROADMAN: In reply, I do not wish to seem to beg the question, but I believe that the use of "four years" indicates what is wrong. We are learning in these war types of education that we can learn much, much faster than we have heretofore done. One of the boys from [5] �Morningside College who went to the Iowa City pre-flight school came back saying that they were compelled to learn to identify planes with one-fiftieth of a second exposure. Now, he said he got forty right out of forty trials. If that is all true, we are going to have to move more rapidly in our college education and four years means nothing. Maybe we can do this in a year and a half, maybe it will take two and onehalf years. We all agree with Dr. Stringfellow Barr, who is, we all know, performing and achieving a splendid experiment in education at St. John's College, that we must have mathematics, we must have laboratory science, we must have language and logic, but maybe we are going to have to make them more vital, if you please, and move faster. MR. CLARK: Dr. Bevis has a comment. DR. BEVIS: I wonder if I might stop a moment to brag. The system of teaching this recognition of airplanes was developed on our campus at Ohio State University and the teachers who went out to teach it were trained there. [Laughter] I would like to ask this additional question though, if I might. Don't you think, too, that perhaps sitting a little looser, according to Dr. Davidson, with regard to the fixity of the content of a liberal arts program might be helpful? In other words, if we prescribe four years of , this and four years of that, the number of things that we can prescribe four years of becomes necessarily limited. We know so many things and we continue to learn so many new things in this modem world that I should like to see a little more liberality on some campuses in the laying down of these programs. MR. CLARK: The next question is from Deane W. Malott, Chancellor of the University of Kansas, Lawrence, Kansas, to Dr. Davidson: "Would not a liberal arts college be stronger if it attempted to teach far fewer courses to far stronger men? And, if so, can this objective be realized, and how?" DR. DAVIDSON: Well, that fits in closely with the question that was just asked by President Barr. I think the two might very well get the same answer. I, in the first place, feel that four years make a good period for working. I should be sorry to see those men and women who grow so tremendously during four years, and mature during that period, have that period shortened too much. I do agree, however, that we can enrich rather than abridge that period greatly by putting a great deal more into it. However, to answer Chancellor Malott's question directly, it seems to me the vitality of the liberal arts does not rest upon any set requirements or subject matters. I think President Bevis has certainly hit the nail on the head there. It rests rather on the mental abilities which are stressed and achieved during the learning process, such mental abilities as the ability to concentrate attention, the ability to observe accurately, the ability to retain in the memory, the ability to associate ideas in many directions, the ability of logical reasoning, the ability of careful judgment, and, finally, most important of all, the ability of creative imagination. Now, President Barr's mathematics, language, logic and science are, I will agree, four ways in which these can be accom- [ 6} �plished, if they are properly taught, of course. But they are not the only ways. History and literature and economics and music might do them just as well, if properly taught. I would rather give the individual colleges a little room for change, as President Bevis has suggested, to individualize their curricula. Now, as to getting the stronger men, after the war we are going to have a great opportunity, for we will have many more than we will be able to accept. So let's secure these stronger men and women by careful process of selective admission and by refusal-this is a very important thing for the liberal arts colleges-of the colleges to yield to the pressure which is going to be so strong for expansion in mere numbers. Let's keep ourselves small as well as liberal. MR. CLARK: Dr. Roadman has a comment. DR. ROADMAN: I object to too much emphasis upon the far stronger men, because I do not believe that our testing methods are adequate to determine at the early age who may become stronger after they have had more educational opportunity. If we are going to b~e liberal, it is going to mean that we are going to give more opportunities to more people. MR. CLARK: Dr. Bevis! DR. BEVIS: I should like to put in a caveat, as the lawyers say, about "small." It seems to me that the very continued existence of democracy depends upon our having in our population, in our communities, a large enough number of people who have some conception of higher learning to do two things; one, to supply the people that the Government is having to have more and more every year to handle the growingly complex duties that Government assumes because we put them on its shoulders. And the other, and perhaps even more important, is to have a sufficiently large number of such people in the body politic to be able to appraise and give an intelligent judgment on the public questions that arise and the candidates who come before the people. I hesitate to see our university system or our college system as a whole embark too whole-heartedly on a project of small enrollment. MR. CLARK: The next question is addressed to Dr. Howard L. Bevis from Dr. Everett Case, President of Colgate University: ''What, in your opinion, is the most important single step for liberal arts colleges to take if they are to discharge their full responsibilities?" DR. BEVIS: It would take me at least nine minutes to answer that. Semi-seriously, I would say perhaps the most important thing they could do right now is to stop talking as if they were dead. Nobody wants to belong to something that is dead. I doubt whether any single step can be labeled the most important for all colleges. In many cases the most important step for liberal arts colleges would be to liberalize their programs somewhat. In general, I should say the most immediate, if not the most important, step for each college, and for every university for that matter, is to see right now whether its curricula are the best fitted to equip its students to live the rest of their lives in their environment. This may require breaking some long-established habits. On the other [ 7] �hand, it may require sticking doggedly to some things in spite of current pressure for change. MR. CLARK: The next question is from Professor Mendel Miller, Professor of Economics at Morningside College, to Dr. Roadman: "Can the liberal arts college, which was born of religious idealism, be perpetuated without a revitalization of its religious program? In other words, has the liberal arts college forsaken its religious emphasis or been forsaken by the church?" DR. ROADMAN: I think, Mr. Clark, we will all agree that there has been a serious secularization of all life. The churches themselves have been feeling this and have been seeking to revitalize their own programs for post-war days. The answer specifically to the questionCan the liberal arts college do what it ought to do without a rebirth of religious program?-must be no, it cannot We must increase through the home, through the church, through the support of the colleges, through the individuals who are interested in the colleges, the religious devotion. It is heartening to know that everywhere that Madame Chiang Kai-Shek is presented, reference is made to the fact that she was educated in a Christian college in America. This influence permeating China may well be expected to more largely influence America. MR. CLARK: The next question is from Senator D. W. Stewart, President of the Board of Trustees of Morningside, to Dr. Davidson: "Do you believe that the sponsorship of college education by the church will assist the church in fulfilling its purpose in creating a Christian citizenry?" DR. DAVIDSON: Well, when one analyzes the basic assumption of Christianity, of democracy and of the liberal arts college, one discovers that the three are really merely different aspects of one and the same thing, in other words, faith in the sacredness and importance of the individual human soul or personality. Therefore, when the church sponsors the college, it is merely expediting its own program. Now, the old school curriculum used to consist of the three R's-readin', 'ritin' and 'rithmetic. The new liberal arts curriculum might be thought of as consisting of new three R's-reason, resourcefulness and responsibility. Those are the needs of democracy. A reasonable, a resourceful and a responsible citizenry, those also are the hopes of the church in America. MR. CLARK: Here is another question from Senator Stewart, and a good one, to Dr. Bevis: "If the Government should subsidize liberal arts colleges, what would prevent discrimination between Protestant, Catholic or Jewish institutions?" DR. BEVIS: Nothing prevents the Government from doing anything except forces which have political power. That is one of the main reasons why I should hesitate to see us embark upon a program in which our education is supported by funds from the Federal Government. Personally, I hope they won't go very far into that program. MR. CLARK: The next one to Dr. Roadman from W. J. Scarborough, Dean of Morningside College: ''What lesson can be learned from what has happened to the German colleges?" [8] �DR. ROADMAN: In the first place, Germany had nothing comparable with our liberal arts colleges, and probably that is one reason for her great international deflection. In the second place, her colleges had compelled all students to formulate their lives after the pattern of loyalty to the Nazi state, rather than to the pattern of free thought and free discussion. MR. CLARK: The next question is from Professor James Reistrup, of the Music Department of Morningside, to Dr. Roadman: "What are the current financial problems of the liberal arts coIIeges engaged in training members of the armed forces?" DR. ROADMAN: The current problems are twofold; first, the plan of the Government was to operate their military programs on the campuses without cost to the colleges, but without giving them anything more than the cost. In the second place, the difficulty has been that the Government has been at least 120 days behind expenditures. The colleges have been compelled to finance the messing, housing and instruction of the military men for a period of four months before they are reimbursed. MR. .CLARK: The next question is from Professor Paul MacCollin, Director of the Conservatory of Music of Morningside, to Dr. Davidson: "If the hope of democracy lies in articulate as weII as an educated electorate, should not the liberal arts coIIege put more emphasis upon the duties of citizenship as an obligation to society in return for the privilege of going to coilege?" DR. DAVIDSON: I agree we should. As I previously mentioned, a reasoning, resourceful and responsible citizen should be the outcome of college education. At my institution, we have had an interesting experience recently in trying to introduce all of our students to our middle western American life and problems, also of serving our community as the central town meeting or forum by bringing in outside speakers and local speakers to discuss current issues and trying to guide thoughtful action of the community, as well as of our own students as citizens. I would like to have all of you go out and make a check of your own community, particularly of what you would consider the intelligent citizenry of your community, and I would be willing to guarantee that you will find the percentage of liberal arts college graduates among that group will be remarkably high. MR. CLARK: The next question is to Dr. Bevis from Guy E. Snavely, head of the Association of American Colleges: "Would not the incorporation into history and goverrunent courses of America's responsibilities in the future world order help to revitalize a curriculum of the liberal arts coliege?" DR. BEVIS: Why, yes; anything that brings the liberal arts college to grips with the times in which its students live will help. MR. CLARK: The next one is from Dr. Hamilton Holt, President of Rollins College, Winter Park, Florida, to Dr. Davidson: "Is the speciaJist to supersede the liberally educated man in the post-war era?" DR. DAVIDSON: I certainly hope not, because although I am the [ 9] �son of a surgeon who was a specialist and I deal constantly with specialists, it seems to me that former Chancellor Bruening of Germany put his finger on the main trouble with the German people and with the German civilization preceding Hitler, and that was that the nation had become a nation of highly trained specialists and that there was no liberally educated citizens in the country who knew enough about the problems of the other man to really understand what was going on. I agree with what has been said by several supporters of liberal education, that although it is possible to take a liberally educated man and give him an intensified course to make a specialist, or an operator of a highly techn'ical instrument, such as a tank or artillery or something of that sort in a short time, it is practically impossible to take a highly trained technical specialist and overnight make him into a liberally educated citizen. MR. CLARK: Dr. Road.man, the next one is to you from W. J. Scarborough, Dean of Morningside: "Sources of professional leadership have been greatly restricted during the war period. How may superior men and women be directed into education today?" DR. ROADMAN: It has already been mentioned in this broadcast that we must improve our methods of testing as a means of admission. I think what we mean there is that the testing methods must be broadened. We must include not only a testing of the intelligence quotient but also the social quotient, the manual quotient. I suppose we all have in mind here that a recent review of Lieutenant General Mark Clark's life at West Point revealed that he was not among the highest fifty per cent of the students there, but he certainly is proving himself to be among the highest in generalship on the field. Now, if we can increase our testing to include a broader base, we will improve the quality of those who are to be educated. We must bring them in regardless of their ability to pay, perhaps with Government assistance or local assistance. We must increase the observance of both the social and mental capacity of the students while they are in college. MR. CLARK: The next question is to Dr. Davidson from Professor A. Coss, Professor of Chemistry, Morningside: ''What would become of the liberal arts colleges if the Government should enter the educational field on its own account by establishing military schools throughout the country?" J. DR. DAVIDSON: Of course, the Government has been in the educational business at West Point and Annapolis for a good long time. Their example has been healthy for the rest of us rather than of any great danger to us. But to answer the question as I believe it is intended, after the war I should expect our Federal Government to try to reduce expenses rather than trying to increase them. However, I can see that maybe the lust for spending may be hard to throw off and if the Government wants to spend a lot of money, that would be a good way to do it by setting up a whole system of military schools throughout the country. But I don't believe that that will come about. More likely would be the continuing of some form of military training, such as we have in the R.O.T.C. institutions throughout the country, spread over most of our institutions of higher education. You might ask the same question here [ 10] �in another way: What would become of American industry if the Federal Government should decide to run all the factories? Well, it would be pretty bad for us. It would be pretty bad for the colleges if the Government decided to freeze us out, but I don't believe they will. MR. CLARK: Dr. Roadman, we have just a couple of minutes left here. Would you, as our gracious host today, like to summarize what we have spoken about today? DR. ROADMAN: I should be very happy, Mr. Clark, to say just a word in reminding ourselves that we have probably had the finest definition of liberal education given by Dr. Davidson in his requirement for reason, resource and responsibility upon the part of individually educated citizens. There has been a constant emphasis throughout upon the close relationship between education and democracy. I believe that we all want to add the close relationship between Christianity, education and democracy. We sometimes lose sight of the fact that the one who may be denied education votes and his vote counts just as much as the PhD. graduate's. Therefore, we cannot have a voting citizenry that is intelligent or that is Christian in its global thinking unless we have an education that is adequate. MR. CLARK: Gentlemen, I am sorry, we are at the end of our time here. I want to thank you Dr. Bevis, you, Dr. Davidson, and you, our genial host, Dr. Roadman, on behalf of the American Economic Foundation and the Blue Network for your splendid contribution to this important subject today. * NEXT WEEK DOES NATIONAL EMERGENCY JUSTIFY A FOURTH TERM? UPTON CLOSE REX STOUT Internationally Known Commentator and Author Celebrated Creator of "Nero Wolf" Stories and Radio Voice of "Our Secret Weapon" OCTOBER 24, 1943 BLUE NETWORK [ 111 �� Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Event Type Radio Broadcast Participants Names of individuals or groups participating in the event Bevis, Dr. Howard L.: President Ohio State University Davidson, Dr. Carter: President Knox College Roadman, Dr. Earl A.: President Morningside College Clark, Fred G.: Moderator Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. 183 l 4 Lf-3 THE FUTURE OF THE LIBERAL ARTS COLLEGE As Discussed on the "Wake Up, America!" Radio Forum Broadcast, October 17, 1943 •. .•. Over the Blue Network DR. HOWARD L. B E V I S President, Oh io State University DR. CARTER DR. DAVIDSON EARL A. ROADMAN President, Knox College President, Morningside College Moderator- FRED. G. CLARK PRICE 10 CENTS "WAKE UP AMERICA I'' EVERY SUNDAY 1:00 P. M. EASTERN TIME OVER THE BLUE NETWORK The American Economic Foundation is a non-profit educational organization supported entirely by voluntary contributions. The "Wake Up, America!" Forum is open to any speaker with a worthwhile message that does not involve controversial religious or propaganda activity. Suggestions for speakers and topics are welcomed. The Foundation welcomes contributions from its well-wishers. All contributions are deductible from taxable income by ruling of the United States Treasury Department. See last page for listing of Advisory Committee. Because the American Economic Foundation is an educational organization, it naturally follows that it has no opinion on the subjects discussed on its "Wake Up, America!"' Forum, and that the statements and opinions of the speakers are their own. THE FUTURE OF THE LIBERAL ARTS COLLEGE MR. CLARK: For two centuries, the liberal arts college has been a basic influence in the development of our nation. Today three factors have joined together to make the future of the liberal arts college problematical. First is the war with its unavoidable impact. Boys who normally attend college are now in the armed forces. Second, and more lasting, is the extreme difficulty experienced by the liberal arts colleges in the past ten years in securing financial aid. Third, and more fundamental still, the liberal arts colleges must justify their continued existence in terms of their present contribution to national life. These institutions have a glorious past. It was in their classrooms that the type of American leadership was determined. Jefferson, who authored the Declaration of Independence, was such a firm believer in the liberal arts movement that he considered his two outstanding achievements to have been the writing of the Declaration of Independence and the founding of the University of Virginia. Benjamin Franklin, termed the first civilized American, was the father of the first public library, the first philosophical society and fathered the University of Pennsylvania, all in harmony with the liberal arts tradition. Taft, Wilson, Theodore Roosevelt and Franklin D. Roosevelt were all trained in colleges and are examples of leaders from the liberal arts tradition. The church has played a vital part in the origin and development of these colleges, such as Harvard, Yale, Brown, William and Mary, and thereby provided a moral and spiritual influence which civilized the American wilderness. In our discussion today, it must be remembered that by the nature of its operation, no college or university is self-supporting. The tuition fees cannot cover operating expenses. Every institution, therefore, needs financial support if all the deserving young people who are qualified to benefit from higher education are to receive it. College endowments have always come from well-to-do persons whose interest in helping young people obtain higher education prompted them to extend aid. T,he present income tax and inheritance laws have reduced these gifts almost to the vanishing point. For example, in 1941, the educational endowments and bequests in the seven principal American cities were less than 58 million dollars. In 1942, the total was less than 12 million dollars. In other words, the money formerly given to liberal arts colleges is to a great extent being given to the Government in taxes. Under these conditions, it would seem that the privately-endowed college must either secure its help from the Federal Government or cease to operate. Three principal issues present themselves: [ 1] [ 1] Can the Government justify the subsidy of liberal arts colleges with public funds when the basic idea of publicly-supported universities has usually been professional or trade schools? [2] If the liberal arts colleges are subsidized by Government, what effect will such subsidy have on their operation? [ 3] Do the liberal arts colleges demonstrate a reason for continued existence? For the answers to these, and many other questions, we present our distinguished panel: Dr. Howard L. Bevis, President of Ohio State University, Dr. Carter Davidson, President of Knox College and Dr. Earl A. Roadman, President of Morningside College. The first question I find here is addressed to Dr. Roadman from Dr. Thomas E. Tweito of Morningside College: What is a liberal arts colle~e? DR. ROADMAN: Defining a liberal arts college quickly is quite like the little boy who was asked to come and go swimming. He promised to come in ten minutes. He said he had a history of the world to write. Now, a liberal arts education seeks to do primarily three things: First, increase the inquiring interest in information-information about the past history of the world, information about global geography, information about science, about people, celestial and terrestial affairs. This desire for information in all branches is a preparation for specialization. In the second place, the liberal arts education seeks to establish an eagerness for tomorrow as well as a knowledge of the past, an eagerness which is sufficient to believe that tomorrow will see the accomplishment of what ought to be done. In the third place, a liberal arts education, especially church-related colleges, are supposed to develop character that people will be good enough to want that the privileges which they have may be extended to all of the people of all the world Now, that is in terms of function, of course. The liberal arts college in popular mind is supposed to be a small college, usually a churchrelated college; but we know today that all universities have a department of liberal education and so the functional definition is more important than the type of definition. MR. CLARK: Dr. Bevis, have you a comment to make on that answer? DR. BEVIS: I would like to ask Dr. Roadman whether he would seriously disagree with my statement that I have on a note here as to the function of a liberal arts college--that it should aim to fit the student to be a citizen, a cultivated person, or a spiritual, or perhaps you might want to say, a religious person, and a self-supporting person. It seems to me that we can't leave that fourth category entirely out of consideration of a liberal arts college. MR. CLARK: Dr. Davdison, would you like to add your comment? DR. DAVIDSON: I .rather like the definition that was in The [2] Saturday Evening Post for this week in an article by President Morley, of Haverford College, in which he said he thought that a liberal arts college had as its main function, first, the stimulating of curiosity, healthy intellectual curiosity; and, second, the stimulating of critical acumen, ability to evaluate the experiences in the things of life; and, third, the strengthening of moral character. I think those three would be a pretty good basis for building any college. MR. CLARK: I think we understand now pretty well what a liberal arts college means. Dr. Davidson, the next question is addressed to you from Dr. William F. Peirce, of Edgewood, Maryland: "In the future, to what sources can the liberal arts college look for financial support?" DR. DAVIDSON: Of course, that is one of the questions that has been making men like myself get gray-haired early; but the answer to it might be that if Americans wake up--that fits in with the title of this program, "Wake Up, America!"-to the fact that there is a close connection between liberal arts education and the preservation of our own democracy, if we believe that strongly enough and see it clearly enough, then I think, in the main, financial support for the future will come from individual gifts from thousands and even millions of individuals, giving each a small amount, but making a great total, just as they give today to their church, to their community chest and to the war bond drive. Now, I will agree with what our Chairman has said. If taxes and other restrictions are going to make it impossible for large fortunes to be built in America and given away to charitable enterprises, then perhaps the corporations must take their place. Our corporations are the greatest beneficiaries of our system of free competition in this country and, therefore, I feel it is incumbent upon the corporations to give the main financial support to those free institutions such as the colleges. MR. CLARK: Excuse me, Dr. Roadman has a comment. DR. ROADMAN: I would like to ask Dr. Davidson if he feels sure that the people of America understand that up to 15 per cent of their income is deductible from the taxable amount when devoted to colleges and charity. DR. DAVIDSON: When I look over the list of gifts, I am sure most of the people in America do not understand the 15 per cent exemption. [Laughter] MR. CLARK: Dr. Bevis! DR. BEVIS: Dr. Davidson, you are completely leaving out of account the contribution to liberal arts colleges that is being made by the state government, I take it. DR. DAVIDSON: Oh, no; lots of our liberal arts colleges are located on the campuses of our state universities; are a great part of the state universities. I wouldn't want to exclude them in any way from the picture. MR. CLARK: The next question is addressed to you, Dr. Bevis, [ 3] from Dr. J. E. Kirkpatrick, Professor of Education, Morningside College: "What existing conditions have tended to make a need for the revitalization of the liberal arts college?" DR. BEVIS: Mr. Clark, I object a little to the phrase "revitalization". It seems to assume that they are dead. I don't think they are dead; but passing that without further comment, I suspect that a good deal of the current difficulty is that of financing the smaller schools. This difficulty has been contributed to, I suppose, by the fact that easier and easier access has been had to larger institutions, perhaps to a certain overtendency to crystallize the liberal arts programs in some of the specifically liberal arts colleges; perhaps, too, to the felt need to which I referred a moment ago, the need that many students, perhaps most students, have to include something of the element of preparing themselves to make their livings as well as to live their lives. Those things, I think, perhaps have contributed to the need for revitalization, if there be such, that is now being felt. MR. CLARK: Dr. Davidson, do you think there is a need for revitalization? DR. DAVIDSON: I agree with President Bevis that we aren't dead yet. And, as a matter of fact, when I look back over the last twenty years, I ask myself if the liberal arts college isn't one of the most vital of institutions that has been in existence in this country since the last war. It is an institution which is giving birth to new members all the time, such as Bennington College and Sarah Lawrence College that have come into full growth, you might say, in the last twenty years; an institution which has been growing in total enrollment throughout the country during the last twenty years, an institution which has grown in its financial strength-it is within the last twenty years, for example, that Oberlin College received its great gift which made it the wealthiest of all the small colleges in America-and an institution which is growing in ideas, such ideas as have been evidenced by the St. John's plan, the Bard College plan, the Antioch College plan and the many other plans of our liberal arts colleges throughout the country. I would say an institution that gives those evidences of vitality was very much alive. MR. CLARK: Dr. Davidson, the next question is addressed to you, also, from Dr. M. E. Graber, Dean of Men at Morningside College: "If Government subsidizes college education, should the subsidy be given to the student or to the institution?" DR. DAVIDSON: That, too, is a rather delicate question because I have seen too many fathers and mothers send money to their children in college, with the intent they should pay their college bills with it and then see it go to the soda counter. [Laughter] Although for the purposes of bookkeeping and of making sure that the money gets into education, some of the money may be made payable direct to the college business office. Nevertheless, I believe very strongly that any Government aid should be given to the student, presumably after the war, largely to war veterans, as an aid to the individual student, not to the colleges as a subsidy for the institution. The student must be free to pick his own college and the college must be left free to steer its own course. [ 4] MR. CLARK: Dr. Roadman has a comment. DR. ROADMAN: Well, I would like to add that I think in spite of Dr. Davidson's suggestion that some students misappropriate money sent to them, that colleges are still educating the students and not the parents and that the parents should send the money to the students. But there seems to have been so much worry in Felix Morley's article to which you have referred in The Saturday Evening Post, under the title, "Can the Colleges Survive?" Now, just in defense of that word "revitalize", I think it is a much nicer word than "suryive". [Laughter] Do we know enough about post-war conditions to justify all this hysterical worry? DR. DAVIDSON: When it comes to figuring out what the world is going to be like after the war, I admit that I am stuck. I feel pretty much like the old Southern uncle who said, "When I wurks, I wurks hard; when I sits, I sits loose. When I thinks, I falls asleep." [Laughter] I agree there is no point in becoming hysterical about the post-war situation, but I always like to blueprint the future a little bit, just as I understand you, Dr. Roadman, have got a blueprint of the future development of Morningside College Campus. And I can foresee one or two things that are likely to be in the picture after the war. One is that there will be ten million Army and Navy boys and girls and even a larger number of industrial workers who will need to be retrained and reeducated for living in a peacetime economy. In the second place, I feel that there will be a huge national debt which will necessitate high taxes and result in financial problems over many years to come. Those two things, I think, are pretty well in the cards. MR. CLARK: The next question is to you, Dr. Bevis, from Dr. Raymond Walters, President of Cincinnati University: "Do you believe the professional schools wi11 continue to require liberal arts preparation for admission after the war?" DR. BEVIS: I haven't any doubt of it. In the first place, it is clear to me as an ex-professional man-I used to be a lawyer when I worked [laughter]-that the training of professional men and women must be more closely related than ever to the surrounding areas of knowledge; and, in the second place, it is also becoming increasingly clear, I think, to all of us that the relation of the professional man to the public, to his general situation in the community, calls more and more for his having the kind of knowledge that will enable him not only to pursue the narrower aims of his profession but also those broader aims of citizenship and living in the community. MR. CLARK: The next one is to you, Dr. Roadman, from Dr. Stringfellow Barr, President of St. John's College at Annapolis Maryland: "Can we hope to revitalize"-there is that word again-"the liberal arts without requiring four years of mathematics, four years of language and logic and four years of laboratory science?" DR. ROADMAN: In reply, I do not wish to seem to beg the question, but I believe that the use of "four years" indicates what is wrong. We are learning in these war types of education that we can learn much, much faster than we have heretofore done. One of the boys from [5] Morningside College who went to the Iowa City pre-flight school came back saying that they were compelled to learn to identify planes with one-fiftieth of a second exposure. Now, he said he got forty right out of forty trials. If that is all true, we are going to have to move more rapidly in our college education and four years means nothing. Maybe we can do this in a year and a half, maybe it will take two and onehalf years. We all agree with Dr. Stringfellow Barr, who is, we all know, performing and achieving a splendid experiment in education at St. John's College, that we must have mathematics, we must have laboratory science, we must have language and logic, but maybe we are going to have to make them more vital, if you please, and move faster. MR. CLARK: Dr. Bevis has a comment. DR. BEVIS: I wonder if I might stop a moment to brag. The system of teaching this recognition of airplanes was developed on our campus at Ohio State University and the teachers who went out to teach it were trained there. [Laughter] I would like to ask this additional question though, if I might. Don't you think, too, that perhaps sitting a little looser, according to Dr. Davidson, with regard to the fixity of the content of a liberal arts program might be helpful? In other words, if we prescribe four years of , this and four years of that, the number of things that we can prescribe four years of becomes necessarily limited. We know so many things and we continue to learn so many new things in this modem world that I should like to see a little more liberality on some campuses in the laying down of these programs. MR. CLARK: The next question is from Deane W. Malott, Chancellor of the University of Kansas, Lawrence, Kansas, to Dr. Davidson: "Would not a liberal arts college be stronger if it attempted to teach far fewer courses to far stronger men? And, if so, can this objective be realized, and how?" DR. DAVIDSON: Well, that fits in closely with the question that was just asked by President Barr. I think the two might very well get the same answer. I, in the first place, feel that four years make a good period for working. I should be sorry to see those men and women who grow so tremendously during four years, and mature during that period, have that period shortened too much. I do agree, however, that we can enrich rather than abridge that period greatly by putting a great deal more into it. However, to answer Chancellor Malott's question directly, it seems to me the vitality of the liberal arts does not rest upon any set requirements or subject matters. I think President Bevis has certainly hit the nail on the head there. It rests rather on the mental abilities which are stressed and achieved during the learning process, such mental abilities as the ability to concentrate attention, the ability to observe accurately, the ability to retain in the memory, the ability to associate ideas in many directions, the ability of logical reasoning, the ability of careful judgment, and, finally, most important of all, the ability of creative imagination. Now, President Barr's mathematics, language, logic and science are, I will agree, four ways in which these can be accom- [ 6} plished, if they are properly taught, of course. But they are not the only ways. History and literature and economics and music might do them just as well, if properly taught. I would rather give the individual colleges a little room for change, as President Bevis has suggested, to individualize their curricula. Now, as to getting the stronger men, after the war we are going to have a great opportunity, for we will have many more than we will be able to accept. So let's secure these stronger men and women by careful process of selective admission and by refusal-this is a very important thing for the liberal arts colleges-of the colleges to yield to the pressure which is going to be so strong for expansion in mere numbers. Let's keep ourselves small as well as liberal. MR. CLARK: Dr. Roadman has a comment. DR. ROADMAN: I object to too much emphasis upon the far stronger men, because I do not believe that our testing methods are adequate to determine at the early age who may become stronger after they have had more educational opportunity. If we are going to b~e liberal, it is going to mean that we are going to give more opportunities to more people. MR. CLARK: Dr. Bevis! DR. BEVIS: I should like to put in a caveat, as the lawyers say, about "small." It seems to me that the very continued existence of democracy depends upon our having in our population, in our communities, a large enough number of people who have some conception of higher learning to do two things; one, to supply the people that the Government is having to have more and more every year to handle the growingly complex duties that Government assumes because we put them on its shoulders. And the other, and perhaps even more important, is to have a sufficiently large number of such people in the body politic to be able to appraise and give an intelligent judgment on the public questions that arise and the candidates who come before the people. I hesitate to see our university system or our college system as a whole embark too whole-heartedly on a project of small enrollment. MR. CLARK: The next question is addressed to Dr. Howard L. Bevis from Dr. Everett Case, President of Colgate University: ''What, in your opinion, is the most important single step for liberal arts colleges to take if they are to discharge their full responsibilities?" DR. BEVIS: It would take me at least nine minutes to answer that. Semi-seriously, I would say perhaps the most important thing they could do right now is to stop talking as if they were dead. Nobody wants to belong to something that is dead. I doubt whether any single step can be labeled the most important for all colleges. In many cases the most important step for liberal arts colleges would be to liberalize their programs somewhat. In general, I should say the most immediate, if not the most important, step for each college, and for every university for that matter, is to see right now whether its curricula are the best fitted to equip its students to live the rest of their lives in their environment. This may require breaking some long-established habits. On the other [ 7] hand, it may require sticking doggedly to some things in spite of current pressure for change. MR. CLARK: The next question is from Professor Mendel Miller, Professor of Economics at Morningside College, to Dr. Roadman: "Can the liberal arts college, which was born of religious idealism, be perpetuated without a revitalization of its religious program? In other words, has the liberal arts college forsaken its religious emphasis or been forsaken by the church?" DR. ROADMAN: I think, Mr. Clark, we will all agree that there has been a serious secularization of all life. The churches themselves have been feeling this and have been seeking to revitalize their own programs for post-war days. The answer specifically to the questionCan the liberal arts college do what it ought to do without a rebirth of religious program?-must be no, it cannot We must increase through the home, through the church, through the support of the colleges, through the individuals who are interested in the colleges, the religious devotion. It is heartening to know that everywhere that Madame Chiang Kai-Shek is presented, reference is made to the fact that she was educated in a Christian college in America. This influence permeating China may well be expected to more largely influence America. MR. CLARK: The next question is from Senator D. W. Stewart, President of the Board of Trustees of Morningside, to Dr. Davidson: "Do you believe that the sponsorship of college education by the church will assist the church in fulfilling its purpose in creating a Christian citizenry?" DR. DAVIDSON: Well, when one analyzes the basic assumption of Christianity, of democracy and of the liberal arts college, one discovers that the three are really merely different aspects of one and the same thing, in other words, faith in the sacredness and importance of the individual human soul or personality. Therefore, when the church sponsors the college, it is merely expediting its own program. Now, the old school curriculum used to consist of the three R's-readin', 'ritin' and 'rithmetic. The new liberal arts curriculum might be thought of as consisting of new three R's-reason, resourcefulness and responsibility. Those are the needs of democracy. A reasonable, a resourceful and a responsible citizenry, those also are the hopes of the church in America. MR. CLARK: Here is another question from Senator Stewart, and a good one, to Dr. Bevis: "If the Government should subsidize liberal arts colleges, what would prevent discrimination between Protestant, Catholic or Jewish institutions?" DR. BEVIS: Nothing prevents the Government from doing anything except forces which have political power. That is one of the main reasons why I should hesitate to see us embark upon a program in which our education is supported by funds from the Federal Government. Personally, I hope they won't go very far into that program. MR. CLARK: The next one to Dr. Roadman from W. J. Scarborough, Dean of Morningside College: ''What lesson can be learned from what has happened to the German colleges?" [8] DR. ROADMAN: In the first place, Germany had nothing comparable with our liberal arts colleges, and probably that is one reason for her great international deflection. In the second place, her colleges had compelled all students to formulate their lives after the pattern of loyalty to the Nazi state, rather than to the pattern of free thought and free discussion. MR. CLARK: The next question is from Professor James Reistrup, of the Music Department of Morningside, to Dr. Roadman: "What are the current financial problems of the liberal arts coIIeges engaged in training members of the armed forces?" DR. ROADMAN: The current problems are twofold; first, the plan of the Government was to operate their military programs on the campuses without cost to the colleges, but without giving them anything more than the cost. In the second place, the difficulty has been that the Government has been at least 120 days behind expenditures. The colleges have been compelled to finance the messing, housing and instruction of the military men for a period of four months before they are reimbursed. MR. .CLARK: The next question is from Professor Paul MacCollin, Director of the Conservatory of Music of Morningside, to Dr. Davidson: "If the hope of democracy lies in articulate as weII as an educated electorate, should not the liberal arts coIIege put more emphasis upon the duties of citizenship as an obligation to society in return for the privilege of going to coilege?" DR. DAVIDSON: I agree we should. As I previously mentioned, a reasoning, resourceful and responsible citizen should be the outcome of college education. At my institution, we have had an interesting experience recently in trying to introduce all of our students to our middle western American life and problems, also of serving our community as the central town meeting or forum by bringing in outside speakers and local speakers to discuss current issues and trying to guide thoughtful action of the community, as well as of our own students as citizens. I would like to have all of you go out and make a check of your own community, particularly of what you would consider the intelligent citizenry of your community, and I would be willing to guarantee that you will find the percentage of liberal arts college graduates among that group will be remarkably high. MR. CLARK: The next question is to Dr. Bevis from Guy E. Snavely, head of the Association of American Colleges: "Would not the incorporation into history and goverrunent courses of America's responsibilities in the future world order help to revitalize a curriculum of the liberal arts coliege?" DR. BEVIS: Why, yes; anything that brings the liberal arts college to grips with the times in which its students live will help. MR. CLARK: The next one is from Dr. Hamilton Holt, President of Rollins College, Winter Park, Florida, to Dr. Davidson: "Is the speciaJist to supersede the liberally educated man in the post-war era?" DR. DAVIDSON: I certainly hope not, because although I am the [ 9] son of a surgeon who was a specialist and I deal constantly with specialists, it seems to me that former Chancellor Bruening of Germany put his finger on the main trouble with the German people and with the German civilization preceding Hitler, and that was that the nation had become a nation of highly trained specialists and that there was no liberally educated citizens in the country who knew enough about the problems of the other man to really understand what was going on. I agree with what has been said by several supporters of liberal education, that although it is possible to take a liberally educated man and give him an intensified course to make a specialist, or an operator of a highly techn'ical instrument, such as a tank or artillery or something of that sort in a short time, it is practically impossible to take a highly trained technical specialist and overnight make him into a liberally educated citizen. MR. CLARK: Dr. Road.man, the next one is to you from W. J. Scarborough, Dean of Morningside: "Sources of professional leadership have been greatly restricted during the war period. How may superior men and women be directed into education today?" DR. ROADMAN: It has already been mentioned in this broadcast that we must improve our methods of testing as a means of admission. I think what we mean there is that the testing methods must be broadened. We must include not only a testing of the intelligence quotient but also the social quotient, the manual quotient. I suppose we all have in mind here that a recent review of Lieutenant General Mark Clark's life at West Point revealed that he was not among the highest fifty per cent of the students there, but he certainly is proving himself to be among the highest in generalship on the field. Now, if we can increase our testing to include a broader base, we will improve the quality of those who are to be educated. We must bring them in regardless of their ability to pay, perhaps with Government assistance or local assistance. We must increase the observance of both the social and mental capacity of the students while they are in college. MR. CLARK: The next question is to Dr. Davidson from Professor A. Coss, Professor of Chemistry, Morningside: ''What would become of the liberal arts colleges if the Government should enter the educational field on its own account by establishing military schools throughout the country?" J. DR. DAVIDSON: Of course, the Government has been in the educational business at West Point and Annapolis for a good long time. Their example has been healthy for the rest of us rather than of any great danger to us. But to answer the question as I believe it is intended, after the war I should expect our Federal Government to try to reduce expenses rather than trying to increase them. However, I can see that maybe the lust for spending may be hard to throw off and if the Government wants to spend a lot of money, that would be a good way to do it by setting up a whole system of military schools throughout the country. But I don't believe that that will come about. More likely would be the continuing of some form of military training, such as we have in the R.O.T.C. institutions throughout the country, spread over most of our institutions of higher education. You might ask the same question here [ 10] in another way: What would become of American industry if the Federal Government should decide to run all the factories? Well, it would be pretty bad for us. It would be pretty bad for the colleges if the Government decided to freeze us out, but I don't believe they will. MR. CLARK: Dr. Roadman, we have just a couple of minutes left here. Would you, as our gracious host today, like to summarize what we have spoken about today? DR. ROADMAN: I should be very happy, Mr. Clark, to say just a word in reminding ourselves that we have probably had the finest definition of liberal education given by Dr. Davidson in his requirement for reason, resource and responsibility upon the part of individually educated citizens. There has been a constant emphasis throughout upon the close relationship between education and democracy. I believe that we all want to add the close relationship between Christianity, education and democracy. We sometimes lose sight of the fact that the one who may be denied education votes and his vote counts just as much as the PhD. graduate's. Therefore, we cannot have a voting citizenry that is intelligent or that is Christian in its global thinking unless we have an education that is adequate. MR. CLARK: Gentlemen, I am sorry, we are at the end of our time here. I want to thank you Dr. Bevis, you, Dr. Davidson, and you, our genial host, Dr. Roadman, on behalf of the American Economic Foundation and the Blue Network for your splendid contribution to this important subject today. * NEXT WEEK DOES NATIONAL EMERGENCY JUSTIFY A FOURTH TERM? UPTON CLOSE REX STOUT Internationally Known Commentator and Author Celebrated Creator of "Nero Wolf" Stories and Radio Voice of "Our Secret Weapon" OCTOBER 24, 1943 BLUE NETWORK [ 111  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Future of the Liberal Arts College, The Subject The topic of the resource Education (Higher) Description An account of the resource A printed transcript of the discussion that aired on the "Wake Up, America!" Radio Forum Broadcast over the Blue Network. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource American Economic Foundation Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available American Economic Foundation Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1943-10-17 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Davidson, Dr. Carter: President Know College Roadman, Dr. Earl A.: President Morningside College Clark, Fred G.: Moderator Bevis, Dr. Howard L.: President Ohio State University Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Booklet 14 Pages 5 3/4 inches x 8 1/2 inches Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1943 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-12 Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger President Roadman http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/e724a23d6a0602306e5f45c2e5166931.pdf 928ea3a93a219773ef9cd811ae0faab1 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Perspectives: Volume 20, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Kiosk Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource This PDF file of the Perspectives contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ponder, Marcie Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2013-01-13 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. 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Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger PDF Text Text P E R S P E C T I V E S ARCHIVES 810.8 P432 1961 c.2 I �ARCHIVES 810.8 P432 Perspectives (Morningside College). �1 1111111 111111 1111111111 1111 111111 111111 1 1 111 11111 11111 11 1 11 1111 3 3191 000134898 PERSPECTIVES VOLUME XX SPRING 1961 NUMBER 1 Staff Editor ........................................ Joanne Johnston Business Manager .................................. Ruth Chute Cover Design ..................................... Janna Dodge Faculty Advisor ................................ Howard Levant PERSPECTIVES is published by the students of Morningside College, Sioux City, Iowa ��Thy Will Be Done Loren Andrews World War Three had passed. All was gone. All that mankind had moulded and developed was gone. In one remote corner of one of the continents, a small band of humans had survived through the disaster. It was now their task to build the new order to reproduce and to be the new roots of the human race. The tiny band had gathered in a green ·meadow far away from the industrial-age cities. Everyone was silent. Finally,. a man came forward and spoke. "We, by the grace of God, have been chosen to replenish this evil world that has been. It now becomes our task to build a new order-one of goodness and justice, one that has taken into consideration all of mankind's previous mistakes. It is with this thought that I now pronounce on you our new order. "You will all be workers of this new order-workers to build our world anew. There will be one ruler. His rule will be for all because of all men had political rights, we can see that there would be many different ideas. The only way to have one idea triumph over another is to have the power to see that your idea wins. This, my people, would lead to war. So, as you can see, in this new order we must have only one idea in government, lest we destroy ourselves again." The group cheered wildly. "There must be no religion of gods because nations in the past have marched against nations for the glory of their gods. We will worship the order. All will pray to it for strength. We will praise it for our daily bread. We shall build a temple to our way of life. No man shall worship a god-only the new order. "There must be no family. For into this unit fall the seeds of rebellion. Father teaches son- and son teaches son-hatred. The women bear their offspring to be taught the foolish prejudices of their parents. "Our new order will be such that no child shall be denied the privilege of being taught correctly-to live and die, for one thing. There will be no rest for those who break this, law. We'll rid ourselves of the false system forever. "There shall be freedom- freedom of obedience. All shall obey without question." An angry voice spoke from the group. "Oh, foolish man ! You will never keep mankind under you! Man by nature is free, and you will not be able to stop this." Some of the group shouted in support. "Silence that traitor," said the leader. "We cannot tolerate such stupidity. The new order must come to be at all cost. Kill him! Kill him!" The groans and cries of mankind again resounded from the earth. Man battled against man, but the future of the world was at stake. Man against man, women, and children-beat each other with clubs until they were beyond recognition. Blood covered the grassy meadow. "We have won! The group shall not be ruled by one selfish man." The group, cut in half, now numbered less than thirty. The new leader spoke. "We shall educate the children to the ultimate. Education will save the world. We shall teach math and .science, and they all 3 �will go to school. They shall be well rounded. As soon as they graduate from high school, they shall spend a year in nothing but social activities. This will give the women a chance to get their husbands. This time will be dedicated to running for office and serving on committees. We then rid the colleges of all husband-hunters and socializers. The next four years will be spent on nothing but studies." The group cheered. Then the leader shouted. "Who will build the buildings? Who will dig the sewers and carry the dung to our fields to make them fertile?" "Not I." "Not I." "Someone must," said the leader. Again the group began, beating each other with their clubs. When the battle ceased, there were only three left- a woman and two men. "We must fight to the death for this woman because two men can not both exist if there is only one woman." Then man began this final battle so man could begin the new order. The struggle was desperate. Then one threw a rock, missed his enemy, and hit the woman. She fell dead. The final battle was over! The new order began. To Grandma Loren Andrews "Come my pet, come to Mommy. There, that's right, my sweet little lamb duck. Come, Miah, my darling bird. There, yes, grandma loves you. Now go back to your cage. That's right." "My, my. How much you look like a crow. If I'd trim your beak, you'd look exactly like a crow. Then 1 wouldn't call you Miah anymore, but crow. Oh, 1 hurt your feelings. Oh, Sweeter, Nanner is sorry. You love only me and 1 shouldn't hurt you. 1 bet I'm the only bird owner in this city that can leave the windows open and not worry about my darling flying away." "Awk- Hello, Joe." "Nanner, can 1 have a glass of milk?" "I should say not. Your mother will be home in about two hours and when she comes, I'm telling her on you. You shouted and frightened my little Miah. Really, Jason, don't you think you could have a little consideration for someone else? If 1 had only to stay in bed and be fifteen again, I'd be very thankful." "Now, don't start that sniffling again. 1 just can't bear this. Your mother and 1 could live here quite comfortably if we didn't have you here to burden us." "If you were only twisted or something, but, no, it's worse than that. You had to be born completely helpless. Really Jason, you contribute less to this house than Miah. At least he can move, but you have no arms or legs." "We can't even have company in this house, because you'd frighten them. Yes, Jason, it's true and 1 think it's time you knew it." 4 �"Now stop that crying. We must all face our plight in life and if we haven't the courage, then we have no right to live. There ought to be a law ..." "Stop that weeping this instant." "Think how lucky you are that we let you stay here. Middle class people can't afford the things we've given you. Your mother never would care for you. She would just send you away. You see, you wouldn't even be allowed to stay here if it wasn't for me. You must be nicer to me or I will leave and then you'll have no one." "I don't know. I've always felt rather motherly. I always have liked to care for the helpless. But you're such a burden." . "Awk, such a burden." "What do you mean, you have to number one? Jason, I just can't carry that stinky bottle. You'll have to wait until your mother gets home." "No, Jason, I will not read to you." "I'm not an old scarecrow and sixty-five is not old. I'm going to tell your mother on you. I'll fix you good." "Awk, awk." . That's right, Miah, you tell that mean little boy what you think of him." "You want to come to Momma? Oh, that's so cute. Yes, I love you." "Oh, Loverbun, you poo pooed on my arm. Oh, don't feel so bad. I'll clean it up with my hankie. That is all right, Miah." "Stop laughing, you devil. You ugly helpless devil and so uncouth." " Awk, helpless and uncouth." "Why, Sweety, you speak better than Jason." "You impudent child. Stop that sniffling or I'll beat you until you do stop." . "Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!" "J ason? Jason! Huh? Jason, answer me!" Free Is The Nestling Ruth Chute Nadine drew a last drag from the cigarette and crushed it mechanically in the red ceramic ash tray. For a moment she sat there staring at the ash tray and its contents. Half a dozen cigarettes in less than an hour. Too muchshe couldn't afford to keep it up at that pace. But it was this confounded sitting around and just waiting with nothing to do to keep her busy- that's what drove her almost batty and kept the ash tray filled. Just sit here in this dingy, dirty, little apartment and wait. For what? For some knotheaded editor to look down from his throne and say, in a deep, kindly, fatherly tone, "We like your work, Miss Henderson. Our' check is enclosed."? Ha! Don't be a dunce, she told herself angrily. Look at your pile of rejection slips. Dream a dream like that, and you're only riding for a fall. Better not to think about it at all, but it was hard not to. She got up from the lumpy, faded .couch and jammed her fists deep in the pockets of her worn tan pants. She .looked about in distaste. The room was fairly large, but badly lighted because the huge maple tree outside blocked the only window. She lived on the top floor of the 5 �house, and the ceiling sloped crazily in places where the roof angled. The furniture had a cast-off unwanted appearance, and no piece matched another ~ The once-bright red print slipcover of the couch vied with the plumes and flowers in the wallpaper. The rug was the only thing that didn't clamor for attention; it was a sad, tired brown, worn by a steady procession of changing tenants. What was there about this hole that had looked so charming about a couple of months ago? An attitude, she decided. An Idea. Two months ago, she'd been naively hopeful, radiant with aspirations, eager for independence. N ow she was wide awake in the cold, cruelly aware of reality. Yes, she'd waked up all right, just as if someone had slapped her on the face. So there it is, kid. Two months ago, you were filled with an Idea. You wanted to get to know the World. You had a message. Well, you found out what the world is like, and it's not pretty, is it? And the only message that gets through is the sound of your stomach growling. Not a very pretty picture, is it? Write that up, why don't you? Be another Jack London-make the world weep with your tale of woe! Rubbish! She kicked at the couch with a sneaker-clad foot. "Ouch! Oh darn!" she muttered, remembering too late that the drooping fringe hid a sturdy wooden leg. She rubbed the aching toe against her other leg. Nadine stalked out to the tiny kitchen, jiggled the coffee pot to see if there was any left, and lit the gas under it. She rinsed a heavy white mug under the faucet, filled it with coffeee, and carried it to her writing corner in the living room. ' The ancient L. C. Smith typewriter sat on the battered oak table, surrounded by disorderly piles of paper and scattered pencils and erasers. The wastebasket overflowed with crumpled-up papers, ideas that hadn't come to fruit. Nadine pushed the papers to one side to make room for her coffee cup. She felt for her cigarettes in the pocket of the heavy wool plaid shirt she wore-a welcome hand-me-down from her older brother, Douglas. She'd brought the shirt with her when she left home back in Iowa. It was somehow a comfort to wear it, a tie to her life back there. The breaking away had been neither easy nor painless. "What do you want to go traipsing off to California for?" her father had demanded when Nadine told them of her plans. "Can't you do your writing closer to home, if you think that's what you have to do?" He just couldn't see that she had to get away from them all. She certainly didn't hate them, heaven only knew, but she had to see things for herself, try to see them as they really were, and not be forever guided by someone else's thinking. Her mother had taken the news a little more calmly. "Of course we'll miss you terribly," she told Nadine. "But it's your life and your decision to make. Just remember, you can always come home if things don't work out to suit you." So here she was, in her second month in her miserable little $40-amonth, third-floor walk-up hole, wishing with all her heart that she could drop everything and run home. But she couldn't do that, and she knew it and was all the more miserable for knowing it. 6' �Even if her father said nothing about her venture, she still couldn'~ give up and quit yet. It would mean having to admit that she had failed, and she couldn't bring herself to face that fact just yet. By keeping doggedly at her work, she could avoid the inevitable bitter truth-that she was an utter flop as a writer. Nadine gulped the strong, hot coffee and made a face. You're also a nogood at making coffee, she told herself. But it helped to clear her mind a little, and she could look at herself more realistically. It's time to take stock of myself, she decided. Here I am, a 21-year-old girl who thinks she wants to write. Assets? One L. C. Smith typewriter, 21 years old, a month's rent ahead on the hole, assorted clothing and the like, and-she paused to do some hasty figuring o:r:t a scrap of paper- a bank account of $65.24. With careful planning, she could easily go for another month or so. Liabilities,? Nothing tangible, really. Only things like lack of experience. Nadine stopped to reflect on this last bit. Maybe that was the root of all her difficulties-a lack of experience in almost everything including life itself. What did she really have to write about? Only her own life, which had been shaped by school and family. Nadine realized the importance of the break she'd made to come to California. Oh, it needn't have been California. Any place would have been all right. Her father had had a point, but she hadn't seen it. The main thing was that she had to get out and see things for herself and not listen to someone else telling about what he had seen. But it didn't happen overnight. She knew now that she'd expected too much too soon. You absorbed it gradually, almost without knowing it. Which brings us up to now, she thought, and the fact that I'm hungryor soon will be. Obviously you can't keep body and soul together by writing, so you'll have to think of something else. You may have to swallow a lot of pride, old girl, but for a while at least, you'll have to put the Idea on the shelf and turn to more menial labor. It was surprising how even this small decision made her plight seem less desperate. Nadine remembered seeing three or four ads in yesterday's paper for secretarial help. She was a good typist-she certainly should be able to fill one of those jobs. Today she would seek work, and if necessary, tomorrow and the day after. And she really wouldn't be neglecting her Idea. She'd have a chance to soak up life, storing away her knowledge for future use. With a lighter heart than she'd had for weeks, Nadine straightened up the clutter of papers on the table, dropped the cover on the typewriter, and gave it a pat. Goodby, old friend, but not for long. She picked up the empty coffee mug and walked out to the kitchen. Martha Ruth Chute The insistent rapping at the front door roused Martha from her ' light sleep, and she sat up quickly on the bed. Better go see who it was- guess they won't give up. She yawned as she got up from the bed and shuffled out to the living room in her flopping bedroom slippers. 7 �As she moved to the door, she glimpsed the short stout figure on the door step through the curtained window and stopped short. Oh, no! That looked like the welfare lady- she never could remember her name. Why did they always have to come around when you least expected them? The house was a mess, and she was a mess and- she wished she had enough nerve to not go to the door. But she pushed the impulse down- after all, the welfare lady was a busy person, and she couldn't just come to see people when it was convenient for them. Martha quickly smoothed her mussed hair and straightened her dress and opened the door. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson." Olive McIlhenney stood on the narrow step, warmly buttoned up in her heavy brown coat. "I was just about to leave. I began to think no one was home." "No- I was lying down for a while." Martha smiled nervously. "My back's been bothering me again, so I was just lying down. Oh- don't stand here in the cold. Please come inside." Olive McIlhenney stepped into the small living room. She tried not to look too obviously at the clutter of papers and magazines and toys all around her. "You can sit down here if you like, Mrs. MacKelley." Martha scooped up the newspapers from the seat of the big chair. . "Mcllhenney," Olive corrected her. "Thank you." She gingerly sat down on the chair, but did not lean back. She wished the woman would stop flitting about so- it made her nervous. It seemed that many of her clients acted like this when she called on them Briefly, she wondered why. Olive opened her notebook. "How have you been, Mrs. Hudson. Have things been going well for you? Now then, if we can just quickly run through your household expenses- I hope you have your receipts handy?" "Uh- yes, I think I know just where I put them." Martha went to the desk and rummaged in the pigeonholes until she found the large envelope in which she kept her light bills and the grocery tickets and the fuel oil bills. Olive quickly flipped through them and jotted the figures down in her notebook. "Mmhmm. Mrs. Hudson, I see that your food bills are running up again- you're creeping over the line, and you know that just takes it away from some other item in the budget." She looked earnestly at Martha through her round rimless glasses. "I know it's hard, Mrs. Hudson, but try to remember that it's not like being on your own with a good income- you have to watch the budget aU the time. There just isn't room for luxuries." A silent protest rose inside Martha, but she said nothing. It was hard, trying to make do on what little the welfare check amounted to, but nobody had any ideas on how to do it any better. Olive remembered to ask about the children. Stress family relationships, the manual said. Remember that maintaining family unity is essential. Martha's face lighted up as she spoke of the children. "Janie's teacher says she's doing much better now in reading. She brings books home from the library, and she reads out loud to us a lot. I think that helps, don't you? · Oh- and Freddie's started doing long division in arithmetic now. He says he likes it-can you imagine that? I'm real proud 8 �of him. You know, I kind of hope he'll take after his father. Fred was real handy at figures- no telling how far he could have gone with it if that sickness hadn't come on him so suddenly." She got up from her chair and rummaged in the desk again. "I've got the pictures of the children they had taken at school. Would you like to see them? Olive took the pictures and glanced at them briefly. "Very nice, Mrs. Hudson. You have two very fine children." She handed the pictures back to Martha and zipped up her notebook. "Well, I really must be going," she said. "Several more calls to make this afternoon." She buttoned up her coat and settled her brown felt hat more firmly on her head. Martha walked to the door with her. "I'm so glad you dropped in, Mrs. McKilney. I don't get much chance to visit with anyone. I'm sorry the house is in such a mess today, but my back's been so bad lately I just can't do much housework at a time." "Well, goodby, Mrs. Hudson. I'll see you again in six months. And if you have any problems before then, just call the office." Olive walked down the steps and over to her car. "Goodby," Martha called. She shut the door, and the pain started in her back again. There were always so many things she intended to tell the welfare lady when she came, but somehow she always forgot them when they were visiting, and anyway, the welfare lady was so awfully busy with all the other cases she had and the calls to make- it was no wonder she never had time to stay very long. She'd meant to ask her what she thought about flu shots for the children. Martha wondered if they were worth the expense, but she decided not to bother her at the office-they were so awfully busy there- no use burdening them with her little problems. It wasn't too important anyway. She'd try to remember to ask her the next time she came to the house. The pain in her back nagged again. She decided to try the hot water bottle on it and rest a while before Janie and Freddie came home from school. They would have something exciting to tell her, she was sure. My, but she was proud of them. If Fred could only see them now. The Disorganized Repairman David Crumley Martin Everyday was seated at the breakfast table. His morning eggs cooled in front of him, shielded by the folds of an open newspaper. He was dimly aware of words that came as from a distance, as pebbles cast against the cliff of news. "Martin, why must you read that newspaper at breakfast every morning? The very least you could do is wait until after your coffee. Every morning, every single morning . . . " Martin did not actually hear the words. He was engrossed in an article titled, "Your Government, a Study in Team Organization," authored . by 8 very wise and respected pundit. 9 �The echo continued. "I get up every morning, slave over your eggs and orange juice, do all I know how to do, just to see that your toast is right. You! What do you do? You hide behind ..." Martin was slightly bothered by the mosquito song from his wife. Hilda could be persistent at times. Martin was much more concerned with the lesson to be learned from his newspaper. It comforted him to know that his nation was in the hands of an efficient team. Martin could not discover, from the article, exactly who were the members of that team. Neither could he ascertain what they were trying to do, nor how they were going to do it. The article pointed out only two things. There was a team, and it was efficient. That was enough for Martin. The distaff solo was not ended. "Martin, you cannot continue to ignore me like this. You've got to make me a part of your life, to share with me all the ups and downs. After all, Martin, we are two married people, and that makes us a team!" Those words jarred Martin from his inattention. He wondered at their meaning, and if it could be that he was unfair to Hilda. He not only read a newspaper during breakfast, but there were other times and things which he did not share with his wife. Martin considered this, and decided that he had, indeed, been unfair. He resolved to, in the future, include her in every portion of his existence, to create a life in which they would be together. Martin made apology to his spouse, in a scene that was both emotional and lengthy. When he finally departed to catch his morning commuter, he had a pleased and happy Hilda, and he was late. At his business, he coupled that tardiness with a forenoon of inactivity. He was so full of ideas on how to realize the marital team that he could not bring himself to his duties as a jewelry repairman. The inaction did not escape notice. It was shortly after lunch when Martin received a call from his employer. Mr. Harness spoke to Martin in his office. "I see that you were late this morning. I intended to overlook that violation of employee policy, but your attitude today will not let me. You know it isn't our practice to continue a man who fails to show the proper spirit." Mr. Harness stepped close to Martin, placed an arm around the repairman's shoulders. "You've been with us a long time, my boy, and you know that it takes all of us to make things go. Now you return to your job, and remember," he slapped the words onto Martin's back, "We must all play our position on the team!" The workman returned to his repair-bench. He thought over Mr. Harness' lecture. Martin knew that he should feel uplifted, but he did not. Martin felt -small, something less than a man. Martin, so full of resolution that morning, did not hurry to his wife at day's end. He didn't know why, when he left work, but he felt he needed a drink. He entered a cocktail bar, and one by one, Martin had several drinks. Then he became intrigued by the conversation of two men who were seated next to him. He didn't catch all of the words. He heard only phrases, like, "We must create an image . . . the consumer . . . status symbol . . . all facets . . . the campaign . . ." Martin did not understand that conversation. He had no idea of its meaning, but the many obscure words were captivating. Martin stayed, eavesdropping, until the two men prepared to leave. He heard clearly the final words of the older, more aggressive of the two men. "All right, that sets up our complete advertising campaign. Now all we have to do is tie everything 10 �together, see that everyone works as a team!" The familiar words struck horne to Martin. They reminded him of the things he was supposed to be doing, and that he was not doing them. He rushed from the cocktail bar, and ran to catch his train. The train was not crowded. Martin stared out his window, but the many drinks had placed him in a sociable mood. When the conductor punched his ticket, Martin attempted to engage the man in conversation. For want of a better beginning, he made reference to the only subject which he knew to be of common interest. "This is a very nice railroad." The man did not answer, but Martin lisped more alcoholic words. "No, I mean it. And you, sir, run a very nice train." The conductor showed Martin an indulgent smile as he moved away. "Well, now, that's very nice of you. You know though, I'm just a cog in the team." The conductor settled in another part of the train. Martin would gladly have talked further, but the man did not return. Martin satisfied himself, instead, by letting their short communication echQ and re-echo in his head. It continued to do this, without let-up, until Martin arrived at his station. Martin entered his living room to an immediate tirade from Hilda. "Martin! Where in the world have you been? You had me worried sick! Not only that, but you know very well that tonight, qf all nights, was the meeting of our Lawn and Garden Planning Association. That's a very important organization, and we should all get behind it, be loyal, working members of the . . ." He shot her. Destiny Joanne Johnston Sumac flamed the rugged slopes, tinged deep brown by the summer SUD. Maple trees dotted the hill, which rose, sharp and spur-like, to crest above low-hanging autumn clouds. Sunlight, slanting through the dappled maple leaves, bronzed the sorrel coats of two saddled horses, flecked with sweat; heaving, standing with reins down. The large sorrel, raw-boned and shaggy, shifted restlessly. The other horse, wiry, small, hungry-ribbed, sniffed the wind and nickered. A few yards away, two boys sat in the yellow-bleached bunch grass. Sharp-roweled spurs gleamed in the sun as the smaller towheaded boy sprawled flat on the ground. "Say, Jimmy, them sure is some spurs you gotcher self," said the blackhaired boy. "Whatcha gonna use 'em for?" "You know, Sam," Jimmy chuckled. "I'm going to train Fleas to be a ropin' horse." . "Aw, don~t horse me around, Jimmy," Sam's black eyes laughed. "You know your Dad says she's too small." "Well, he doesn't know. Anyway, she weighs 900. I took her to the stockyards in Sioux City once, and she weighs all of 900." "Yeh, Jim, but 900 ain't heavy 'nough for ropin' steers." "Who said steers? I'm going to rope calves." ,, l..l �"Yeh, Jim, but there ain't much call t' rope calves on a ranch, 'cept at brandin'. It's the steers what need doctorin' all year 'round." "Well, I'm not going to stay on a ranch all my life, you know. I'm going to rodeo." "Rodeo? You'd better not letcher Dad catch ya sayin' that!" "He doesn't have to know. Anyway, Buzz says I'll make a good roper." "Aw, what's that old saddle tramp know 'bout ropin', anyway?" "Buzz isn't a saddle tramp." Jimmy sprang up from the ground. "At least, he hasn't always been a saddle tramp. He used to rodeo." "Boy, you'd better not letcher Dad find that out!" "Dad doesn't know," Jimmy huffed, "and he isn't going to far as I'm concerned. That is, unless you tell him." "You know me better'n. that, Jim." "O.K." "But I still say he couldn'ta been much good or he wouldn'ta turned saddle tramp." "He was good! He just got hurt, that's all." "Yeh, that's whatcher Dad says. He says every fool what rides rodeo ends up gettin' throwed by a crazy-headed bronc or gored by one a them Brahmas. He'd sure brand that Buzz 'n make a stray outa him quick if'n he knew he was a rodeo tramp." "Buzz isn't a tnimp! Why, one year he even won the title!" "What title?" "World's champion calf roper, that's what!" "Well, your Dad still 'ud run him offa the place if he knew. 'Specially since your brother Tom got it from that bull in Cheyenne." "Tom would have made champion if he hadn't been killed! You should have seen him ride, Sam. He'd sit those bulls like he was riding an old Shetland pony. He could spin faster than any spinning bull, and everybody that saw him ride said he had championship class." "Yeh. Well, you'd better not letcher Dad catch ya, that's all." Sam admired the spurs. "Can I touch 'em, Jimmy?" "Sure." Jimmy proudly lifted a booted foot. "Hey!" Sam jerked his finger back and grimaced. "Them rowels sure is sharp!" "Yep," Jimmy smiled. "That's what makes old Fleas get out and stretch." "Well, you sure did outrun me," Sam laughed. "And on that pint-sized mare, too!" "Don't you say it, Sam!" "I gotta say it. I can't help it. Nobody else in the whole state a South Dakota rides a mare-Ieastways, not when his Dad's got plenty a good geldings." "Darn it, Sam, you know Dad won't let me use his Quarter horses. He's afraid I'll use 'em for ropin'." "Ain't that one on him? He'd never figure you could do much offa that little mare, huh?" "Nope." "Only, Jim, there's one thing bothers me." "What's that?" 12 �"That little mare. Ain't she kinda nervous t' be usin' spurs on? -Leastways, them spurs?" "She can take it." "You seen much rodeo since your brother got it, Jim?" "Dad won't go, but I snuck off to one at Deadwood once." "Yeh? Didja have fun?" "Sure. And I met Tibbs." "You mean Casey Tibbs?" "Yep." "Wow! How many times has he been champ now?" "I stopped counting, Sam. More than anybody ever, Buzz says." "Well, I guess I'd better be gettin' home t' chores, Jim. Meetcha here tomorrow." Sam rose, caught his big sorrel gelding, and swung lightly into the ~addle. "Hey, Sam, wait a minute! Let's have a race." "Now, Jim, these horses are pretty done in." "What's the matter, Sam? Afraid my mare can beat you?" "No mare can beat old Baldy!" "That's the fellow, Sam. Now, it's about as far to my place as to yours, so we'll race for home, and if I phone your place first, I win." "0. K., Jim. But no scrubby mare can beat old Baldy." "Scrubby, huh? We'll see about that!" "Hey, Jim, I'll make you a real bet." "What?" "If your mare don't beat me, you'll have t' promise never t' rodeo. If your mare makes it~ I'll give ya a gelding from my Dad's string." "That's a bet!" Jimmy vaulted onto his mare. "Ready ... Set ... Tum 'em out!" Sam's gelding started with a powerful surge. Jimmy slapped the spurs to his mare. "Run 'em down, Fleas!" The mare shot ahead and flashed past the big gelding. "See, Sam!" Jimmy hooted. He dug the mare again. The sharp rowels gleamed in the sun. "Hey, Jim! Look out!" The mare coiled like a tight spring, shot sunward, and uncoiled as she hit the ground. "Jim, your spur's tangled! Hang on!" Sam spurred his gelding toward the crazed mare, but reined in with a jerk as Jim fell half off. His spur tangled in the cinch. The mare lurched wildly forward, dragging the screaming boy. When Sam finally overtook the mare two miles from the starting point, she stood quietly in a patch of sumac, heaving and white with lather. Blood flowed from her side, where the spur had torn flesh from bones. Jimmy's mangled body lay nearby. The shiny rowels gleamed red in the sun. Arsenal Joanne Johnston I'll never forget him. It was the first day of the fall term. He paused in the doorway. He was short, pudgy, and ugly- utterly unlovable. 13 �A slingshot bulged out of his back pocket. Right away, I recognized potential in that boy! He looked around with the stupid, woebegone air of a lost puppy. "Is this sixth grade English?" "Yes, it is. Come in, turn in your arsenal, and sit down." "M y- uh- what?" "Arsenal. " "How much will one cost?" I couldn't help laughing. "You know," I said, "your weapon." "Weapon ?" "The slingshot." "Oh!" He forked it over. "Sit down." He shuffled to the back of the room and tried to squeeze into an undersized seat. "Not back there. Up here right in front of me." He managed to wriggle into the widest seat in the room. "There. That's better. Now we can see one another better, can't we?" I insinuated, but I don't think he caught it. "I...guess so." He gave me a cold stare. I returned the compliment. We were off to a good start. Establish empathy, but scare them the first day! That's the way to do it. Yep! Only- he didn't look too scared- just hostile. There goes my empathy. Have to establish rapport later- after I've engrained fear. Yep! That's the first day. Yep! The rest of the little hoodlums filed in. I assigned them numbers on the seating chart, put them in desk-cells, and sent them out to chop rock- to read Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." They all groaned. "Oh, no!" one fellow whispered, "not poetry!" Fatty, the slingshot boy, magician-like produced a rubber band and was just taking aim when I snapped, "You! Slingshot Pete! Open your book and memorize the poem on page ten." Everybody laughed- except Fatty. "You see, I have an arsenal, too." "You mean you've got my slingshot." "No, I've got your rubber band." I snatched it. "Now get busy and memorize that poem." "How come they don't have to?" "They didn't bring an arsenaL" "You mean a slingshot?" "No. A rubber band." Fatty roared. His whole frame shook like (to use a cliche) a bowl of jelly. I laughed, too. Then the whole class parroted us. From then on, Fatty and I had an understanding. We knew exactly where we stood. And neither of us liked standing barefoot in an icy puddle. The memory of that year in the icy puddle has thawed some in twenty years. We've been through a world war, and I've seen duty in many classroom skirmishes. I saw Fatty- Jim- Iast week. He blustered into my apartment. "Hello, Miss McCracken!" "Sit down, Jim." "Front seat?" 14 �"Yes." "Where you can watch me better?" "Of course." "My pocket's still bulging." "So it is." I regarded him silently for a moment. I stared coldly. "Well!" "Well what?" "Aren't you going to turn in the-" "The arsenal? Sure. Here." He emptied one pocket. Wallet. . .comb. . .handkerchief. . .newspaper clipping...pocket knife ...two green earrings... "Whose earrings?" "My wife's." "Where's the arsenal?" "There-right there." "Come on! Turn it all in." "Oh, all right." Pencil ... notebook ... slide rule . . . rubber band. . . purple heart . . . "That's it? All of it? The whole arsenal?" "Yes." "Where's the slingshot?" "Don't you remember? You still have it. You never gave it back." Bus Ride Joanne Johnston It was a routine Friday night, except for the heavy rain. Hank Rewey drove his bus toward the river bridge on the eleven o'clock run. "Well, Jim, how's the cafe business?" Hank asked the dripping passenger in the front seat. "Slow, Hank, slow. Doggone rain." Jim leaned forward, and his voice assumed a confidential tone, "Say, Hank, you've been holding out on me. Who's the girl?" "Girl ?" "Ya. You know, Hank- the girl. The only other passenger on this clinker. The hour-glass blonde." Jim laughed, "Remember now, Hank?" "Sure, Jim, except I can't help you much. Never hauled her before. Think she came from the Orpheum." "Alone?" "Guess so." "Well, now!" The bus barreled onto the bridge, and Hank Rewey muttered, "Nuts." Below, the surging water seemed to seethe and boil as it hit the timbers of the bridge, swelled into great foamy waves, and then cascaded past. "Damn bridge," Rewey said. "Figure it'll go out before morning, eh, Hank?" "That's for sure." Rewey looked relieved when they left the bridge behind. "Anyway, it's o. k. for now," Jim said flatly. "Think I'll desert you, Hank," he laughed, "She's quite a dish." He started to get up. 15 I �He sprawled forward as Hank hit the brakes, lurching the bus to a stop. "Hey, Hank, what kind of driving- " He grabbed a hand-hold. "It must be three feet deep!" The headlights shone on a swirling, seething mass of inky water. Rewey muttered,"It's over a block wide." "And then some, Hank. What you gonna do?" "Only thing I can. Turn 'er around." Rewey backed the bus slowly. "Hey, Hank, did you hear that?" "What?" "Stop this rig!" Rewey killed the engine. Then they both heard it. It sounded like a low moan, like a mammoth tree creaking in the night wind. Slowly the eerie moan grew louder. "What is it? the girl's voice came, high and trembling. "Shut up." Then she heard it- a distinct, sharp moan. "Sounds like lightning hitting a tree." "No I think it's- " Thr~e sharp cracks split the air, and the moan became a roaring, tearing sound. "Gawd, the bridge!" There was a deafening rumble, the very earth seemed to shake, and a wailing shriek- like a human in pain-pierced the air. The bridge behind them yielded to the rampaging river. "She's out." "Gawd!" "Well, there's only one way now." Rewey put the bus in gear. "Will she make it, Hank? That water's at least three feet-" "She'll have to." The bus lumbered forward animal-like, seemed almost to hesitate, then plunged into the water. It seemed to swim along, gliding smoothly. "It's downhill, Hank. The worst part's under the trestle. Will she do 'er?" "Has to!" Rewey hit the floorboard, and she barreled through the deep water under the ·train trestle. "We're clear! That's the way, Hank! Come on, old baby!" A loud groaning buried Jim's monologue. The engine coughed, sputtered, coughed, died. The lights went out. "Gawd!" The blonde groped her way forward. "Driver, I can't swim." Rewey grimaced. "How 'bout you, Jim?" "Not a stroke." "Great!" Outside, the current rushed. Rain fell in black, shroud-like sheets. "You got a match, Jim?" "Ya, I think so ... ya. Here." "Good." Rewey rummaged in his tool box. "Now if I can just find that flashlight. " "Oh look!" the girl cried. "The water!" The water gleamed blackly as it seeped in through the door, bubbled, and slowly rose to floor level. 16 �Jim's match flickered and died. "Another one, Jim!" "Ya. Here. Got it." The two passengers watched silently as Rewey groped . through the box. "It's here," Rewey said. Just then, the match burned out. Rewey turned on the flashlight. "Isn't that the bowling alley up ahead, Hank?" "Here. Take this, Jim, and start signaling." ~'Where you going, Hank?" "For help." Rewey pried open the front door. "What's the matter, Hank?" "Too deep to swim-too f8et." They saw branch~ and debris in the rushing water. "Gawd! Close the door, Hank!" "Give me a hand." "There . . . Got it, Hank!" The girl had the flashlight. "Shall I keep signaling?" "No. Turn it off. There's no one there." The water rose slowly, lapping hungrily around them. They huddled together at the front of the bus. The water licked greedily at the seats. Outside, hail began to fall, battering the bus roof. "Climb on top of the seat." Jim told the girl, "and take off those high heels." She obeyed meekly. "Hank, let's try yelling." The men opened the front door. "Now! One . . . two . . . three . . . Yell!" Their powerful chests heaved as they strained together, but the wind seemed to pick up their cries and toss them down into the murky water. "Gawd! Shut the door, Hank. Hurry!" The men sweated and strained. "Got it." "Hang on, girl. Hang onto the pole." Jim barked. "She's going!" The bus seemed to shudder and to rise up beneath them. A siren wailed. "There goes the flood whistle, Rewey. Just in time!" "Oh, we're floating!" the girl screamed. Jim scrambled onto the seat beside her. "Hang onto me." "Oh ... oh ... " the girl moaned as she clutched Jim desperately. "Easy," Jim said. The bus floated slowly, then faster ... faster ... faster. "Oh," the girl screamed, "we'll float into the river!" "No." Rewey growled, "the base of the train trestle should stop 'er." The bus hit the trestle, lurched wildly, then came to an abrupt, sickening halt. Jim felt the girl trembling. "It's o. k. now," he said, but he saw that the water was rising fast. Already, as they stood on the seat, it lapped around their waists. "Jim," help me pry the back door open. I've got to try it." "Gawd, Rewey, you'll never-" "Shut up and help me." The two men forced the door open. The water was rising faster. "Rewey! Look!" They saw them. Only a few hundred feet away. A large crowd. On the dry bank of the trestle. "Help. Gawd. help us!" From somewhere above them on the trestle, a deep voice boomed, "How many are in there?" 17 I �"Three. One's a woman." "Can you swim?" "N0,. only one of us." "All right. Hang on a little longer. We're going after ropes." It rose. Chest-- igh ... The minutes stretched- four . . . five ... six ... seven ... h "Gawd, Rewey, tell 'em to hurry!" "Hurry!" Rewey cursed and muttered. Suddenly, the bus swayed and lurched. "Gawd! She's tearing loose!" "No, no. She's holding ..." Rewey yelled. "You up there--help! Hurry!" The sound of footsteps echoed on the bus roof. A half-naked man leaned over th~edge and boomed, "Let's get her out of there first." "Thank Gawd." Jim pushed the girl forward and into the water. "Got her?" "0. K." "Don't ... let ... me go," the girl cried, " . . . the . . . current ... " "It's all right," the man boomed, "I've got you." He grasped her arms, half lifting and half dragging her onto the bus roof. "Hurry," Rewey urged. "Hope this rope holds," the man bellowed. "0. K., come on." He hoisted the other two onto the bus roof. They crawled across the slippery tin and climbed a ladder to the train trestle. Seconds later, they stood on the dry bank as the midnight express roared across the trestle. The bus was completely submerged in the floodwater. T he Lost Instinct Sandra Shattuck Lois Randolph placed the sleeping baby back into his crib. She had been following his feeding schedule exactly as the doctor had instructed. She certainly didn't want anything to go wrong with the baby; it would just add to her problems. She left the nursery and walked downstairs to the kitchen. While rinsing out the baby bottle, many thoughts passed through her mind. She missed her job as a newspaper reporter for the Baltimore Globe. She missed all the unique adventures and the travel which were the interesting part of the job. With the arrival of the baby, she had had to leave her career. David was now three months old, and, it seemed, the older he grew, the more trouble he became to her. Lois had read many books on the care of babies, and what's more, she did very well in seeing that the material needs of the infant were satisfied. But it was not until the last couple of months that he had started progressing as he should. He had been examined by the doctor and nothing physically wrong had been found. He just hadn't grown very much. But now he was doing better and down deep inside she knew the reason. It was just a matter of convincing herself. After retiring to a chair in the living room, Lois picked up a magazine and turned to an article which she thought would be interesting. But she was unable to concentrate. Her husband, Don, wouldn't be home for another 18 �week. His job prevented him from being home during the week and so they saw each other only on the weekends. Don and Lois had much in common. They both loved to travel and could not stand to be in one place for any length of time. And he, like Lois, wasn't particularly enthusiastic over the arrival of the baby. He wasn't home enough so that he could feel the baby was a real part of him. But he did have to admit that being a father did have its advantages in dealing with people. Just displaying the baby's picture and discussing his little family did miracles in his sales technique. Lois had to admit frankly that their marriage was not very happy, but it was comfortable and secure. She did have a deep fondness for Don. as she was sure he did for her. But it was by mutual understanding throughout the five years of their married life that they had retained their separate careers and income. Moreover, having the baby did not help the situation any- not as far as they were concerned. Suddenly, she heard the doorbell ring. She opened the door and ushered in a little woman in her late thirties. "Come in, Mrs. Kuck. I'll put your coat in the hall closet. Well, the house is just a mess, so you can start cleaning anytime." "Okay!" replied Mrs. Kuck, who was a widow and had been the Ran· dolphs' housekeeper for many years. "By the way, Mrs. Kuck, can you clean the baby's room last? I think he will be awake for his feeding about the time you finish the rest of the house. Then you can straighten up his room while I feed him in the kitchen." "Fine. How is little David gettin' along?" asked the housekeeper. "He's fine, just fine." "He's such a beautiful baby and I just love to play with him. You know, Harold and I only had the one child and we were so broken up when he passed away. Now I wish that when Harold was alive we could have adopted some children. But we didn't. Well, I run on so! I'll start cleanin' upstairs." Mrs. Kuck then left the room. Lois was very fond of the little lady. She was a wonderful person; she was also a very diligent worker. Mrs. Randolph soon fell asleep on the sofa, and she must have slept for quite some time. For when she awoke, she found Mrs. Kuck tiptoeing about the living room as she cleaned. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Kuck, for being in your way," replied Lois as she rose from the couch. "Now you just lie back down. You weren't botherin' me at all. In fact, I was being careful so I wouldn't wake you." "Well, it's time for the baby's feeding, so I had better get busy." Lois then walked back to the kitchen and started preparing the utensils for the necessary chore. "Mrs. Randolph, I've finished all of the house except the nursery." "That's fine. Now, Mrs. Kuck, you just come right in here and we'll have some coffee and cookies. David will be awake soon and you can start on his room then." "That's very nice of ya!': The little woman sat down at one end of the table while Mrs. Randolph sat at the other. "Ya know, Mrs. Randolph, you sure do have a lot of things for David. Babies nowadays have everything. I bet you really enjoy taking care of him." "Yes," replied Lois in an unenthusiastic tone. 19 �"I think I hear him crying now. Should I go see?" "Yes! And if he is, then bring him down, will you?" "Okay!" Mrs. Kuck eagerly ran upstairs and slowly opened the nursery door. She looked down into the crib. "He's such a pretty baby," she thought. "Oh, your diapers need changing. We'll just take care of that, Davie boy." The small baby stopped his crying and smiled up at the woman's gentle face. She continued to talk to him while she made him comfortable and then brought him downstairs. His face beamed because of all the attention he was getting. "Here's the bottle, Mrs. Kuck. Would you like to feed him?" "I sure would!" And the little lady put the nipple of the bottle in his mouth while she continued her baby talk. She felt a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to hug him just as tight as she could. Now she imagined that David was her child, and Mrs. Randolph was the next door neighbor who had just come over to have coffee with her. After finishing his bottle, the baby responded to the fondling which he received from the woman and then finally fell asleep. "Just put him there on the sofa, Mrs. Kuck. I'll watch him while you clean the nursery." "Okay, Mrs. Randolph." After some time, the housekeeper came downstairs. "I've finished the room now. Shall I put David back into his crib?" "You certainly may," answered Lois. The little lady carefully carried the child upstairs and placed him in the crib. While she stood looking down upon the small bundle of innocence, she thought about the number of years she had worked for the Randolphs. Now, this little infant had brought a whole new interest into the housekeeper's life. She could hardly wait until the next time she could be with him. She was growing up with this small baby. She was growing in love. Mrs. Kuck walked out and slowly closed the door. . Lois was in the kitchen doing dishes when the woman entered. "The baby's sound asleep, Mrs. Randolph." "That's fine!" "Well, now that my work's done, I'll be on my way." "Mrs. Kuck, will you sit down? I want to talk to you. I have suddenly realized how much you think of David. Also, I believe the baby is very fond of you; perhaps more so than his own mother." "But - " "N o! Let me finish. It may be quite a shock to you, Mrs. Kuck, but 1 miss my career and I am bored just staying at home. I love my baby in my own way, but I'm not satisfied just being a mother. I want to hire you as a nurse for my baby. You will live here in the house. I'm sure we can come to some arrangement as to the amount of salary. Don and I are fairly well off, so we can afford a nurse in our home. What do you say, Mrs. Kuck?" "You are serious?" "You know I am. What is your answer?" "I accept, of course! I love your baby as much as I loved my own." "It's settled then. You can take the guest room next to the nursery." "What about Mr. Randolph?" asked Mrs. Kuck. "I have discussed the matter with him and he thought it a very good idea. I just didn't know if you would accept the position. I guess I was 20 �afraid you would say no. I have called my former boss, and he said that I can start back on the job next week if I like." "You're sure this is what you want?" replied Mrs. Kuck. "Very sure. I certainly have had quite some time to think it over. Just so we are both happy. I guess my instincts are not of the maternal kind. All right, it's all settled. I'll expect you the first part of next week. " That Isn't George - George Jules Smith Willie Jones was a very handsome and intelligent boy. He was seven years old, had bright red hair, and was short and stocky. Willie lived with his Aunt Bertha and Uncle George, for his folks were killed in a mountain climbing accident when he was an infant. Willie's Aunt Bertha was a big woman in her late forties. She was very jealous of Willie. Often she would complain about his behavior at dinner and the trouble he caused her. Willie loved his uncle. He seemed to ignore everything his wife said about Willie and always treated him as if he were his own son. Every day he would spend some time with Willie. When Willie's parents had the accident, Uncle George was the first relative to volunteer to be his guardian. "Hurry Willie, Uncle George will be here in just a few minutes to take you to the zoo. I can't understand why he fusses with such a boy like you," said Aunt Bertha. "Ouch, that hurts," cried Willie, as his aunt tried to hold him still while she brushed his hair. "Hello, is Willie ready?" called Uncle George as he walked into Willie's room. "Hello, Uncle George," said Willie. "Willie, for the last time, will you stand still so I can get your hair combed?" begged Aunt Bertha. "Has he been a good boy today?" asked Uncle George. "No, he hasn't. This morning at breakfast he didn't eat his mush and I had to throw it away. George, this kid is going to be the death of me yet. I can't take it from him any longer. I think we should send him to the bad boys' home. They have better boys there than Willie," replied his aunt. "Please, Uncle George, don't send me to the bad bays' home, please don't send me there, please," cried Willie. "Now, now, big fella, don't cry. Aunt Bertha is just upset and everything is going to be all right. Now stand still so she can finish helping you dress, and then we can go to the zoo," said George as he tried to comfort his neph. ew. When Willie was ready, Uncle George took him out to the car and they were off. "Uncle George." "Yes, Willie." "Please don't let Aunt Bertha send me to the bad boys' home." "No, don't worry, she won't." 21 I �. "My friend Semore told me that they give all the bad boys bread and water to eat." "Don't believe that, Willie. Has Semore ever been to the bad boys' home?" "No, but that's what his mother said." "Let's forget about the bad boys' home for awhile an.d have some fun." "But do you promise not to let Aunt Bertha sen.d me there?" "Yes, SOll, but just don't aggravate her." "What does aggravate mean?" "Bother or annoy." "What does annoy mean?" "Just forget it, Willie, and be a good boy." "Yes, Uncle George." "Well, here we are at the zoo." "Oh, boy, I can hardly wait to see the lions and the tigers." " Now hold on, let me first find a parking space." Uncle George drove into the nearest parking lot. He parked the car and took Willie and they began their tour. "Oh boy, Uncle George, look at that tiger. I bet the tiger is the meanest animal in the world. Do you remember that circus you took me to where this man went inside the cage with a whip and made those tigers do all kinds of tricks?" "Yes, Willie." "Say, Uncle George, I'm hungry, can I have a hot dog and a glass of lemonade? " "No, Willie, it will spoil your dinner." "Oh, please, Uncle George! I promise I will eat everything at dinner." "Well, all right, but you had better keep your promise or else I will really be in trouble with your aunt." "Oh, Uncle George, you're the best uncle in the world. I love you." "I love you too, son." . The sandwich and drink were purchased. From the look on the boy's face, his uncle realized that he had enjoyed every bit of it. "Let's get ready to go home, fella. It's been a long day and my legs are killing me. I think we've been around this zoo fifteen times and I feel I've had a good workout." "Can't we see the monkeys just once more?" pleaded Willie. "No, son, it's time to go." "All right, I'll race you to the car." Willie and Uncle George got into the car and started for home, George turned on the car radio and heard the newscaster give the final stock market returns. "I see where your towel company has gone up, young man," said Uncle George. "What does that mean?" asked Willie. "The towel company that you inherited is making more money." "Terrific, I love money." "You and me too," said Uncle George under his breath. Upon arriving home, Willie went directly to his room and began preparing himself for dinner. Being rather weary from the excursion to the zoo, 22 �like all boys, Willie was rather slow getting ready. Aunt Bertha was looking at the clock and becoming very impatient. . "Willie," she called from downstairs, "it's almost time for dinner." "I'm getting ready," answered Willie. "Willie. " Willie recognized that tone of voice and knew Aunt Bertha meant business; that he had better get dressed quickly and go downstairs. "Coming, Aunt Bertha." "Where have you been?" asked the impatient aunt. "Dressing." "How long does it take you to dress?" "I tried to get ready in a hurry." "Oh, 1 just bet you did. You probably sat in your room dillly dallying around like you usually do." "No, 1 didn't, Aunt Bertha." "Let's have dinner," interrupted George. "This bad boy shouldn't have dinner." "Now, now, dear, I'm sure Willie is sorry, and from now on he will come to the table faster. Won't you, Willie?" "Yes, Uncle George." "See, 1 told you so, Bertha." The dinner was served. Willie saw the meat, and sure enough it was liver smothered with a good helping of onions. He disliked liver and many times said so, but it didn't do any good. His aunt said that liver was good for growing boys, and there were many boys in the bad boys' home who would like very much to have a piece of liver. "Why aren't you eating your liver?" asked Aunt Bertha. "I don't like liver." "I suppose your uncle spoiled your appetite at the zoo buying you all kinds of junk, but then when it comes to a good, wholesome meal, you won't eat it." "Let the boy alone," said George. "The trouble with him is that we left him alone too often," replied Bertha. "Willie, will you please leave the room for awhile," asked his uncle. Willie excused himself and departed to his room. He sat on his bed and even with the door closed, he could hear yelling and sometimes even screaming. He decided to get down on the floor in order that he might hear the argument better, but it was no use. The rugs were too thick and filtered out the voices. After an hour's time, Uncle George came up to Willie's room and closed the door. "Willie, your aunt and I have decided that we are going to send you away to a military school." Willie began to cry. " Now, big fella, it isn't going to be that bad. In fact, you should enjoy it. You will meet many nice boys and you will even get to wear a soldier suit." "It won't be a soldiers' school, it will be a bad boys' school," cried Willie. . "Now, Willie, don't say that. Do you think your uncle would send you to a bad boys' home?" 23 �"No, but Aunt Bertha would." "No, she wouldn't. She loves you, Willie, just as much as I, and we are doing what we feel is best for you, son. I do hope you realize that. This weekend we are going to drive up to Mount Vernon Military School and you will he able to look around and meet some of the boys." "I don't want to go," shouted Willie in a rebellious tone. "Now son, your aunt and I made up our minds and we feel it is necessary and I'm sure you will enjoy it. Now why don't you come downstairs with me and I'll have the maid fix some sandwiches and a glass of milk?" "No, thank you, Uncle George. I think I will stay here in my room." Uncle George patted Willie on the head and went downstairs. Willie lay down on his bed and began to cry. After crying for almost two hours, he undressed and got himself ready for bed. The weekend finally arrived and Willie was dressed in his best suit for the visit to the military academy. His aunt decided not to make the trip, so Willie and his uncle departed by themselves. When they arrived at the acado emy they were greeted warmly by Colonel Hall, the head of the school. "Well, I suppose you are Willie." "Yes, lam." "Would you like to become a soldier?" "N0, sir." The colonel laughed and explained to Willie's uncle that he had many boys who felt like Willie when they first arrived at the school, but after a few weeks they became adjusted and learned to like the school as much as their own homes." "Is this the bad boys' school?" asked Willie. "No, it is not," replied Colonel Hall. "It is for boys who wish to become fine young men, and we only accept good boys." "Do you give the boys bread and water to eat?" asked Willie. "No, we don't," smiled Colonel Hall. Uncle George and Colonel Hall left Willie outside to wander around while they went into the colonel's office to discuss matters about enrolling Willie. In the meantime Willie saw many boys his own size in real army uni· forms and began to like the idea of coming to the school. "I can hardly wait until I start," said Willie to himself. After making the final arrangements Willie and his uncle were on their way home. Willie was very excited and was busy telling Uncle George all what he saw. "I am sure happy that you liked the school, Willie. Your father had it in his will that you should attend the academy when you reach your next birth· day. Since you are almost eight, I feel you are now able to take care of yourself." "Did they give you a suit for me?" "Yes, they gave me everything that you will need, and told me that you have to report there Monday." "Will Aunt Bertha miss me?" "Yes, and I will miss you too. If you ever get too lonesome, you can call home." "Gee, I must he lucky to go to such a school." "I hoped you would feel this way, Willie." 24 �After a long 'a nd interesting trip, they finally arrived home and Willie went directly to his room to get ready for dinner. Everything was done in a neat and orderly way and Willie was the first one at the dinner table. When his aunt came into the room, Willie very eagerly started to ten her all the facts concerning the school. "Do you know that Mount Vernon has a real neat cannon right in front of its gate and they even gave me a uniform to wear? It has one big stripe on the sleeve and it looks just like a real soldier suit." "I only hope that after you come back from that school you will learn to enjoy your home just a little bit more." "Now, Bertha, let's eat in peace. After all, the boy is leaving Monday, and he will have a tough time during his basic training," said George. Dinner was served. Willie found a small piece of steak on his plate and a helping of french-fried potatoes. The only part of the meal which did not meet his approval was a dish of asparagus. Willie made an attempt to eat the vegetable, but the taste seemed awful and he couldn't force himself to take any more. "Why don't you eat your vegetable?" asked Aunt Bertha. "I don't feel well," said Willie. "That's because of the lack of vegetables in your system." "May I be excused?" asked Willie. "You may," said Uncle George. Willie marched to his room and opened the box he was given at the military academy. He examined the uniform and noticed the shiny buttons and the big black belt which he would put around his waist. Willie tried on the cap and began saluting and pretending that he was a general in charge of a big invasion. After letting his imagination carry him away for awhile, Willie decided he was tired and that he had better get ready for bed before his aunt reminded him. Willie was almost asleep when he heard a knock on his door. "Who is it?" "Uncle George. Did I disturb you?" "No." "I wanted to tell you that everything you need is packed and Aunt Bertha will call you at seven. Goodnight, Willie." "Goodnight, Uncle George." The next morning Willie was awakened by his aunt. She gave him complete instructions to get himself ready and to make sure he cleaned his entire body. "While you are away at school I expect you to be a perfect gentleman; if not, Colonel Hall will send you to the bad boys' home," his aunt threatened. "Honest, Aunt Bertha, I'll be good." Willie was dressed and stood admiring himself in the mirror. He was very proud of his appearance and thought of all the fun he was going to have. He was even glad that he would not have to listen to Aunt Bertha's scoldings. The first day of school Willie went through the usual orientation. The next day he was moved into his barracks and was introduced to his roommates. 25 I �"So you are Willie?" asked a lad who looked older than the rest of the boys. "Yes, lam." "My folks knew your parents before they were killed." "Oh." "Who do you live with now?" "I live with my aunt and uncle." "I would sure hate to live with my aunt and uncle." "My aunt is a nice lady sometimes, but my uncle is the hest.~' "It is not like living with your own folks though." "Oh, yes it is. My uncle takes me all over." "I heard you are the owner of the Dundee Towel Company." "Sure, and every week it goes up on the stock market," said Willie proudly. "I suppose your uncle runs it for you?" "Yes, he does." "Boy, are you a sucker. You know what he is doing? He is trying to get control of it and force you out of it, but you're too dumb and too little to know anything about business." "I am not." Suddenly a cadet appeared who had listened to the conversation. "All right, you guys, knock it off and go to bed. The next guy who makes any noise will be on K.P. for the rest of the week." The lights in the barracks went off and all the cadets went to sleep. Willie could not sleep. He felt very lonesome, so he got up and went to Colonel HaU's office. "Colonel Hall, may I use your phone? I wish to call home." "Is there anything wrong, Willie?" "No, sir, but I have to call home." Colonel Hall understood. The first few days all the boys are lonesome and want to call home. He dialed the phone and handed it to Willie. "Hello, Uncle George." "Hello, Willie, what's the trouble?" "N othing, but do you love me?" "Sure, son, your aunt and I love you very much. Why do you ask?" "Thanks, Uncle George. Thanks a million. That's all I wanted to know. Goodnight. " "Goodnight, my boy." "I don't care what anyone says, I love my uncle and I always will, no matter what," Willie said to himself, trying to control his emotions. Weeks passed. Soon it was time for Christmas vacation. Willie put on his uniform and looked forward to seeing his uncle. His uncle finally arrived at the school and Willie ran to greet him. He threw his arms around Uncle George and gave him a big hug. Willie could tell his uncle had missed him. When they arrived home Willie was given a warm reception by Aunt Bertha. "Well, how is my favorite boy?" asked Aunt Bertha. <=- "I'm fine, Aunt Bertha, how are you?" "Just wonderful, son. I suppose you are hungry. I have hamburgers and shoe-string potatoes for you." 26 �Willie couldn't understand what was happening. Usually his aunt made him eat liver after a trip. "Dear Willie," his aunt said, "I missed you so much." "Willie," said Uncle George in a troubled voice, "I must tell you something." "What's wrong, Uncle George?' "You are not going to return to school. You are going to live with your other uncle." "Why?" questioned Willie. "I like living with you." "I know you do, son, but I have done something very wrong. I have embezzled money from your company so I could pay my gambling debts. The bank examiners found the shortage and I have to stand trial." Willie felt like crying, but he couldn't. "I just don't understand big people and some of the things they do," Willie said to himself. THREE POEMS by Ruth Chute Fisherman Stoutly he stands on the deck, Braced against a tossing, blowing gale, Covered head to toe in yellow oilskins In his hand the battered, stinking chub pail. His face, a craggy, weather-beaten rock, Shows the mark of years of sun and salt. His eyes, bright and deep in lines and creases, Search among the waves and never halt. Wait for a silver flash of fin To show him where to throw his chopped up bait, That will draw the swift, elusive herring Into the brown and heavy net he spread to wait. Empty House There it stands: empty, quiet, Devoid of all its peopled traits. Emptied of its generations of families. It stands silent, alone-and waits. Darkness lurks in its windows Age is peeling off its paint. An empty shell, it stands there, waiting, Crying a lonely, silent plaint. 27 �Alone In The Night And The Rain I walk in the cool darkness, The rain gentle on my face, not hard. I am alone in the quiet darkness, Save for a restless dog in some dark back yard, Who challenges me as I pass, What my mission is, what right I have to walk so near. I salute him silently and pass on by into the night. Ahead, a misty island Clusters close about the light, Its transparent, weightless substance Seeking solace in a dark and friendless night. Alone, I walk from island to island, Down a dripping path without an end, Alone in a world of dark and damp, Searching, as I go. for lights and sounds and frienm. Through The Shadow Of Night Richard Diamond I was walking through the shadow of night Cold, without prayer, and friendless. Running to hide from the light, On a path that seemed to be endless, Running from footsteps behind me, A crescendo on the walk. The less I believed in God The closer they seemed to stalk. I ran till I was breathless. Without faith I could not see. I looked around with fear. It was God pursuing me. TWO POEMS by Janna Dodge Night Not every day can be so glowing to feel the earth warm and bright. Not every lurking shadow as dark, as the darkest blue black of night. 28 �Spring What if no spring would come this year and none the great green of rebirth? With the death of hope of spring, 80 dies the summer of a lifeless earth. TWO POEMS by Marvin Essing Hitler As A Boy It was a warm and windy day. Dead leaves flew swiftly by, like starlings startled by a storm while scooting through the sky. A father, growling like a dog, exclaimed: "Get out, ya' nut! your mother doesn't want ya', boy, you're illegitimate." The boy left home, felt lost at school, and sat down in a slump. His head and shoulders both hung low like the handle of a pump. Then when the teacher slapped his face because he broke a bat, he said, "All people I shall rule and treat each like a rat." Spelling Out God "Eureka!" was the sculptor's shout, which followed with the spout: "God's face is shiny like a trout! I've finally found Him out!" "Eureka!" was the painter's cry, as he stopped his stroke to sigh: "God's face is white like mine and the sky! not dark like dirt or dye!" 29 I �"Eureka!" started the teacher's tale; "God's blink could break a nail, but His heart is larger than a whale, and He loves you' though you fail." They're ej ecting wind like a jet, but more than that, they're set on spelling God on high, and yet, they're using the wrong alphabet! SIX POEMS by Dave Evans Oh Time, Oh Life, Go Back, Go Back Oh time, Oh life, go back, go back, Oh where have my young days been? I've seen the smiles, I've seen the joys They're gone, they can't come back again. Oh time, Oh life, go back, go back, And where has that beauty been? Those dear that sparked my happy days, They're gone, they can't come back again. Oh time, Oh life, go back, go back, Oh where are those eyes that burn? I saw them then, the happy eyes, They're gone, they can't, they can't return. Oh time, Oh life, go back, go back, Look, what did the angels spurn? The simple ways, the little things, They're gone, they can't, they can't return. Oh time, Oh life, forget, forget, And bring me my sadness soon, And leave the frightful past a past, Move on, and grant this only boon. A Note Of Solace Each Each Each Each hour displays a better part, day some bird will sing. man contains a little art, year at least a Spring. 30 �A Thief Who Who Who Who robs Autumn of its life, steals the song from the lark, brings Winter, wound in strife, makes the Spring day dark? The Road Last night I lay lamenting life, Reclining in my bed, While wannish thoughts of endless woe Went winding through my head. And sinking off in silent sleep, Yet conscious, it would seem, I saw a child upon a road, So happy in this dream. And skipping now and then he went Expending all his might, And gayly shouting, gayly laughing, It was a joyous sight. The road was soft and beautiful And twisted through the wood; He loved the road, the wondrous road, And all was right and good. Beyond the hills, above the trees Was something better yet; And up the road he'd find the light, Beyond the red sunset. As time went on the road grew steep And left the ripening wood; Perpetual summer left the road, The boy his childhood. N ow ruts and pebbles bent his feet And slowed his rapid pace; The sky grew damp, the wind blew cold And slapped his second face. And up the road he saw no light, The clouds obscured the view; But golden meadows, russet leaves, Were all around, he knew. And wondering still about the light, He left the rotting way; And in the meadows, in the leaves. Again he found dismay. 31 I �Again the sky grew damp and dark, The wind blew hard and cold, A dullness lulled the meadows' life, The leaves, the man, grew old. Above the darkened clouds and sky, Beyond the withered wood, He saw the light he'd known before, His light of childhood. He longed for the distant light, He felt his life grow dim; The light, the road, he couldn't find, He died in search of them. The The The The wood, the light, have vanished now, . meadows' life is gone; leaves, the man, have perished since, road is all alone. My Father Used To Walk Alone In The Rain My father used to walk alone in the rain, When the town was stilled by tinkling silence With the raindrops sprinkling down Upon roofs, gardens and trees. My Father used to walk alone in the rain, When the mist of evening masked the hill And the stars, like muffled ghosts, Hung half-hidden in a dry, white heaven. My Father used to walk alone in the rain, When the whetted wind and softened sand Prevailed upon a plain Pregnant with peaceful melancholy. My Father used to walk alone in the rain, When the town was asleep, all the town Save my Father and the rain Made one by some unhappy miracle. My Father used to walk alone in the rain, My Father could look into the rain; I could not see him Unless I listened to the rain. 32 �Man Exiled in a speckled, timeless sea, On a world wrought in a dark domain Only meant for stars, or lights of stars, Is a man, desolate, lost, alone, A living grain lingering in winds, Dissolving in winds, wasting with time And dying exiled, a friend of night. Perhaps a flower will pierce that brain That lies loosening in the desert soil; Perhaps the sockets of that skull will house Other things of brief mortality, Dissolving in winds, wasting with time, Other than man, lost, alone, Man, the dream within a dream. Signs Of Spring Marilyn Higgins I noticed on the trees as I passed by Hundreds and hundreds of tiny round buds Each one a leaf-to-be in itself To clothe the bare brown twigs. As I continued on my way, A robin was busy at work picking weeds to mix with clay for a nest in a tree near by. The Land Of Tao-Much Diane Huntsinger Radio, hi-fi, television, Watch of white-gold for precision, Yet my daughter, in derision, Says that she lives in prison. Bike, clothes, spending-money, Rifle, dog, a horse named Sunny; Yet my son, looking quite funny, Says he'd rather his nose be runny. Mangle, maid, free afternoons, China, crystal, silver spoons, Yet my wife, in carefree tunes, Says, "No more meals for you at noons." 33 �Debts, scow Is, income tax, Little praise, and some wisecracks, Yet I come home to face the facts, "More money, Dad, you can't relax." To outdo Jones is their desire; Chauffeured Invicta and fine attire; Outside show: join the choir But sleep while parsons preach on fire. Listen, but don't pay much heed F or you are not the one in need. You've got a gold or silver bead; You don't need a Christian creed. And Why? Nancy Lewis He stands alone, a watchman of the night. The cursed dampness holding in his light. The rain has stopped, the barren corner's still. One's desolation bends him to its will. He feels the ache of loneliness inside, The bitter ache for which weak men have died. In the street the small pools of water stand Reflecting the dim light he gives for men. He gives in vain. He still remains alone With only dreams of some gay past he's known. His thoughts run back to times when lovers met Beneath his light. He still can hear them yet. The silly words, the promises and plans. They pledged their all to meet love's sweet demands. But that is past, the lovers come no more. The world is still- no laughter as before. And why? Does anybody know God's will? He does not know- He suffers and is still. He stands and waits, the rain begins anew. He is ·alone, and I am alone, too. 34 �SEVEN POEMS by Bradley Pietens Odyssey Reversed When John went marching off to war, His head held high, erect, and stem, He vowed he'd settle up the score And from the battle soon return. Each day that passed while he was gone, His mother said her beads in vain, His lover pined and wept till dawn, Oh, that he would return again! But time went on, surging ahead, Life sowed, death reaped its endless yield, And then the word that he was dead, Asleep on some far-distant field. Oh humble church where once this man Knelt down, like child, engrossed in prayer, Your sanctuary to employ, Your spire no longer rends the air. But in the humble yard beside, In shallow and unmarked grave, The heather, brier, and bramble hide The remnant of God's loyal slave. Death When touched by death's dark velvet wing, Unlike a piece of clay or sod, A moment of remembering, Before we see the face of God. In Absence Of A Title Behind a burst of cloudy fire, The sky-lark spirals ever higher, To trill a silvery offering Before the sun, his only king. 35 �Autumn I see old autumn standing there, In disillusion and decay, Dressed all in limp, bedraggled flowers, That bygone summer's cast away. House Of Death Sometimes a house, like man, will die, And on the hearth, cold ashes lie, An empty echo in each room, In darkness, morbid as a tomb. Futility I walked tonight in winter; The whole earth seemed to be A shroud for dead things, buried, Marked by only barren, gnarled trees. There was no color but the color Of death, grey snow, black sky, The wind moaned a funeral dirge, We walked alone, the wind and I. I am in darkness without a star, A spider's web in the night, Emotions poured out into a Bottomless crater of black fright. No urge within me but to lie Close to the earth. The dark, Violet gloom steadily closes about me, Snuffing out my futile spark. The Farmer What if the back is stooped, the skin dried, Tending the soil? The sun, wind, and rain Leave kindlier marks than avarice and pride Upon the countenance of man. One share of pain Had best be got from simple things, like drouth And dying plants, than from the real disease Of Selfishness, that puts upon the mouth A deformed smile, and whips our memories Until they burn. Oh! farmer, your plough and hoe· And the sweat you drop on the seedlings In the ground, 36 �Bring a harvest of abundant life to show; While we who are occupied the seasons round With cunning thoughts and schemes, become twisted And curved, Even as your back is. We have not seen the fruit Of life ripen, and having not served Our earth or ourselves, are lost and destitute. THREE POEMS by Beverly Tritle Expose Two young fools met in this cruel world And thought they were in love. An attraction so magnetic Surely must come from above. "I will be forever faithful," She promised him that day. "Never will I love another! With you I will stay." And truly, truly she did love; She learned a woman's art. Yet seldom did she really please And burdened was her heart. Then one day a lover beckoned And offered a huge sum; A life exciting, love responsive, And woe--she did succumb. So surely, surely toward the fate She chose; now on she goes. But judge her not! In time our acts All inner thoughts expose. Ripples We walked beside the lake, my lover and I. The night was calm; the water blue and still. Almost as if by accident, he stooped And tossed a pebble far and high. The surface, once so calm, was broken when One little splash began a ripple ring. Tiny little waves chased each other Until they vanished in the calm again. 37 �It was a pleasing thing, and so once more He tossed a pebble; then a larger stone. . I tried it too; we found the special ones That skipped far out from the shore. The ripple rings we started grew and grew. They met each other and they spread . Far out onto the lake; but that was alL Then it was calm; and the lake was new. A Woman This earth is a shambles Then, who with their own hands Harnessed such tremendous power, Destroyed it. And themselves with it. And here I stand; a woman With no understanding of the power That wrought such destruction; But could have brought bounteous plenty. A woman; but only skilled in the arts, Whose whole life until now Was a drama, and music, and beauty. Lovely to look at Lovely to hear A star with no audience now. A woman; alone Except for that man in the field. A man; hoeing the ground That it will bring forth food. A man; strong and able But black as night. Here I stand; a woman. 38 �PERSPECTIVES Short Story Prize, 1961: To RUTH CHUTE PERSPECTIVES Poetry Prize, 1961: To DAVE EVANS 39 ���� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College. Through its several titles—Manuscript, Perspectives, and Kiosk—the magazine has a long history of celebrating creative writing and art on campus. It began publication in 1938 under the title of Manuscript before changing its name to Perspectives in 1953. Then in 1971 it took another name that it is known by currently: Kiosk. It is still published annually by the Morningside College English Department. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1938- Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Morningside College Library Morningside College English Department Ponder, Marcie: Digital Creator Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical PDF Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Title A name given to the resource Kiosk Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource "The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children," (The Kiosk, 2003). Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. P E R S P E C T I V E S ARCHIVES 810.8 P432 1961 c.2 I ARCHIVES 810.8 P432 Perspectives (Morningside College). 1 1111111 111111 1111111111 1111 111111 111111 1 1 111 11111 11111 11 1 11 1111 3 3191 000134898 PERSPECTIVES VOLUME XX SPRING 1961 NUMBER 1 Staff Editor ........................................ Joanne Johnston Business Manager .................................. Ruth Chute Cover Design ..................................... Janna Dodge Faculty Advisor ................................ Howard Levant PERSPECTIVES is published by the students of Morningside College, Sioux City, Iowa Thy Will Be Done Loren Andrews World War Three had passed. All was gone. All that mankind had moulded and developed was gone. In one remote corner of one of the continents, a small band of humans had survived through the disaster. It was now their task to build the new order to reproduce and to be the new roots of the human race. The tiny band had gathered in a green ·meadow far away from the industrial-age cities. Everyone was silent. Finally,. a man came forward and spoke. "We, by the grace of God, have been chosen to replenish this evil world that has been. It now becomes our task to build a new order-one of goodness and justice, one that has taken into consideration all of mankind's previous mistakes. It is with this thought that I now pronounce on you our new order. "You will all be workers of this new order-workers to build our world anew. There will be one ruler. His rule will be for all because of all men had political rights, we can see that there would be many different ideas. The only way to have one idea triumph over another is to have the power to see that your idea wins. This, my people, would lead to war. So, as you can see, in this new order we must have only one idea in government, lest we destroy ourselves again." The group cheered wildly. "There must be no religion of gods because nations in the past have marched against nations for the glory of their gods. We will worship the order. All will pray to it for strength. We will praise it for our daily bread. We shall build a temple to our way of life. No man shall worship a god-only the new order. "There must be no family. For into this unit fall the seeds of rebellion. Father teaches son- and son teaches son-hatred. The women bear their offspring to be taught the foolish prejudices of their parents. "Our new order will be such that no child shall be denied the privilege of being taught correctly-to live and die, for one thing. There will be no rest for those who break this, law. We'll rid ourselves of the false system forever. "There shall be freedom- freedom of obedience. All shall obey without question." An angry voice spoke from the group. "Oh, foolish man ! You will never keep mankind under you! Man by nature is free, and you will not be able to stop this." Some of the group shouted in support. "Silence that traitor," said the leader. "We cannot tolerate such stupidity. The new order must come to be at all cost. Kill him! Kill him!" The groans and cries of mankind again resounded from the earth. Man battled against man, but the future of the world was at stake. Man against man, women, and children-beat each other with clubs until they were beyond recognition. Blood covered the grassy meadow. "We have won! The group shall not be ruled by one selfish man." The group, cut in half, now numbered less than thirty. The new leader spoke. "We shall educate the children to the ultimate. Education will save the world. We shall teach math and .science, and they all 3 will go to school. They shall be well rounded. As soon as they graduate from high school, they shall spend a year in nothing but social activities. This will give the women a chance to get their husbands. This time will be dedicated to running for office and serving on committees. We then rid the colleges of all husband-hunters and socializers. The next four years will be spent on nothing but studies." The group cheered. Then the leader shouted. "Who will build the buildings? Who will dig the sewers and carry the dung to our fields to make them fertile?" "Not I." "Not I." "Someone must," said the leader. Again the group began, beating each other with their clubs. When the battle ceased, there were only three left- a woman and two men. "We must fight to the death for this woman because two men can not both exist if there is only one woman." Then man began this final battle so man could begin the new order. The struggle was desperate. Then one threw a rock, missed his enemy, and hit the woman. She fell dead. The final battle was over! The new order began. To Grandma Loren Andrews "Come my pet, come to Mommy. There, that's right, my sweet little lamb duck. Come, Miah, my darling bird. There, yes, grandma loves you. Now go back to your cage. That's right." "My, my. How much you look like a crow. If I'd trim your beak, you'd look exactly like a crow. Then 1 wouldn't call you Miah anymore, but crow. Oh, 1 hurt your feelings. Oh, Sweeter, Nanner is sorry. You love only me and 1 shouldn't hurt you. 1 bet I'm the only bird owner in this city that can leave the windows open and not worry about my darling flying away." "Awk- Hello, Joe." "Nanner, can 1 have a glass of milk?" "I should say not. Your mother will be home in about two hours and when she comes, I'm telling her on you. You shouted and frightened my little Miah. Really, Jason, don't you think you could have a little consideration for someone else? If 1 had only to stay in bed and be fifteen again, I'd be very thankful." "Now, don't start that sniffling again. 1 just can't bear this. Your mother and 1 could live here quite comfortably if we didn't have you here to burden us." "If you were only twisted or something, but, no, it's worse than that. You had to be born completely helpless. Really Jason, you contribute less to this house than Miah. At least he can move, but you have no arms or legs." "We can't even have company in this house, because you'd frighten them. Yes, Jason, it's true and 1 think it's time you knew it." 4 "Now stop that crying. We must all face our plight in life and if we haven't the courage, then we have no right to live. There ought to be a law ..." "Stop that weeping this instant." "Think how lucky you are that we let you stay here. Middle class people can't afford the things we've given you. Your mother never would care for you. She would just send you away. You see, you wouldn't even be allowed to stay here if it wasn't for me. You must be nicer to me or I will leave and then you'll have no one." "I don't know. I've always felt rather motherly. I always have liked to care for the helpless. But you're such a burden." . "Awk, such a burden." "What do you mean, you have to number one? Jason, I just can't carry that stinky bottle. You'll have to wait until your mother gets home." "No, Jason, I will not read to you." "I'm not an old scarecrow and sixty-five is not old. I'm going to tell your mother on you. I'll fix you good." "Awk, awk." . That's right, Miah, you tell that mean little boy what you think of him." "You want to come to Momma? Oh, that's so cute. Yes, I love you." "Oh, Loverbun, you poo pooed on my arm. Oh, don't feel so bad. I'll clean it up with my hankie. That is all right, Miah." "Stop laughing, you devil. You ugly helpless devil and so uncouth." " Awk, helpless and uncouth." "Why, Sweety, you speak better than Jason." "You impudent child. Stop that sniffling or I'll beat you until you do stop." . "Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!" "J ason? Jason! Huh? Jason, answer me!" Free Is The Nestling Ruth Chute Nadine drew a last drag from the cigarette and crushed it mechanically in the red ceramic ash tray. For a moment she sat there staring at the ash tray and its contents. Half a dozen cigarettes in less than an hour. Too muchshe couldn't afford to keep it up at that pace. But it was this confounded sitting around and just waiting with nothing to do to keep her busy- that's what drove her almost batty and kept the ash tray filled. Just sit here in this dingy, dirty, little apartment and wait. For what? For some knotheaded editor to look down from his throne and say, in a deep, kindly, fatherly tone, "We like your work, Miss Henderson. Our' check is enclosed."? Ha! Don't be a dunce, she told herself angrily. Look at your pile of rejection slips. Dream a dream like that, and you're only riding for a fall. Better not to think about it at all, but it was hard not to. She got up from the lumpy, faded .couch and jammed her fists deep in the pockets of her worn tan pants. She .looked about in distaste. The room was fairly large, but badly lighted because the huge maple tree outside blocked the only window. She lived on the top floor of the 5 house, and the ceiling sloped crazily in places where the roof angled. The furniture had a cast-off unwanted appearance, and no piece matched another ~ The once-bright red print slipcover of the couch vied with the plumes and flowers in the wallpaper. The rug was the only thing that didn't clamor for attention; it was a sad, tired brown, worn by a steady procession of changing tenants. What was there about this hole that had looked so charming about a couple of months ago? An attitude, she decided. An Idea. Two months ago, she'd been naively hopeful, radiant with aspirations, eager for independence. N ow she was wide awake in the cold, cruelly aware of reality. Yes, she'd waked up all right, just as if someone had slapped her on the face. So there it is, kid. Two months ago, you were filled with an Idea. You wanted to get to know the World. You had a message. Well, you found out what the world is like, and it's not pretty, is it? And the only message that gets through is the sound of your stomach growling. Not a very pretty picture, is it? Write that up, why don't you? Be another Jack London-make the world weep with your tale of woe! Rubbish! She kicked at the couch with a sneaker-clad foot. "Ouch! Oh darn!" she muttered, remembering too late that the drooping fringe hid a sturdy wooden leg. She rubbed the aching toe against her other leg. Nadine stalked out to the tiny kitchen, jiggled the coffee pot to see if there was any left, and lit the gas under it. She rinsed a heavy white mug under the faucet, filled it with coffeee, and carried it to her writing corner in the living room. ' The ancient L. C. Smith typewriter sat on the battered oak table, surrounded by disorderly piles of paper and scattered pencils and erasers. The wastebasket overflowed with crumpled-up papers, ideas that hadn't come to fruit. Nadine pushed the papers to one side to make room for her coffee cup. She felt for her cigarettes in the pocket of the heavy wool plaid shirt she wore-a welcome hand-me-down from her older brother, Douglas. She'd brought the shirt with her when she left home back in Iowa. It was somehow a comfort to wear it, a tie to her life back there. The breaking away had been neither easy nor painless. "What do you want to go traipsing off to California for?" her father had demanded when Nadine told them of her plans. "Can't you do your writing closer to home, if you think that's what you have to do?" He just couldn't see that she had to get away from them all. She certainly didn't hate them, heaven only knew, but she had to see things for herself, try to see them as they really were, and not be forever guided by someone else's thinking. Her mother had taken the news a little more calmly. "Of course we'll miss you terribly," she told Nadine. "But it's your life and your decision to make. Just remember, you can always come home if things don't work out to suit you." So here she was, in her second month in her miserable little $40-amonth, third-floor walk-up hole, wishing with all her heart that she could drop everything and run home. But she couldn't do that, and she knew it and was all the more miserable for knowing it. 6' Even if her father said nothing about her venture, she still couldn'~ give up and quit yet. It would mean having to admit that she had failed, and she couldn't bring herself to face that fact just yet. By keeping doggedly at her work, she could avoid the inevitable bitter truth-that she was an utter flop as a writer. Nadine gulped the strong, hot coffee and made a face. You're also a nogood at making coffee, she told herself. But it helped to clear her mind a little, and she could look at herself more realistically. It's time to take stock of myself, she decided. Here I am, a 21-year-old girl who thinks she wants to write. Assets? One L. C. Smith typewriter, 21 years old, a month's rent ahead on the hole, assorted clothing and the like, and-she paused to do some hasty figuring o:r:t a scrap of paper- a bank account of $65.24. With careful planning, she could easily go for another month or so. Liabilities,? Nothing tangible, really. Only things like lack of experience. Nadine stopped to reflect on this last bit. Maybe that was the root of all her difficulties-a lack of experience in almost everything including life itself. What did she really have to write about? Only her own life, which had been shaped by school and family. Nadine realized the importance of the break she'd made to come to California. Oh, it needn't have been California. Any place would have been all right. Her father had had a point, but she hadn't seen it. The main thing was that she had to get out and see things for herself and not listen to someone else telling about what he had seen. But it didn't happen overnight. She knew now that she'd expected too much too soon. You absorbed it gradually, almost without knowing it. Which brings us up to now, she thought, and the fact that I'm hungryor soon will be. Obviously you can't keep body and soul together by writing, so you'll have to think of something else. You may have to swallow a lot of pride, old girl, but for a while at least, you'll have to put the Idea on the shelf and turn to more menial labor. It was surprising how even this small decision made her plight seem less desperate. Nadine remembered seeing three or four ads in yesterday's paper for secretarial help. She was a good typist-she certainly should be able to fill one of those jobs. Today she would seek work, and if necessary, tomorrow and the day after. And she really wouldn't be neglecting her Idea. She'd have a chance to soak up life, storing away her knowledge for future use. With a lighter heart than she'd had for weeks, Nadine straightened up the clutter of papers on the table, dropped the cover on the typewriter, and gave it a pat. Goodby, old friend, but not for long. She picked up the empty coffee mug and walked out to the kitchen. Martha Ruth Chute The insistent rapping at the front door roused Martha from her ' light sleep, and she sat up quickly on the bed. Better go see who it was- guess they won't give up. She yawned as she got up from the bed and shuffled out to the living room in her flopping bedroom slippers. 7 As she moved to the door, she glimpsed the short stout figure on the door step through the curtained window and stopped short. Oh, no! That looked like the welfare lady- she never could remember her name. Why did they always have to come around when you least expected them? The house was a mess, and she was a mess and- she wished she had enough nerve to not go to the door. But she pushed the impulse down- after all, the welfare lady was a busy person, and she couldn't just come to see people when it was convenient for them. Martha quickly smoothed her mussed hair and straightened her dress and opened the door. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson." Olive McIlhenney stood on the narrow step, warmly buttoned up in her heavy brown coat. "I was just about to leave. I began to think no one was home." "No- I was lying down for a while." Martha smiled nervously. "My back's been bothering me again, so I was just lying down. Oh- don't stand here in the cold. Please come inside." Olive McIlhenney stepped into the small living room. She tried not to look too obviously at the clutter of papers and magazines and toys all around her. "You can sit down here if you like, Mrs. MacKelley." Martha scooped up the newspapers from the seat of the big chair. . "Mcllhenney," Olive corrected her. "Thank you." She gingerly sat down on the chair, but did not lean back. She wished the woman would stop flitting about so- it made her nervous. It seemed that many of her clients acted like this when she called on them Briefly, she wondered why. Olive opened her notebook. "How have you been, Mrs. Hudson. Have things been going well for you? Now then, if we can just quickly run through your household expenses- I hope you have your receipts handy?" "Uh- yes, I think I know just where I put them." Martha went to the desk and rummaged in the pigeonholes until she found the large envelope in which she kept her light bills and the grocery tickets and the fuel oil bills. Olive quickly flipped through them and jotted the figures down in her notebook. "Mmhmm. Mrs. Hudson, I see that your food bills are running up again- you're creeping over the line, and you know that just takes it away from some other item in the budget." She looked earnestly at Martha through her round rimless glasses. "I know it's hard, Mrs. Hudson, but try to remember that it's not like being on your own with a good income- you have to watch the budget aU the time. There just isn't room for luxuries." A silent protest rose inside Martha, but she said nothing. It was hard, trying to make do on what little the welfare check amounted to, but nobody had any ideas on how to do it any better. Olive remembered to ask about the children. Stress family relationships, the manual said. Remember that maintaining family unity is essential. Martha's face lighted up as she spoke of the children. "Janie's teacher says she's doing much better now in reading. She brings books home from the library, and she reads out loud to us a lot. I think that helps, don't you? · Oh- and Freddie's started doing long division in arithmetic now. He says he likes it-can you imagine that? I'm real proud 8 of him. You know, I kind of hope he'll take after his father. Fred was real handy at figures- no telling how far he could have gone with it if that sickness hadn't come on him so suddenly." She got up from her chair and rummaged in the desk again. "I've got the pictures of the children they had taken at school. Would you like to see them? Olive took the pictures and glanced at them briefly. "Very nice, Mrs. Hudson. You have two very fine children." She handed the pictures back to Martha and zipped up her notebook. "Well, I really must be going," she said. "Several more calls to make this afternoon." She buttoned up her coat and settled her brown felt hat more firmly on her head. Martha walked to the door with her. "I'm so glad you dropped in, Mrs. McKilney. I don't get much chance to visit with anyone. I'm sorry the house is in such a mess today, but my back's been so bad lately I just can't do much housework at a time." "Well, goodby, Mrs. Hudson. I'll see you again in six months. And if you have any problems before then, just call the office." Olive walked down the steps and over to her car. "Goodby," Martha called. She shut the door, and the pain started in her back again. There were always so many things she intended to tell the welfare lady when she came, but somehow she always forgot them when they were visiting, and anyway, the welfare lady was so awfully busy with all the other cases she had and the calls to make- it was no wonder she never had time to stay very long. She'd meant to ask her what she thought about flu shots for the children. Martha wondered if they were worth the expense, but she decided not to bother her at the office-they were so awfully busy there- no use burdening them with her little problems. It wasn't too important anyway. She'd try to remember to ask her the next time she came to the house. The pain in her back nagged again. She decided to try the hot water bottle on it and rest a while before Janie and Freddie came home from school. They would have something exciting to tell her, she was sure. My, but she was proud of them. If Fred could only see them now. The Disorganized Repairman David Crumley Martin Everyday was seated at the breakfast table. His morning eggs cooled in front of him, shielded by the folds of an open newspaper. He was dimly aware of words that came as from a distance, as pebbles cast against the cliff of news. "Martin, why must you read that newspaper at breakfast every morning? The very least you could do is wait until after your coffee. Every morning, every single morning . . . " Martin did not actually hear the words. He was engrossed in an article titled, "Your Government, a Study in Team Organization," authored . by 8 very wise and respected pundit. 9 The echo continued. "I get up every morning, slave over your eggs and orange juice, do all I know how to do, just to see that your toast is right. You! What do you do? You hide behind ..." Martin was slightly bothered by the mosquito song from his wife. Hilda could be persistent at times. Martin was much more concerned with the lesson to be learned from his newspaper. It comforted him to know that his nation was in the hands of an efficient team. Martin could not discover, from the article, exactly who were the members of that team. Neither could he ascertain what they were trying to do, nor how they were going to do it. The article pointed out only two things. There was a team, and it was efficient. That was enough for Martin. The distaff solo was not ended. "Martin, you cannot continue to ignore me like this. You've got to make me a part of your life, to share with me all the ups and downs. After all, Martin, we are two married people, and that makes us a team!" Those words jarred Martin from his inattention. He wondered at their meaning, and if it could be that he was unfair to Hilda. He not only read a newspaper during breakfast, but there were other times and things which he did not share with his wife. Martin considered this, and decided that he had, indeed, been unfair. He resolved to, in the future, include her in every portion of his existence, to create a life in which they would be together. Martin made apology to his spouse, in a scene that was both emotional and lengthy. When he finally departed to catch his morning commuter, he had a pleased and happy Hilda, and he was late. At his business, he coupled that tardiness with a forenoon of inactivity. He was so full of ideas on how to realize the marital team that he could not bring himself to his duties as a jewelry repairman. The inaction did not escape notice. It was shortly after lunch when Martin received a call from his employer. Mr. Harness spoke to Martin in his office. "I see that you were late this morning. I intended to overlook that violation of employee policy, but your attitude today will not let me. You know it isn't our practice to continue a man who fails to show the proper spirit." Mr. Harness stepped close to Martin, placed an arm around the repairman's shoulders. "You've been with us a long time, my boy, and you know that it takes all of us to make things go. Now you return to your job, and remember," he slapped the words onto Martin's back, "We must all play our position on the team!" The workman returned to his repair-bench. He thought over Mr. Harness' lecture. Martin knew that he should feel uplifted, but he did not. Martin felt -small, something less than a man. Martin, so full of resolution that morning, did not hurry to his wife at day's end. He didn't know why, when he left work, but he felt he needed a drink. He entered a cocktail bar, and one by one, Martin had several drinks. Then he became intrigued by the conversation of two men who were seated next to him. He didn't catch all of the words. He heard only phrases, like, "We must create an image . . . the consumer . . . status symbol . . . all facets . . . the campaign . . ." Martin did not understand that conversation. He had no idea of its meaning, but the many obscure words were captivating. Martin stayed, eavesdropping, until the two men prepared to leave. He heard clearly the final words of the older, more aggressive of the two men. "All right, that sets up our complete advertising campaign. Now all we have to do is tie everything 10 together, see that everyone works as a team!" The familiar words struck horne to Martin. They reminded him of the things he was supposed to be doing, and that he was not doing them. He rushed from the cocktail bar, and ran to catch his train. The train was not crowded. Martin stared out his window, but the many drinks had placed him in a sociable mood. When the conductor punched his ticket, Martin attempted to engage the man in conversation. For want of a better beginning, he made reference to the only subject which he knew to be of common interest. "This is a very nice railroad." The man did not answer, but Martin lisped more alcoholic words. "No, I mean it. And you, sir, run a very nice train." The conductor showed Martin an indulgent smile as he moved away. "Well, now, that's very nice of you. You know though, I'm just a cog in the team." The conductor settled in another part of the train. Martin would gladly have talked further, but the man did not return. Martin satisfied himself, instead, by letting their short communication echQ and re-echo in his head. It continued to do this, without let-up, until Martin arrived at his station. Martin entered his living room to an immediate tirade from Hilda. "Martin! Where in the world have you been? You had me worried sick! Not only that, but you know very well that tonight, qf all nights, was the meeting of our Lawn and Garden Planning Association. That's a very important organization, and we should all get behind it, be loyal, working members of the . . ." He shot her. Destiny Joanne Johnston Sumac flamed the rugged slopes, tinged deep brown by the summer SUD. Maple trees dotted the hill, which rose, sharp and spur-like, to crest above low-hanging autumn clouds. Sunlight, slanting through the dappled maple leaves, bronzed the sorrel coats of two saddled horses, flecked with sweat; heaving, standing with reins down. The large sorrel, raw-boned and shaggy, shifted restlessly. The other horse, wiry, small, hungry-ribbed, sniffed the wind and nickered. A few yards away, two boys sat in the yellow-bleached bunch grass. Sharp-roweled spurs gleamed in the sun as the smaller towheaded boy sprawled flat on the ground. "Say, Jimmy, them sure is some spurs you gotcher self," said the blackhaired boy. "Whatcha gonna use 'em for?" "You know, Sam," Jimmy chuckled. "I'm going to train Fleas to be a ropin' horse." . "Aw, don~t horse me around, Jimmy," Sam's black eyes laughed. "You know your Dad says she's too small." "Well, he doesn't know. Anyway, she weighs 900. I took her to the stockyards in Sioux City once, and she weighs all of 900." "Yeh, Jim, but 900 ain't heavy 'nough for ropin' steers." "Who said steers? I'm going to rope calves." ,, l..l "Yeh, Jim, but there ain't much call t' rope calves on a ranch, 'cept at brandin'. It's the steers what need doctorin' all year 'round." "Well, I'm not going to stay on a ranch all my life, you know. I'm going to rodeo." "Rodeo? You'd better not letcher Dad catch ya sayin' that!" "He doesn't have to know. Anyway, Buzz says I'll make a good roper." "Aw, what's that old saddle tramp know 'bout ropin', anyway?" "Buzz isn't a saddle tramp." Jimmy sprang up from the ground. "At least, he hasn't always been a saddle tramp. He used to rodeo." "Boy, you'd better not letcher Dad find that out!" "Dad doesn't know," Jimmy huffed, "and he isn't going to far as I'm concerned. That is, unless you tell him." "You know me better'n. that, Jim." "O.K." "But I still say he couldn'ta been much good or he wouldn'ta turned saddle tramp." "He was good! He just got hurt, that's all." "Yeh, that's whatcher Dad says. He says every fool what rides rodeo ends up gettin' throwed by a crazy-headed bronc or gored by one a them Brahmas. He'd sure brand that Buzz 'n make a stray outa him quick if'n he knew he was a rodeo tramp." "Buzz isn't a tnimp! Why, one year he even won the title!" "What title?" "World's champion calf roper, that's what!" "Well, your Dad still 'ud run him offa the place if he knew. 'Specially since your brother Tom got it from that bull in Cheyenne." "Tom would have made champion if he hadn't been killed! You should have seen him ride, Sam. He'd sit those bulls like he was riding an old Shetland pony. He could spin faster than any spinning bull, and everybody that saw him ride said he had championship class." "Yeh. Well, you'd better not letcher Dad catch ya, that's all." Sam admired the spurs. "Can I touch 'em, Jimmy?" "Sure." Jimmy proudly lifted a booted foot. "Hey!" Sam jerked his finger back and grimaced. "Them rowels sure is sharp!" "Yep," Jimmy smiled. "That's what makes old Fleas get out and stretch." "Well, you sure did outrun me," Sam laughed. "And on that pint-sized mare, too!" "Don't you say it, Sam!" "I gotta say it. I can't help it. Nobody else in the whole state a South Dakota rides a mare-Ieastways, not when his Dad's got plenty a good geldings." "Darn it, Sam, you know Dad won't let me use his Quarter horses. He's afraid I'll use 'em for ropin'." "Ain't that one on him? He'd never figure you could do much offa that little mare, huh?" "Nope." "Only, Jim, there's one thing bothers me." "What's that?" 12 "That little mare. Ain't she kinda nervous t' be usin' spurs on? -Leastways, them spurs?" "She can take it." "You seen much rodeo since your brother got it, Jim?" "Dad won't go, but I snuck off to one at Deadwood once." "Yeh? Didja have fun?" "Sure. And I met Tibbs." "You mean Casey Tibbs?" "Yep." "Wow! How many times has he been champ now?" "I stopped counting, Sam. More than anybody ever, Buzz says." "Well, I guess I'd better be gettin' home t' chores, Jim. Meetcha here tomorrow." Sam rose, caught his big sorrel gelding, and swung lightly into the ~addle. "Hey, Sam, wait a minute! Let's have a race." "Now, Jim, these horses are pretty done in." "What's the matter, Sam? Afraid my mare can beat you?" "No mare can beat old Baldy!" "That's the fellow, Sam. Now, it's about as far to my place as to yours, so we'll race for home, and if I phone your place first, I win." "0. K., Jim. But no scrubby mare can beat old Baldy." "Scrubby, huh? We'll see about that!" "Hey, Jim, I'll make you a real bet." "What?" "If your mare don't beat me, you'll have t' promise never t' rodeo. If your mare makes it~ I'll give ya a gelding from my Dad's string." "That's a bet!" Jimmy vaulted onto his mare. "Ready ... Set ... Tum 'em out!" Sam's gelding started with a powerful surge. Jimmy slapped the spurs to his mare. "Run 'em down, Fleas!" The mare shot ahead and flashed past the big gelding. "See, Sam!" Jimmy hooted. He dug the mare again. The sharp rowels gleamed in the sun. "Hey, Jim! Look out!" The mare coiled like a tight spring, shot sunward, and uncoiled as she hit the ground. "Jim, your spur's tangled! Hang on!" Sam spurred his gelding toward the crazed mare, but reined in with a jerk as Jim fell half off. His spur tangled in the cinch. The mare lurched wildly forward, dragging the screaming boy. When Sam finally overtook the mare two miles from the starting point, she stood quietly in a patch of sumac, heaving and white with lather. Blood flowed from her side, where the spur had torn flesh from bones. Jimmy's mangled body lay nearby. The shiny rowels gleamed red in the sun. Arsenal Joanne Johnston I'll never forget him. It was the first day of the fall term. He paused in the doorway. He was short, pudgy, and ugly- utterly unlovable. 13 A slingshot bulged out of his back pocket. Right away, I recognized potential in that boy! He looked around with the stupid, woebegone air of a lost puppy. "Is this sixth grade English?" "Yes, it is. Come in, turn in your arsenal, and sit down." "M y- uh- what?" "Arsenal. " "How much will one cost?" I couldn't help laughing. "You know," I said, "your weapon." "Weapon ?" "The slingshot." "Oh!" He forked it over. "Sit down." He shuffled to the back of the room and tried to squeeze into an undersized seat. "Not back there. Up here right in front of me." He managed to wriggle into the widest seat in the room. "There. That's better. Now we can see one another better, can't we?" I insinuated, but I don't think he caught it. "I...guess so." He gave me a cold stare. I returned the compliment. We were off to a good start. Establish empathy, but scare them the first day! That's the way to do it. Yep! Only- he didn't look too scared- just hostile. There goes my empathy. Have to establish rapport later- after I've engrained fear. Yep! That's the first day. Yep! The rest of the little hoodlums filed in. I assigned them numbers on the seating chart, put them in desk-cells, and sent them out to chop rock- to read Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." They all groaned. "Oh, no!" one fellow whispered, "not poetry!" Fatty, the slingshot boy, magician-like produced a rubber band and was just taking aim when I snapped, "You! Slingshot Pete! Open your book and memorize the poem on page ten." Everybody laughed- except Fatty. "You see, I have an arsenal, too." "You mean you've got my slingshot." "No, I've got your rubber band." I snatched it. "Now get busy and memorize that poem." "How come they don't have to?" "They didn't bring an arsenaL" "You mean a slingshot?" "No. A rubber band." Fatty roared. His whole frame shook like (to use a cliche) a bowl of jelly. I laughed, too. Then the whole class parroted us. From then on, Fatty and I had an understanding. We knew exactly where we stood. And neither of us liked standing barefoot in an icy puddle. The memory of that year in the icy puddle has thawed some in twenty years. We've been through a world war, and I've seen duty in many classroom skirmishes. I saw Fatty- Jim- Iast week. He blustered into my apartment. "Hello, Miss McCracken!" "Sit down, Jim." "Front seat?" 14 "Yes." "Where you can watch me better?" "Of course." "My pocket's still bulging." "So it is." I regarded him silently for a moment. I stared coldly. "Well!" "Well what?" "Aren't you going to turn in the-" "The arsenal? Sure. Here." He emptied one pocket. Wallet. . .comb. . .handkerchief. . .newspaper clipping...pocket knife ...two green earrings... "Whose earrings?" "My wife's." "Where's the arsenal?" "There-right there." "Come on! Turn it all in." "Oh, all right." Pencil ... notebook ... slide rule . . . rubber band. . . purple heart . . . "That's it? All of it? The whole arsenal?" "Yes." "Where's the slingshot?" "Don't you remember? You still have it. You never gave it back." Bus Ride Joanne Johnston It was a routine Friday night, except for the heavy rain. Hank Rewey drove his bus toward the river bridge on the eleven o'clock run. "Well, Jim, how's the cafe business?" Hank asked the dripping passenger in the front seat. "Slow, Hank, slow. Doggone rain." Jim leaned forward, and his voice assumed a confidential tone, "Say, Hank, you've been holding out on me. Who's the girl?" "Girl ?" "Ya. You know, Hank- the girl. The only other passenger on this clinker. The hour-glass blonde." Jim laughed, "Remember now, Hank?" "Sure, Jim, except I can't help you much. Never hauled her before. Think she came from the Orpheum." "Alone?" "Guess so." "Well, now!" The bus barreled onto the bridge, and Hank Rewey muttered, "Nuts." Below, the surging water seemed to seethe and boil as it hit the timbers of the bridge, swelled into great foamy waves, and then cascaded past. "Damn bridge," Rewey said. "Figure it'll go out before morning, eh, Hank?" "That's for sure." Rewey looked relieved when they left the bridge behind. "Anyway, it's o. k. for now," Jim said flatly. "Think I'll desert you, Hank," he laughed, "She's quite a dish." He started to get up. 15 I He sprawled forward as Hank hit the brakes, lurching the bus to a stop. "Hey, Hank, what kind of driving- " He grabbed a hand-hold. "It must be three feet deep!" The headlights shone on a swirling, seething mass of inky water. Rewey muttered,"It's over a block wide." "And then some, Hank. What you gonna do?" "Only thing I can. Turn 'er around." Rewey backed the bus slowly. "Hey, Hank, did you hear that?" "What?" "Stop this rig!" Rewey killed the engine. Then they both heard it. It sounded like a low moan, like a mammoth tree creaking in the night wind. Slowly the eerie moan grew louder. "What is it? the girl's voice came, high and trembling. "Shut up." Then she heard it- a distinct, sharp moan. "Sounds like lightning hitting a tree." "No I think it's- " Thr~e sharp cracks split the air, and the moan became a roaring, tearing sound. "Gawd, the bridge!" There was a deafening rumble, the very earth seemed to shake, and a wailing shriek- like a human in pain-pierced the air. The bridge behind them yielded to the rampaging river. "She's out." "Gawd!" "Well, there's only one way now." Rewey put the bus in gear. "Will she make it, Hank? That water's at least three feet-" "She'll have to." The bus lumbered forward animal-like, seemed almost to hesitate, then plunged into the water. It seemed to swim along, gliding smoothly. "It's downhill, Hank. The worst part's under the trestle. Will she do 'er?" "Has to!" Rewey hit the floorboard, and she barreled through the deep water under the ·train trestle. "We're clear! That's the way, Hank! Come on, old baby!" A loud groaning buried Jim's monologue. The engine coughed, sputtered, coughed, died. The lights went out. "Gawd!" The blonde groped her way forward. "Driver, I can't swim." Rewey grimaced. "How 'bout you, Jim?" "Not a stroke." "Great!" Outside, the current rushed. Rain fell in black, shroud-like sheets. "You got a match, Jim?" "Ya, I think so ... ya. Here." "Good." Rewey rummaged in his tool box. "Now if I can just find that flashlight. " "Oh look!" the girl cried. "The water!" The water gleamed blackly as it seeped in through the door, bubbled, and slowly rose to floor level. 16 Jim's match flickered and died. "Another one, Jim!" "Ya. Here. Got it." The two passengers watched silently as Rewey groped . through the box. "It's here," Rewey said. Just then, the match burned out. Rewey turned on the flashlight. "Isn't that the bowling alley up ahead, Hank?" "Here. Take this, Jim, and start signaling." ~'Where you going, Hank?" "For help." Rewey pried open the front door. "What's the matter, Hank?" "Too deep to swim-too f8et." They saw branch~ and debris in the rushing water. "Gawd! Close the door, Hank!" "Give me a hand." "There . . . Got it, Hank!" The girl had the flashlight. "Shall I keep signaling?" "No. Turn it off. There's no one there." The water rose slowly, lapping hungrily around them. They huddled together at the front of the bus. The water licked greedily at the seats. Outside, hail began to fall, battering the bus roof. "Climb on top of the seat." Jim told the girl, "and take off those high heels." She obeyed meekly. "Hank, let's try yelling." The men opened the front door. "Now! One . . . two . . . three . . . Yell!" Their powerful chests heaved as they strained together, but the wind seemed to pick up their cries and toss them down into the murky water. "Gawd! Shut the door, Hank. Hurry!" The men sweated and strained. "Got it." "Hang on, girl. Hang onto the pole." Jim barked. "She's going!" The bus seemed to shudder and to rise up beneath them. A siren wailed. "There goes the flood whistle, Rewey. Just in time!" "Oh, we're floating!" the girl screamed. Jim scrambled onto the seat beside her. "Hang onto me." "Oh ... oh ... " the girl moaned as she clutched Jim desperately. "Easy," Jim said. The bus floated slowly, then faster ... faster ... faster. "Oh," the girl screamed, "we'll float into the river!" "No." Rewey growled, "the base of the train trestle should stop 'er." The bus hit the trestle, lurched wildly, then came to an abrupt, sickening halt. Jim felt the girl trembling. "It's o. k. now," he said, but he saw that the water was rising fast. Already, as they stood on the seat, it lapped around their waists. "Jim," help me pry the back door open. I've got to try it." "Gawd, Rewey, you'll never-" "Shut up and help me." The two men forced the door open. The water was rising faster. "Rewey! Look!" They saw them. Only a few hundred feet away. A large crowd. On the dry bank of the trestle. "Help. Gawd. help us!" From somewhere above them on the trestle, a deep voice boomed, "How many are in there?" 17 I "Three. One's a woman." "Can you swim?" "N0,. only one of us." "All right. Hang on a little longer. We're going after ropes." It rose. Chest-- igh ... The minutes stretched- four . . . five ... six ... seven ... h "Gawd, Rewey, tell 'em to hurry!" "Hurry!" Rewey cursed and muttered. Suddenly, the bus swayed and lurched. "Gawd! She's tearing loose!" "No, no. She's holding ..." Rewey yelled. "You up there--help! Hurry!" The sound of footsteps echoed on the bus roof. A half-naked man leaned over th~edge and boomed, "Let's get her out of there first." "Thank Gawd." Jim pushed the girl forward and into the water. "Got her?" "0. K." "Don't ... let ... me go," the girl cried, " . . . the . . . current ... " "It's all right," the man boomed, "I've got you." He grasped her arms, half lifting and half dragging her onto the bus roof. "Hurry," Rewey urged. "Hope this rope holds," the man bellowed. "0. K., come on." He hoisted the other two onto the bus roof. They crawled across the slippery tin and climbed a ladder to the train trestle. Seconds later, they stood on the dry bank as the midnight express roared across the trestle. The bus was completely submerged in the floodwater. T he Lost Instinct Sandra Shattuck Lois Randolph placed the sleeping baby back into his crib. She had been following his feeding schedule exactly as the doctor had instructed. She certainly didn't want anything to go wrong with the baby; it would just add to her problems. She left the nursery and walked downstairs to the kitchen. While rinsing out the baby bottle, many thoughts passed through her mind. She missed her job as a newspaper reporter for the Baltimore Globe. She missed all the unique adventures and the travel which were the interesting part of the job. With the arrival of the baby, she had had to leave her career. David was now three months old, and, it seemed, the older he grew, the more trouble he became to her. Lois had read many books on the care of babies, and what's more, she did very well in seeing that the material needs of the infant were satisfied. But it was not until the last couple of months that he had started progressing as he should. He had been examined by the doctor and nothing physically wrong had been found. He just hadn't grown very much. But now he was doing better and down deep inside she knew the reason. It was just a matter of convincing herself. After retiring to a chair in the living room, Lois picked up a magazine and turned to an article which she thought would be interesting. But she was unable to concentrate. Her husband, Don, wouldn't be home for another 18 week. His job prevented him from being home during the week and so they saw each other only on the weekends. Don and Lois had much in common. They both loved to travel and could not stand to be in one place for any length of time. And he, like Lois, wasn't particularly enthusiastic over the arrival of the baby. He wasn't home enough so that he could feel the baby was a real part of him. But he did have to admit that being a father did have its advantages in dealing with people. Just displaying the baby's picture and discussing his little family did miracles in his sales technique. Lois had to admit frankly that their marriage was not very happy, but it was comfortable and secure. She did have a deep fondness for Don. as she was sure he did for her. But it was by mutual understanding throughout the five years of their married life that they had retained their separate careers and income. Moreover, having the baby did not help the situation any- not as far as they were concerned. Suddenly, she heard the doorbell ring. She opened the door and ushered in a little woman in her late thirties. "Come in, Mrs. Kuck. I'll put your coat in the hall closet. Well, the house is just a mess, so you can start cleaning anytime." "Okay!" replied Mrs. Kuck, who was a widow and had been the Ran· dolphs' housekeeper for many years. "By the way, Mrs. Kuck, can you clean the baby's room last? I think he will be awake for his feeding about the time you finish the rest of the house. Then you can straighten up his room while I feed him in the kitchen." "Fine. How is little David gettin' along?" asked the housekeeper. "He's fine, just fine." "He's such a beautiful baby and I just love to play with him. You know, Harold and I only had the one child and we were so broken up when he passed away. Now I wish that when Harold was alive we could have adopted some children. But we didn't. Well, I run on so! I'll start cleanin' upstairs." Mrs. Kuck then left the room. Lois was very fond of the little lady. She was a wonderful person; she was also a very diligent worker. Mrs. Randolph soon fell asleep on the sofa, and she must have slept for quite some time. For when she awoke, she found Mrs. Kuck tiptoeing about the living room as she cleaned. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Kuck, for being in your way," replied Lois as she rose from the couch. "Now you just lie back down. You weren't botherin' me at all. In fact, I was being careful so I wouldn't wake you." "Well, it's time for the baby's feeding, so I had better get busy." Lois then walked back to the kitchen and started preparing the utensils for the necessary chore. "Mrs. Randolph, I've finished all of the house except the nursery." "That's fine. Now, Mrs. Kuck, you just come right in here and we'll have some coffee and cookies. David will be awake soon and you can start on his room then." "That's very nice of ya!': The little woman sat down at one end of the table while Mrs. Randolph sat at the other. "Ya know, Mrs. Randolph, you sure do have a lot of things for David. Babies nowadays have everything. I bet you really enjoy taking care of him." "Yes," replied Lois in an unenthusiastic tone. 19 "I think I hear him crying now. Should I go see?" "Yes! And if he is, then bring him down, will you?" "Okay!" Mrs. Kuck eagerly ran upstairs and slowly opened the nursery door. She looked down into the crib. "He's such a pretty baby," she thought. "Oh, your diapers need changing. We'll just take care of that, Davie boy." The small baby stopped his crying and smiled up at the woman's gentle face. She continued to talk to him while she made him comfortable and then brought him downstairs. His face beamed because of all the attention he was getting. "Here's the bottle, Mrs. Kuck. Would you like to feed him?" "I sure would!" And the little lady put the nipple of the bottle in his mouth while she continued her baby talk. She felt a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to hug him just as tight as she could. Now she imagined that David was her child, and Mrs. Randolph was the next door neighbor who had just come over to have coffee with her. After finishing his bottle, the baby responded to the fondling which he received from the woman and then finally fell asleep. "Just put him there on the sofa, Mrs. Kuck. I'll watch him while you clean the nursery." "Okay, Mrs. Randolph." After some time, the housekeeper came downstairs. "I've finished the room now. Shall I put David back into his crib?" "You certainly may," answered Lois. The little lady carefully carried the child upstairs and placed him in the crib. While she stood looking down upon the small bundle of innocence, she thought about the number of years she had worked for the Randolphs. Now, this little infant had brought a whole new interest into the housekeeper's life. She could hardly wait until the next time she could be with him. She was growing up with this small baby. She was growing in love. Mrs. Kuck walked out and slowly closed the door. . Lois was in the kitchen doing dishes when the woman entered. "The baby's sound asleep, Mrs. Randolph." "That's fine!" "Well, now that my work's done, I'll be on my way." "Mrs. Kuck, will you sit down? I want to talk to you. I have suddenly realized how much you think of David. Also, I believe the baby is very fond of you; perhaps more so than his own mother." "But - " "N o! Let me finish. It may be quite a shock to you, Mrs. Kuck, but 1 miss my career and I am bored just staying at home. I love my baby in my own way, but I'm not satisfied just being a mother. I want to hire you as a nurse for my baby. You will live here in the house. I'm sure we can come to some arrangement as to the amount of salary. Don and I are fairly well off, so we can afford a nurse in our home. What do you say, Mrs. Kuck?" "You are serious?" "You know I am. What is your answer?" "I accept, of course! I love your baby as much as I loved my own." "It's settled then. You can take the guest room next to the nursery." "What about Mr. Randolph?" asked Mrs. Kuck. "I have discussed the matter with him and he thought it a very good idea. I just didn't know if you would accept the position. I guess I was 20 afraid you would say no. I have called my former boss, and he said that I can start back on the job next week if I like." "You're sure this is what you want?" replied Mrs. Kuck. "Very sure. I certainly have had quite some time to think it over. Just so we are both happy. I guess my instincts are not of the maternal kind. All right, it's all settled. I'll expect you the first part of next week. " That Isn't George - George Jules Smith Willie Jones was a very handsome and intelligent boy. He was seven years old, had bright red hair, and was short and stocky. Willie lived with his Aunt Bertha and Uncle George, for his folks were killed in a mountain climbing accident when he was an infant. Willie's Aunt Bertha was a big woman in her late forties. She was very jealous of Willie. Often she would complain about his behavior at dinner and the trouble he caused her. Willie loved his uncle. He seemed to ignore everything his wife said about Willie and always treated him as if he were his own son. Every day he would spend some time with Willie. When Willie's parents had the accident, Uncle George was the first relative to volunteer to be his guardian. "Hurry Willie, Uncle George will be here in just a few minutes to take you to the zoo. I can't understand why he fusses with such a boy like you," said Aunt Bertha. "Ouch, that hurts," cried Willie, as his aunt tried to hold him still while she brushed his hair. "Hello, is Willie ready?" called Uncle George as he walked into Willie's room. "Hello, Uncle George," said Willie. "Willie, for the last time, will you stand still so I can get your hair combed?" begged Aunt Bertha. "Has he been a good boy today?" asked Uncle George. "No, he hasn't. This morning at breakfast he didn't eat his mush and I had to throw it away. George, this kid is going to be the death of me yet. I can't take it from him any longer. I think we should send him to the bad boys' home. They have better boys there than Willie," replied his aunt. "Please, Uncle George, don't send me to the bad bays' home, please don't send me there, please," cried Willie. "Now, now, big fella, don't cry. Aunt Bertha is just upset and everything is going to be all right. Now stand still so she can finish helping you dress, and then we can go to the zoo," said George as he tried to comfort his neph. ew. When Willie was ready, Uncle George took him out to the car and they were off. "Uncle George." "Yes, Willie." "Please don't let Aunt Bertha send me to the bad boys' home." "No, don't worry, she won't." 21 I . "My friend Semore told me that they give all the bad boys bread and water to eat." "Don't believe that, Willie. Has Semore ever been to the bad boys' home?" "No, but that's what his mother said." "Let's forget about the bad boys' home for awhile an.d have some fun." "But do you promise not to let Aunt Bertha sen.d me there?" "Yes, SOll, but just don't aggravate her." "What does aggravate mean?" "Bother or annoy." "What does annoy mean?" "Just forget it, Willie, and be a good boy." "Yes, Uncle George." "Well, here we are at the zoo." "Oh, boy, I can hardly wait to see the lions and the tigers." " Now hold on, let me first find a parking space." Uncle George drove into the nearest parking lot. He parked the car and took Willie and they began their tour. "Oh boy, Uncle George, look at that tiger. I bet the tiger is the meanest animal in the world. Do you remember that circus you took me to where this man went inside the cage with a whip and made those tigers do all kinds of tricks?" "Yes, Willie." "Say, Uncle George, I'm hungry, can I have a hot dog and a glass of lemonade? " "No, Willie, it will spoil your dinner." "Oh, please, Uncle George! I promise I will eat everything at dinner." "Well, all right, but you had better keep your promise or else I will really be in trouble with your aunt." "Oh, Uncle George, you're the best uncle in the world. I love you." "I love you too, son." . The sandwich and drink were purchased. From the look on the boy's face, his uncle realized that he had enjoyed every bit of it. "Let's get ready to go home, fella. It's been a long day and my legs are killing me. I think we've been around this zoo fifteen times and I feel I've had a good workout." "Can't we see the monkeys just once more?" pleaded Willie. "No, son, it's time to go." "All right, I'll race you to the car." Willie and Uncle George got into the car and started for home, George turned on the car radio and heard the newscaster give the final stock market returns. "I see where your towel company has gone up, young man," said Uncle George. "What does that mean?" asked Willie. "The towel company that you inherited is making more money." "Terrific, I love money." "You and me too," said Uncle George under his breath. Upon arriving home, Willie went directly to his room and began preparing himself for dinner. Being rather weary from the excursion to the zoo, 22 like all boys, Willie was rather slow getting ready. Aunt Bertha was looking at the clock and becoming very impatient. . "Willie," she called from downstairs, "it's almost time for dinner." "I'm getting ready," answered Willie. "Willie. " Willie recognized that tone of voice and knew Aunt Bertha meant business; that he had better get dressed quickly and go downstairs. "Coming, Aunt Bertha." "Where have you been?" asked the impatient aunt. "Dressing." "How long does it take you to dress?" "I tried to get ready in a hurry." "Oh, 1 just bet you did. You probably sat in your room dillly dallying around like you usually do." "No, 1 didn't, Aunt Bertha." "Let's have dinner," interrupted George. "This bad boy shouldn't have dinner." "Now, now, dear, I'm sure Willie is sorry, and from now on he will come to the table faster. Won't you, Willie?" "Yes, Uncle George." "See, 1 told you so, Bertha." The dinner was served. Willie saw the meat, and sure enough it was liver smothered with a good helping of onions. He disliked liver and many times said so, but it didn't do any good. His aunt said that liver was good for growing boys, and there were many boys in the bad boys' home who would like very much to have a piece of liver. "Why aren't you eating your liver?" asked Aunt Bertha. "I don't like liver." "I suppose your uncle spoiled your appetite at the zoo buying you all kinds of junk, but then when it comes to a good, wholesome meal, you won't eat it." "Let the boy alone," said George. "The trouble with him is that we left him alone too often," replied Bertha. "Willie, will you please leave the room for awhile," asked his uncle. Willie excused himself and departed to his room. He sat on his bed and even with the door closed, he could hear yelling and sometimes even screaming. He decided to get down on the floor in order that he might hear the argument better, but it was no use. The rugs were too thick and filtered out the voices. After an hour's time, Uncle George came up to Willie's room and closed the door. "Willie, your aunt and I have decided that we are going to send you away to a military school." Willie began to cry. " Now, big fella, it isn't going to be that bad. In fact, you should enjoy it. You will meet many nice boys and you will even get to wear a soldier suit." "It won't be a soldiers' school, it will be a bad boys' school," cried Willie. . "Now, Willie, don't say that. Do you think your uncle would send you to a bad boys' home?" 23 "No, but Aunt Bertha would." "No, she wouldn't. She loves you, Willie, just as much as I, and we are doing what we feel is best for you, son. I do hope you realize that. This weekend we are going to drive up to Mount Vernon Military School and you will he able to look around and meet some of the boys." "I don't want to go," shouted Willie in a rebellious tone. "Now son, your aunt and I made up our minds and we feel it is necessary and I'm sure you will enjoy it. Now why don't you come downstairs with me and I'll have the maid fix some sandwiches and a glass of milk?" "No, thank you, Uncle George. I think I will stay here in my room." Uncle George patted Willie on the head and went downstairs. Willie lay down on his bed and began to cry. After crying for almost two hours, he undressed and got himself ready for bed. The weekend finally arrived and Willie was dressed in his best suit for the visit to the military academy. His aunt decided not to make the trip, so Willie and his uncle departed by themselves. When they arrived at the acado emy they were greeted warmly by Colonel Hall, the head of the school. "Well, I suppose you are Willie." "Yes, lam." "Would you like to become a soldier?" "N0, sir." The colonel laughed and explained to Willie's uncle that he had many boys who felt like Willie when they first arrived at the school, but after a few weeks they became adjusted and learned to like the school as much as their own homes." "Is this the bad boys' school?" asked Willie. "No, it is not," replied Colonel Hall. "It is for boys who wish to become fine young men, and we only accept good boys." "Do you give the boys bread and water to eat?" asked Willie. "No, we don't," smiled Colonel Hall. Uncle George and Colonel Hall left Willie outside to wander around while they went into the colonel's office to discuss matters about enrolling Willie. In the meantime Willie saw many boys his own size in real army uni· forms and began to like the idea of coming to the school. "I can hardly wait until I start," said Willie to himself. After making the final arrangements Willie and his uncle were on their way home. Willie was very excited and was busy telling Uncle George all what he saw. "I am sure happy that you liked the school, Willie. Your father had it in his will that you should attend the academy when you reach your next birth· day. Since you are almost eight, I feel you are now able to take care of yourself." "Did they give you a suit for me?" "Yes, they gave me everything that you will need, and told me that you have to report there Monday." "Will Aunt Bertha miss me?" "Yes, and I will miss you too. If you ever get too lonesome, you can call home." "Gee, I must he lucky to go to such a school." "I hoped you would feel this way, Willie." 24 After a long 'a nd interesting trip, they finally arrived home and Willie went directly to his room to get ready for dinner. Everything was done in a neat and orderly way and Willie was the first one at the dinner table. When his aunt came into the room, Willie very eagerly started to ten her all the facts concerning the school. "Do you know that Mount Vernon has a real neat cannon right in front of its gate and they even gave me a uniform to wear? It has one big stripe on the sleeve and it looks just like a real soldier suit." "I only hope that after you come back from that school you will learn to enjoy your home just a little bit more." "Now, Bertha, let's eat in peace. After all, the boy is leaving Monday, and he will have a tough time during his basic training," said George. Dinner was served. Willie found a small piece of steak on his plate and a helping of french-fried potatoes. The only part of the meal which did not meet his approval was a dish of asparagus. Willie made an attempt to eat the vegetable, but the taste seemed awful and he couldn't force himself to take any more. "Why don't you eat your vegetable?" asked Aunt Bertha. "I don't feel well," said Willie. "That's because of the lack of vegetables in your system." "May I be excused?" asked Willie. "You may," said Uncle George. Willie marched to his room and opened the box he was given at the military academy. He examined the uniform and noticed the shiny buttons and the big black belt which he would put around his waist. Willie tried on the cap and began saluting and pretending that he was a general in charge of a big invasion. After letting his imagination carry him away for awhile, Willie decided he was tired and that he had better get ready for bed before his aunt reminded him. Willie was almost asleep when he heard a knock on his door. "Who is it?" "Uncle George. Did I disturb you?" "No." "I wanted to tell you that everything you need is packed and Aunt Bertha will call you at seven. Goodnight, Willie." "Goodnight, Uncle George." The next morning Willie was awakened by his aunt. She gave him complete instructions to get himself ready and to make sure he cleaned his entire body. "While you are away at school I expect you to be a perfect gentleman; if not, Colonel Hall will send you to the bad boys' home," his aunt threatened. "Honest, Aunt Bertha, I'll be good." Willie was dressed and stood admiring himself in the mirror. He was very proud of his appearance and thought of all the fun he was going to have. He was even glad that he would not have to listen to Aunt Bertha's scoldings. The first day of school Willie went through the usual orientation. The next day he was moved into his barracks and was introduced to his roommates. 25 I "So you are Willie?" asked a lad who looked older than the rest of the boys. "Yes, lam." "My folks knew your parents before they were killed." "Oh." "Who do you live with now?" "I live with my aunt and uncle." "I would sure hate to live with my aunt and uncle." "My aunt is a nice lady sometimes, but my uncle is the hest.~' "It is not like living with your own folks though." "Oh, yes it is. My uncle takes me all over." "I heard you are the owner of the Dundee Towel Company." "Sure, and every week it goes up on the stock market," said Willie proudly. "I suppose your uncle runs it for you?" "Yes, he does." "Boy, are you a sucker. You know what he is doing? He is trying to get control of it and force you out of it, but you're too dumb and too little to know anything about business." "I am not." Suddenly a cadet appeared who had listened to the conversation. "All right, you guys, knock it off and go to bed. The next guy who makes any noise will be on K.P. for the rest of the week." The lights in the barracks went off and all the cadets went to sleep. Willie could not sleep. He felt very lonesome, so he got up and went to Colonel HaU's office. "Colonel Hall, may I use your phone? I wish to call home." "Is there anything wrong, Willie?" "No, sir, but I have to call home." Colonel Hall understood. The first few days all the boys are lonesome and want to call home. He dialed the phone and handed it to Willie. "Hello, Uncle George." "Hello, Willie, what's the trouble?" "N othing, but do you love me?" "Sure, son, your aunt and I love you very much. Why do you ask?" "Thanks, Uncle George. Thanks a million. That's all I wanted to know. Goodnight. " "Goodnight, my boy." "I don't care what anyone says, I love my uncle and I always will, no matter what," Willie said to himself, trying to control his emotions. Weeks passed. Soon it was time for Christmas vacation. Willie put on his uniform and looked forward to seeing his uncle. His uncle finally arrived at the school and Willie ran to greet him. He threw his arms around Uncle George and gave him a big hug. Willie could tell his uncle had missed him. When they arrived home Willie was given a warm reception by Aunt Bertha. "Well, how is my favorite boy?" asked Aunt Bertha. <=- "I'm fine, Aunt Bertha, how are you?" "Just wonderful, son. I suppose you are hungry. I have hamburgers and shoe-string potatoes for you." 26 Willie couldn't understand what was happening. Usually his aunt made him eat liver after a trip. "Dear Willie," his aunt said, "I missed you so much." "Willie," said Uncle George in a troubled voice, "I must tell you something." "What's wrong, Uncle George?' "You are not going to return to school. You are going to live with your other uncle." "Why?" questioned Willie. "I like living with you." "I know you do, son, but I have done something very wrong. I have embezzled money from your company so I could pay my gambling debts. The bank examiners found the shortage and I have to stand trial." Willie felt like crying, but he couldn't. "I just don't understand big people and some of the things they do," Willie said to himself. THREE POEMS by Ruth Chute Fisherman Stoutly he stands on the deck, Braced against a tossing, blowing gale, Covered head to toe in yellow oilskins In his hand the battered, stinking chub pail. His face, a craggy, weather-beaten rock, Shows the mark of years of sun and salt. His eyes, bright and deep in lines and creases, Search among the waves and never halt. Wait for a silver flash of fin To show him where to throw his chopped up bait, That will draw the swift, elusive herring Into the brown and heavy net he spread to wait. Empty House There it stands: empty, quiet, Devoid of all its peopled traits. Emptied of its generations of families. It stands silent, alone-and waits. Darkness lurks in its windows Age is peeling off its paint. An empty shell, it stands there, waiting, Crying a lonely, silent plaint. 27 Alone In The Night And The Rain I walk in the cool darkness, The rain gentle on my face, not hard. I am alone in the quiet darkness, Save for a restless dog in some dark back yard, Who challenges me as I pass, What my mission is, what right I have to walk so near. I salute him silently and pass on by into the night. Ahead, a misty island Clusters close about the light, Its transparent, weightless substance Seeking solace in a dark and friendless night. Alone, I walk from island to island, Down a dripping path without an end, Alone in a world of dark and damp, Searching, as I go. for lights and sounds and frienm. Through The Shadow Of Night Richard Diamond I was walking through the shadow of night Cold, without prayer, and friendless. Running to hide from the light, On a path that seemed to be endless, Running from footsteps behind me, A crescendo on the walk. The less I believed in God The closer they seemed to stalk. I ran till I was breathless. Without faith I could not see. I looked around with fear. It was God pursuing me. TWO POEMS by Janna Dodge Night Not every day can be so glowing to feel the earth warm and bright. Not every lurking shadow as dark, as the darkest blue black of night. 28 Spring What if no spring would come this year and none the great green of rebirth? With the death of hope of spring, 80 dies the summer of a lifeless earth. TWO POEMS by Marvin Essing Hitler As A Boy It was a warm and windy day. Dead leaves flew swiftly by, like starlings startled by a storm while scooting through the sky. A father, growling like a dog, exclaimed: "Get out, ya' nut! your mother doesn't want ya', boy, you're illegitimate." The boy left home, felt lost at school, and sat down in a slump. His head and shoulders both hung low like the handle of a pump. Then when the teacher slapped his face because he broke a bat, he said, "All people I shall rule and treat each like a rat." Spelling Out God "Eureka!" was the sculptor's shout, which followed with the spout: "God's face is shiny like a trout! I've finally found Him out!" "Eureka!" was the painter's cry, as he stopped his stroke to sigh: "God's face is white like mine and the sky! not dark like dirt or dye!" 29 I "Eureka!" started the teacher's tale; "God's blink could break a nail, but His heart is larger than a whale, and He loves you' though you fail." They're ej ecting wind like a jet, but more than that, they're set on spelling God on high, and yet, they're using the wrong alphabet! SIX POEMS by Dave Evans Oh Time, Oh Life, Go Back, Go Back Oh time, Oh life, go back, go back, Oh where have my young days been? I've seen the smiles, I've seen the joys They're gone, they can't come back again. Oh time, Oh life, go back, go back, And where has that beauty been? Those dear that sparked my happy days, They're gone, they can't come back again. Oh time, Oh life, go back, go back, Oh where are those eyes that burn? I saw them then, the happy eyes, They're gone, they can't, they can't return. Oh time, Oh life, go back, go back, Look, what did the angels spurn? The simple ways, the little things, They're gone, they can't, they can't return. Oh time, Oh life, forget, forget, And bring me my sadness soon, And leave the frightful past a past, Move on, and grant this only boon. A Note Of Solace Each Each Each Each hour displays a better part, day some bird will sing. man contains a little art, year at least a Spring. 30 A Thief Who Who Who Who robs Autumn of its life, steals the song from the lark, brings Winter, wound in strife, makes the Spring day dark? The Road Last night I lay lamenting life, Reclining in my bed, While wannish thoughts of endless woe Went winding through my head. And sinking off in silent sleep, Yet conscious, it would seem, I saw a child upon a road, So happy in this dream. And skipping now and then he went Expending all his might, And gayly shouting, gayly laughing, It was a joyous sight. The road was soft and beautiful And twisted through the wood; He loved the road, the wondrous road, And all was right and good. Beyond the hills, above the trees Was something better yet; And up the road he'd find the light, Beyond the red sunset. As time went on the road grew steep And left the ripening wood; Perpetual summer left the road, The boy his childhood. N ow ruts and pebbles bent his feet And slowed his rapid pace; The sky grew damp, the wind blew cold And slapped his second face. And up the road he saw no light, The clouds obscured the view; But golden meadows, russet leaves, Were all around, he knew. And wondering still about the light, He left the rotting way; And in the meadows, in the leaves. Again he found dismay. 31 I Again the sky grew damp and dark, The wind blew hard and cold, A dullness lulled the meadows' life, The leaves, the man, grew old. Above the darkened clouds and sky, Beyond the withered wood, He saw the light he'd known before, His light of childhood. He longed for the distant light, He felt his life grow dim; The light, the road, he couldn't find, He died in search of them. The The The The wood, the light, have vanished now, . meadows' life is gone; leaves, the man, have perished since, road is all alone. My Father Used To Walk Alone In The Rain My father used to walk alone in the rain, When the town was stilled by tinkling silence With the raindrops sprinkling down Upon roofs, gardens and trees. My Father used to walk alone in the rain, When the mist of evening masked the hill And the stars, like muffled ghosts, Hung half-hidden in a dry, white heaven. My Father used to walk alone in the rain, When the whetted wind and softened sand Prevailed upon a plain Pregnant with peaceful melancholy. My Father used to walk alone in the rain, When the town was asleep, all the town Save my Father and the rain Made one by some unhappy miracle. My Father used to walk alone in the rain, My Father could look into the rain; I could not see him Unless I listened to the rain. 32 Man Exiled in a speckled, timeless sea, On a world wrought in a dark domain Only meant for stars, or lights of stars, Is a man, desolate, lost, alone, A living grain lingering in winds, Dissolving in winds, wasting with time And dying exiled, a friend of night. Perhaps a flower will pierce that brain That lies loosening in the desert soil; Perhaps the sockets of that skull will house Other things of brief mortality, Dissolving in winds, wasting with time, Other than man, lost, alone, Man, the dream within a dream. Signs Of Spring Marilyn Higgins I noticed on the trees as I passed by Hundreds and hundreds of tiny round buds Each one a leaf-to-be in itself To clothe the bare brown twigs. As I continued on my way, A robin was busy at work picking weeds to mix with clay for a nest in a tree near by. The Land Of Tao-Much Diane Huntsinger Radio, hi-fi, television, Watch of white-gold for precision, Yet my daughter, in derision, Says that she lives in prison. Bike, clothes, spending-money, Rifle, dog, a horse named Sunny; Yet my son, looking quite funny, Says he'd rather his nose be runny. Mangle, maid, free afternoons, China, crystal, silver spoons, Yet my wife, in carefree tunes, Says, "No more meals for you at noons." 33 Debts, scow Is, income tax, Little praise, and some wisecracks, Yet I come home to face the facts, "More money, Dad, you can't relax." To outdo Jones is their desire; Chauffeured Invicta and fine attire; Outside show: join the choir But sleep while parsons preach on fire. Listen, but don't pay much heed F or you are not the one in need. You've got a gold or silver bead; You don't need a Christian creed. And Why? Nancy Lewis He stands alone, a watchman of the night. The cursed dampness holding in his light. The rain has stopped, the barren corner's still. One's desolation bends him to its will. He feels the ache of loneliness inside, The bitter ache for which weak men have died. In the street the small pools of water stand Reflecting the dim light he gives for men. He gives in vain. He still remains alone With only dreams of some gay past he's known. His thoughts run back to times when lovers met Beneath his light. He still can hear them yet. The silly words, the promises and plans. They pledged their all to meet love's sweet demands. But that is past, the lovers come no more. The world is still- no laughter as before. And why? Does anybody know God's will? He does not know- He suffers and is still. He stands and waits, the rain begins anew. He is ·alone, and I am alone, too. 34 SEVEN POEMS by Bradley Pietens Odyssey Reversed When John went marching off to war, His head held high, erect, and stem, He vowed he'd settle up the score And from the battle soon return. Each day that passed while he was gone, His mother said her beads in vain, His lover pined and wept till dawn, Oh, that he would return again! But time went on, surging ahead, Life sowed, death reaped its endless yield, And then the word that he was dead, Asleep on some far-distant field. Oh humble church where once this man Knelt down, like child, engrossed in prayer, Your sanctuary to employ, Your spire no longer rends the air. But in the humble yard beside, In shallow and unmarked grave, The heather, brier, and bramble hide The remnant of God's loyal slave. Death When touched by death's dark velvet wing, Unlike a piece of clay or sod, A moment of remembering, Before we see the face of God. In Absence Of A Title Behind a burst of cloudy fire, The sky-lark spirals ever higher, To trill a silvery offering Before the sun, his only king. 35 Autumn I see old autumn standing there, In disillusion and decay, Dressed all in limp, bedraggled flowers, That bygone summer's cast away. House Of Death Sometimes a house, like man, will die, And on the hearth, cold ashes lie, An empty echo in each room, In darkness, morbid as a tomb. Futility I walked tonight in winter; The whole earth seemed to be A shroud for dead things, buried, Marked by only barren, gnarled trees. There was no color but the color Of death, grey snow, black sky, The wind moaned a funeral dirge, We walked alone, the wind and I. I am in darkness without a star, A spider's web in the night, Emotions poured out into a Bottomless crater of black fright. No urge within me but to lie Close to the earth. The dark, Violet gloom steadily closes about me, Snuffing out my futile spark. The Farmer What if the back is stooped, the skin dried, Tending the soil? The sun, wind, and rain Leave kindlier marks than avarice and pride Upon the countenance of man. One share of pain Had best be got from simple things, like drouth And dying plants, than from the real disease Of Selfishness, that puts upon the mouth A deformed smile, and whips our memories Until they burn. Oh! farmer, your plough and hoe· And the sweat you drop on the seedlings In the ground, 36 Bring a harvest of abundant life to show; While we who are occupied the seasons round With cunning thoughts and schemes, become twisted And curved, Even as your back is. We have not seen the fruit Of life ripen, and having not served Our earth or ourselves, are lost and destitute. THREE POEMS by Beverly Tritle Expose Two young fools met in this cruel world And thought they were in love. An attraction so magnetic Surely must come from above. "I will be forever faithful," She promised him that day. "Never will I love another! With you I will stay." And truly, truly she did love; She learned a woman's art. Yet seldom did she really please And burdened was her heart. Then one day a lover beckoned And offered a huge sum; A life exciting, love responsive, And woe--she did succumb. So surely, surely toward the fate She chose; now on she goes. But judge her not! In time our acts All inner thoughts expose. Ripples We walked beside the lake, my lover and I. The night was calm; the water blue and still. Almost as if by accident, he stooped And tossed a pebble far and high. The surface, once so calm, was broken when One little splash began a ripple ring. Tiny little waves chased each other Until they vanished in the calm again. 37 It was a pleasing thing, and so once more He tossed a pebble; then a larger stone. . I tried it too; we found the special ones That skipped far out from the shore. The ripple rings we started grew and grew. They met each other and they spread . Far out onto the lake; but that was alL Then it was calm; and the lake was new. A Woman This earth is a shambles Then, who with their own hands Harnessed such tremendous power, Destroyed it. And themselves with it. And here I stand; a woman With no understanding of the power That wrought such destruction; But could have brought bounteous plenty. A woman; but only skilled in the arts, Whose whole life until now Was a drama, and music, and beauty. Lovely to look at Lovely to hear A star with no audience now. A woman; alone Except for that man in the field. A man; hoeing the ground That it will bring forth food. A man; strong and able But black as night. Here I stand; a woman. 38 PERSPECTIVES Short Story Prize, 1961: To RUTH CHUTE PERSPECTIVES Poetry Prize, 1961: To DAVE EVANS 39  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Perspectives: Volume 20, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Kiosk Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Andrews, Loren: Author Chute, Ruth: Author Crumley, David: Author Johnstone, Joanne: Author Shattuck, Sandra: Author Smith, Jules: Author Diamond, Richard: Author Dodge, Janna: Author Essing, Marvin: Author Evans, Dave: Author Higgins, Marilyn: Author Huntsinger, Diane: Author Lewis, Nancy: Author Pietens, Bradley: Author Tritle, Beverly: Author Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1961 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-11-25 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Johnstone, Joanne: Editor Chute, Ruth: Business Manager Dodge, Janna: Cover Design Levant, Howard: Faculty Advisor Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical 44 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Description An account of the resource The Perspectives contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Kiosk Manuscript Perspectives student publications http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/b24d75d935acdc954d4cd49454713f64.jpg 5c6f4e3947996a67688dd65ec5bc01ae Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource President Palmer Handing Document to Woman 01-02 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Hansen, Brett: Creator Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Palmer, J. Richard: Subject Art Barrett Photography: Original Photographer Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archives/3rd Floor/File Cabinets/Photographs-People-Administration, Faculty + Staff- P. Palmer Description An account of the resource A digital representation of a 7 x 5 black and white photograph taken circa 1960 by Art Barrett Photography. The photograph features J. Richard Palmer and a woman exchanging a document. There is handwriting on the back of the photograph. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2019-04-26 Type The nature or genre of the resource Image Still Image Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource JPEG 9.49 MB 5324 Pixels x 3748 Pixels Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Hansen, Brett: Cataloger Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2019-04-26 http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/a08493b49dbfe54ade1ecd9d888a869f.jpg 9a2ddec9b6b34104ae618611aafc720a Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource President Palmer Handing Document to Woman 02-02 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Hansen, Brett: Creator Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Palmer, J. Richard: Subject Art Barrett Photography: Original Photographer Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archives/3rd Floor/File Cabinets/Photographs-People-Administration, Faculty + Staff- P. Palmer Description An account of the resource A digital representation of a 7 x 5 black and white photograph taken circa 1960 by Art Barrett Photography. The photograph features J. Richard Palmer and a woman exchanging a document. There is handwriting on the back of the photograph. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2019-04-26 Type The nature or genre of the resource Image Still Image Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource JPEG 1.91 MB 5390 Pixels x 3907 Pixels Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Hansen, Brett: Cataloger Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2019-04-26 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Morningside's Historic Photographs Description An account of the resource This collection features a vast array of photographs of Morningside College, its students, faculty and staff, and various events through the College's long history. Make sure to sort by subjects or tags to narrow the photographs to a specific time period, event, organization or person. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Hickman-Johnson-Furrow Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Hickman-Johnson-Furrow Library Subject The topic of the resource History Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Hickman-Johnson-Furrow Library Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2016-06-29 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Photograph JPEG Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context MHP Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Photograph Physical Dimensions The actual physical size of the original image 7 Inches x 5 Inches Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource President Palmer Handing Document to Woman Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Art Barrett Photography: Photographer Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Palmer, J. Richard: Subject Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archives/3rd Floor/File Cabinets/Photographs-People-Administration, Faculty + Staff- P. Palmer Description An account of the resource A 7 x 5 black and white photograph taken circa 1960 by Art Barrett Photography. The photograph features J. Richard Palmer and a woman exchanging a document. There is handwriting on the back of the photograph. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. ca. 1960 Type The nature or genre of the resource Image Still Image Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Photograph 7 Inches x 5 Inches Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Hansen, Brett: Cataloger Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2019-04-26 http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/2784ea758fdfe38c321bddb8a43dae61.pdf 6fd1c4c176ae1cd1def67d93c76d1a73 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Perspectives: Volume 25, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Kiosk Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource This PDF file of the Perspectives contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ponder, Marcie Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2013-01-13 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-12-11 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-11 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF 7.07 MB 60 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Perspectives-Vol25-No01_KDC_1966_01-01_01.pdf Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger PDF Text Text rChive ~~ ... ~ BI.8 p 32 1969-_ ' ����PERSPECTIVES SPRING 1966 VOLUME XXV NUMBER 1 Staff Editor ..... _ ................ _ ................ _.... _ _ _ .......... .......... ..................................-........... Lynette Ford ...................... _ _........... Charles Hale .... Business Manager ............................................... _ Art Consultant ......................._ _ _ _ _ _ Mr. William Zimmerman .... .... .......... .... .... ..... Faculty Advisor ..... _ .......................................................... _ ........... Dr. Howard Levant SIOU CfTY, lOW PERSPECTIVES is published by the students of Morningside College Sioux City, Iowa �Love Of Her Life Malola Atwood She walked out of the doctor's office listlessly, her shoulders drooping and head hung as if she had just been punished. The doctor had just told her she was pregnant. "My God!" she thought, "forty years old and going to have another baby." What would the kids think, and how could she tell then1 there would be another mouth to feed when things were already skimpy and Jeanie, the oldest one, was planning to start to college in the fall. How could she inflict this news on them? Her family, of which she was so proud; four lovely intelligent children; so much comfort to her, and the way things had been planned, all grown by the time she was fifty. Now, with a new one coming, John, her husband, would be near retirement when the child graduated from high school and she would be a gray-haired old hag. The months seemed to drag interminably; she was so· sick and the summer months were so hot and sticky. Sleep became a priceless commodity, not to be taken lightly and noise disturbed her until she thought, "What am I becoming? I scream and shout at the children, and ignore John until I create an intense impossible situation, but I can't seem to help myself." One morning in the middle of September, she arose from a troubled sleep and as she was getting breakfast, felt a twinge of pain low in her back. "Well," she thought to herself, "today is the day." At noon, she told the children good-by, giving them detailed instructions for the next week, and drove up to the hospital. Once there, she had one of the attendants call John, because she knew he would want to be there when the baby came. If this one went' like the others had, she should be through by the middle of the afternoon. She was not frightened, only dreading it as a long-forgotten ordeal. It had been ten years since she had had a baby and she wasn't really looking forward to it. Nothing was the same; her evening became a nightmare of pain and frustration. The baby would not come, it was upside down, it was sideways, it was ... She didn't know what it was, she only wished it to be over quickly. At midnight she called the nurse because she knew it was to be now. The nurses hurried her into the delivery room and fifteen minutes later the doctor held up a round, fat; black-haired baby girl. She looked at it with awe and wonder. "Why, I don't hate her .. 3 1 03 �at all! She's going to be as precious as the others. She will be my baby. My baby girl!" The nurses cleaned her up and wheeled her into her room where she immediately flopped onto her stomach, thinking, "Oh, how good it feels to be able to lie this way. I could sleep for a week," and promptly she fell into a deep restful slumber. The next morning John was there when she awoke and told her it was necessary for her to have some remedial surgery and she was to go up immediately. Not really surprised, but wondering a little why it was necessary so soon after her delivery, she gave her~elf up to the nurse for the different shots, and long surgical stockings. A half hour later she was deep under the anesthetic. She woke slowly, disoriented for a few minutes and then realizing where she was, heard a voice repeating over and over again, "lVlrs. Comstock, can you hear me? Mrs. Comstock, can you hear me?" She gazed up from the hospital bed into a strange face. Weakly, she nodded her head. "Who are you? I have never seen you before." "Mrs. Comstock, I am Doctor Hanks, I must talk to you. Can you understand me?" He told her that he had been called in on consultation for her and that it had been necessary to perform radical surgery. There would be no more children. She thanked him slowly and precisely, still under the effects of sedation, and promptly fell asleep again. Sh.e didn't awake again until the next morning. Wondering what day it was now, she looked around her in alarm. She had lost days out of her life; and how many ? John wa.s there and as she came fully awake she realized he looked terrible. He had a haunted, lost expression on his face and full blue circles bene'a th his eyes. She asked him, jokingly, if he had been out on the town, but the expression on his face stopped her before she had finished her question. She knew something was wrong and all at once she came fully awake. The baby! Something must be wrong with the new baby. John stood and patted her shoulder absent-mindedly 'a s she asked her question. "What's wrong?" "Well," John stammered "its the baby, she may not live. She has something wrong with her heart. You musn't be alarmed, they are doing all they can." The thought struck her with horror. "I didn't want this one; perhaps I am going to be punished. Please God, let her be safe, 4 �she's my precious baby girl. Please, please, don't let her die." It was a half plea and half prayer and was all uttered within herself. The doctor bustled into the room and told them the baby would be all right 'a nd in her heart she answered her prayer to herself. "Thank you, God. Thank you for leaving my family complete." In later years she could never imagine why she hadn't wanted her baby girl-the light, the life, and the love of her later years. The Obsession Cheryl Eichman Carl Anderson turned away from the bright light that was filtering through the venetian blinds and pulled the blankets closer around his neck. He felt a strong urge to lie there and go back to sleep, but he knew that in forty-three minutes he had to be maneuvering his 1966 Buick through the melee of city traffic or he would be late for his job. The thought of his job made him squirm within his warm cocoon. It wasn't a bad job, public accountant for the large.st company in the city, and the pay was sufficient to provide most of the things he and his family wanted but. . . . He started. Marge had called again. Reluctantly throwing the covers aside, Carl struggled out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. The wool carpet was warm on his bare feet and the smell of toast and coffee awoke his senses. Someday he was going to have bacon and eggs for breakfast every morning. Marge was reading the newspaper when he walked into the kitchen. She was a good wife and mother, demanding little and giving much. Many times she had gone without something she needed to get an extra item for him or the children. She was careful in her shopping and could stretch her grocery money to the limit. Being an excellent sewer, she made most of her own clothes. Someday he was going to buy her everything she deserved and .... He kissed the top of her head out of habit and poured himself a cup of coffee. His glance met the long mar on the countertop and he was suddenly very dissatisfied with his surroundings. Then he remembered his dream. It had been more like a nightmar e and he had woken in a sweat. Now, the only thing he could remember was that Jim Morgan had been in it. Morgan's had been their neighbors for years. They had helped 5 �each O'ther landscape their yards and pave their drives. They played golf tO'gether for years and every Saturday night was their weekly bridge game. Jim wO'rked for the same cO'mpany that Carl did, but somehO'w there was a difference. Jim's shrubs seemed to' grO'w better, his gO'lf and bridge games were always played with more skill, and sO'mehow Jim had always been chO'sen for the cO'mpany advancements. Rushing to' finish his breakfast, Carl reached for the sugar. His suit sleeve caught a cO'ffee cup and it spread its cO'ntents O'n the surface O'f the table. Brown streams sped around the cereal boxes and milk cartO'n and fell O'ver the table's edge forming limpid amber poO'ls O'n the flO'or. Just Carl's luck. SO'pping up the liquid with his napkin and apO'IO'gizing to Marge, he was again reminded O'f his dream. He remembered that the liquid had been gO'lden and its mO'vement had been an internal churning rather than spreading intO' streams as the cO'ffee has dO'ne. But he didn't have time to' think abO'ut it nO'w. He was five minutes late and Jim hated to' be late fO'r wO'rk. He glanced O'nce mO're with distaste at the cO'ffee and grabbed his attache case. After a light , eck on the cheek fO'r Marge, he p flew to' the garage. Jim was waiting O'n the curb and was in the car almO'st befO're it had stO'pped. _ "Where have yO'u been, bO'y? We're gonna be late if yO'u dO'n't step O'n it." Jim's agitated vO'ice grO'und O'n Carl's nerves but he didn't bO'ther to' explain why he was late. Jim wouldn't be interested anyway. As they mO'ved out intO' the traffic, Jim settled down to' read the mO'rning paper. "Say, yO'u shO'uld see this advertisement. A full page lay-out O'f wO'men's cO'ats fO'r the winter seasO'n. YO'u knO'w, O'ur anniversary is next week and I'll bet June wO'uld 100ve O'ne O'f those shO'rt fur jackets." Jim's comment was typical. He was always trying to' rub it in that he made mO're mO'ney than Carl. Jim went on unmindful O'f Carl's silence. "June really needs a new cO'at. The one she bought last year has really seen its better days." Sure it has, Carl thO'ught. June has prO'bably wO'rn the coat at least six times. Then he thO'ught abO'ut Marge's cO'at. This was its third year and the prO'spects O'f a new O'ne weren't very gO'O'd. Maybe next year. Carl stepped O'n the acceleratO'r, enjO'ying the feeling O'f pO'wer beneath him. The shO'ulders O'f the highw'a y slipped by unseen un6 �til his destination finally came into view. The autumn sun reflected from the office building windows and seemed to emit a friendly warmth. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad day after all. II The day had been long and had continued as it had started with nothing going right. After the bad start with the coffee and Jim's blowing, the boss had called him in about his work and said that he wasn't working up to capacity. When he finally 'a rrived home, Marge asked him to punish the children for not coming home right after school. To forget his frustrations, Carl went to bed early. Sleep always provided a good escape. III Sitting bolt upright in bed, Carl was aware that he .had been sleeping for .some time. His body was wet with sweat and his hands and feet were icy cold. His mouth was so dry that it hurt to move it. It had been the dream again. The one which he had had last night and the night before and the nights before that for as long as he could remember. The room was oppressing. Quietly slipping into his clothes, he left the room. The stairs groaned with his weight as he passed through the darkness. One of the children .stirred in his sleep. Outside the night air was heavy and the sky forecasted rain. The atmosphere did little to lift the oppressing weight from him. Carl went to the garage, backed the car out and drove somewhere - anywhere. The headlights played ahead of the car, illuminating objects and creating .shadows. A light mist began to fall, producing an aura of unreality. Carl pulled over on the shoulder of the road and stopped his car. It was then that he thought about the dream again. Like most dreams, it was confusing and mostly incoherent, but he could remember that he and Marge were with Jim. They were touring a new industrial building that Jim had financed. After going up several spiral flights of steps, they found themselves looking down into a huge vat of golden liquid. It had a granular consistency and was bubbling as it slowly churned toward the center of the vat. An odor of sickening sweetness permeated the room. 7 �On a platform opposite them were a group of Carl's associates from the company. Sure, there was Pete Johnson and Bob Marques and Larry Robinson ... he couldn't make out the others very clearly. As Jim was explaining the qualities of the liquid to all of them, his face became contorted into absolute fiendishness. The contents of the vat represented all the money that had been invested into the company. It was the life-blood. The gold had been melted and kept moving to be a constant reminder that it was the life-blood of their company and themselves. Money provided them with all the comforts and solace of life. It was life .... The sound of Jim's voice grew faint and Carl grew dizzy from the nausating sweet- . ness in the room. He lost his balance and went plummeting into the vat. The liquid grabbed at his clothing seeking to make Carl a part of itself. It was dragging him deeper and deeper into its depths. He screamed for help but all he received was the hysteric laughter of his friends. As the golden liquid churned about his face, he saw Marge. She was leaning over the railing, pointing her finger at him and laughing ... laughing ... laughing. Carl was resting his forehead on the steering wheel. Small beads of sweat had popped out along his brow. Finally he CO,llsciously remembered the dream that had invaded his sleep for weeks. As Carl reflected on the dream, he was struck with a single thought. What was money? All his life he had struggled to make money and then more money and more money. Why wasn't his appetite for wealth ever sated? And then there was Jim who made more money yet. He hated Jim for . . . He hated him . . . Yes, that was it, he hated Jim and all of his other friends because most of them brought home bigger pay checks than he did. He was jealous of them. But were they any happier? They worked just as hard as he did; they didn't enjoy their new cars and boats any more than he enj oyed his older ones; they spent even less time at home with their families so they could gain overtime. What kind of a life was that? Surely there was more than that. A flash of lightning followed by a loud roll of thunder started Carl from his pensive mood. The rain began to fall. Slowly at first in big drops that splashed on the windshield. Then it came faster in small, hard drops. Carl rolled down the car window. The smell of the wet earth and dead leaves cleared his head. If there was more to life than lTIOney and position, maybe ... just maybe, he was on the road to finding it. 8 �The Art 0'1 The Pos: ible s Robert L. Faulhaber The room was a shambles. The tables, perhaps normally used to display a salesman's wares, was strewn with paper, littered ash trays and half-empty glasses. Little droplets of stale ice water reflected from its polished surface. A red-coated bell boy had closed the door creating a dash of draft that .swirled and eddied the layers of smoke hanging listlessly across the slanting rays of the late evening sun. The room's only window looked out over the grey roof tops of Boston. It was spring and only three weeks until the Sta te Primary. Al Thompson, a big hulk of a man, sat tense at the table. His face was livid. A big round badge, inscribed, "NATIONAL CHAIRMAN-LODGE FOR PRESIDENT COMMITTEE," tottered and blinked on his lapel as he breated heavily. "Damn it, Bill," he roared · as his fist thundered on the table top. "It you have no stomach for this, what in the hell are you doing in COPE?" Bill Luther remained slumped in his chair; "Bastard," he t hought, "I won't give the bastard the pleasure of an answer. Stomach! God, what I've been through since that first union meeting back in '35! Stomach! Guts is the word! Raw, tight, bleeding guts! Clawing up out of the picket lines-dull meetings-all night haggling over a few lousy nickles, hoodwinking the mob- broken skulls-soup kitchens- a shot gun blast through the picture window that night in Detroit-dirty deals, clever deals, temporary deals, and some deals that back-fired. Now what about this one? God, could it ever back-fire! So we have a hoaxed-up four-year-old TV tape that now showed the old man indorsing Lodge for President. Sure it would fool the public. But, damn the public- what about some starry-eyed smart-alec reporter pulling the chain? And the old man himself? All right, we do keep him out-of-touch for twenty-four hours while we get the ball rolling. Granted he has straddled every is.sue for eight long years in the White House and every issue since. But this is touchy! It could tee him off enough to force his hand. So many chances. But the word is out." His thoughts trailed off as he contemplated the big picture. The word was out. Stop Goldwater at all costs. Rocky blew his image with that Murphy gal up in Albany and now the last good hope of the party was Lodge. His campaign had caught fire in New Hampshire, but it needed the big push. 9 �A harsh shot ring broke the tension in the room and brought Bill's attention back to the here and now. Al had the phone cradled in his big fist before it could ring the second time. "Yeh," he grunted, his knuckles white on the receiver. "Thompson here. O. K., put him on." T. J. Drextell, State Committee Chairman, and all that was left of an old back bay family, was sitting stiff backed on the edge of his chair. "Yeh," repeated AI, "T. J. is here. It's all set up. Hell, his family owns the TV station! Sure, it's ready to run. It's your end we are worried about. Is the fix on the nurse?" There was a breathless pause as he listened. Madison Duffy slumped in his chair. He was ready. The TV tape had been altered. The corners of his mouth crinkled slightly in a smug little smile as he contemplated how cleverly he had mixed a flare of trumpets in the background music to completely obliterate the word, "Vice." It came out loud and clear- Ike backing Lodge for President. His sn1ile deepened into one of self-satisfaction. If this crummy trick sparked the Lodge effort enough to stop Goldwater, there was a chance Madison Duffy would someday be issuing press releases from the White House. Yes, Madison could well afford to smile. AI's voice again thundered through through the room. "0. K.Remember now; if the schedule changes, call at once. If we do not hear from you, we roll the film at 7 :15 prime time." Ice tinkled in a glass as Al slammed the phone cradle on its stand. His dark eyes pierced the smoke as their sharp focus gathered the attention of his cohorts one by one. There was no question who was running the show. "Now one more while we still have time," his voice rasped with tension. "T. J., is your boy ready?" "Yes Sir, AI, the 7 :15 news program will carry the tape. It will roll unless they receive a call from me personally. No hitch there, my boy." T. J. Drextell had long since given up thinkingjust follow orders and not ask too m'any questions. After all the Drextells and the Lodges were both old New England families; no real harm done, you know; 01' Henry was a right fellow- Harvard- 19, Lampoon-------. AI's sarcastic voice interrupted T. J.'s nervous reverie like an echo. "Just follow the plan, T. J., just follow the plan. This is not a little State fiasco we're pulling off." "Now Madison," and his sharp eyes brought the young man up out of his slouch. "We've gone over your stuff. It's good. Re- 10 �member the image is the key. Lodge has a good reputation and plenty going for him from his UN bit. Play it up. But that. Asiatic stuff is hot potato- he's on shaky ground there so be careful. AI's hands moved in little jerks across the table as if he were deploying armies of toy soldiers. "Now the next ten minutes will tell the tale. The old man is on his way to the hospital. To be sure he doesn't change his schedule, we are holding until the last minute." His pudgy fist moved a glass over to the edge of the table. "Once he is in Bethesda for his annual check-up we can rely on Bill's boys and the head nurse to be sure tomorrow morning's papers don't reach him. Thank God he never watches TV or listens to the radio when he has a couple of good western magazines to read. By 8 :00 A. M. he'll be down the hall for laboratory check and so on." His hands spread wide decisively, palms down. "Now, that's enough time to make every deadline in the country, Madison, and we want results." "Right, Chief, we're ready." Al slowly shoved the glass toward the center of the table. "By the time the old man finds out he has indorsed our boy, it will be too late for him to deny it without looking like a complete ass. Hagarty will come up with the usual on again- off again fence straddling kind of rubbish he has been dishing out through the whole campaign. "The old man has been good for the party." T. J. Drexell looked sUI})rised that he had actually had the audacity to speak up. He seemed to wilt as the big man slowly turned to him. AI's eyes seemed to focus on the prim little man in gradual realization that he really was there, twitching on the edge of his chair. "Don't be a fool," he rasped. "Don't be a complete fool." Al relaxed his massive frame and sprawled his elbows on the table top. In his right hand he cradled an old-fashioned pocket watch, its gold fob dangling loosely. He laid it gently, face up next to a half-empty bottle of old Grandad. His voice was quiet and yet seemed to fill the room as it rose fron1 the depth of his chest. "Four minutes. The old man is in the hospital by now. Unle.ss we get that call in four minutes, the die is cast. By God, this could be the thing to stop Goldwater. He has got to be stopped." His brow darkened as his voice trailed off, "- got to be stopped- ." Silence hung deadly in the room. The soft click seemed to echo as Madison Duffy twisted the knob of the TV set. The eerie white light of the 21-inch tube 'c ast a ghostly pall over the faces of the men. The sun had set. The smoke haze had faded into 11 �gloom, blurring the edges and corners of the room into dark shadow. In another time the four men could have been Druid priests huddled around a ceremonial altar fire, or Nordic knights gazing transfixed into the glowing entrance of a Wagnerian Valhalla. But this was the Twentieth Century and the TV's pale glow accented the darkness of the room and the ethical depths of the deed. Al Thompson had poured a glass of raw Bourbon. Bill Luther waved away the offer of a toast. Duffy's eyes were strained with nervous tension. The shadowy light from the television tube reflected sharply from T. J. Drextell's long aristocratic jaw, but failed to hide the near panic in his eyes. He had the look of a trapped animal, helpless in his confusion. Al picked up his watch and gently tucked it into a vest pocket. He heaved a deep sigh as he turned closer to the TV set. Madison flicked the volume knob and the silence was shattered by the newscaster's excited voice. "Ex-President Eisenhower indorses Ambassador Lodge for President! Just an hour ago our station filmed this historic .event. Here is the video tape------." C, mpute, Pleas, ! o e Lynette Ford The classroom buzzed with nervous excitement. A test day atmosphere permeated the room. Mary Knowles fingered the dials on Faithful Freddie, checked his brief case to make certain that he had brought a few extra tapes. Marcia Gingham fed book-facts to her Impatient Inez and Inez responded with a whir, flash, and a click-click. Mr. Maquina entered the room one minute after the hands on the clock pointed at eight. Perfect Pasty, Jerry Trippet's computer, whirred out a message to him. "His timer is off," it read. Jerry sn1iled at Patsy, nodded his head as if he understood, 'a nd then turned his gaze toward Mr. Maquina. "Today class," droned a voice from somewhere inside Mr. Maquina, "we will have our final on William Shakespeare, the 12 �gloom, blurring the edges and corners of the room into dark shadow. In another time the four men could have been Druid priests huddled around a ceremonial altar fire, or Nordic knights gazing transfixed into the glowing entrance of a Wagnerian Valhalla. But this was the Twentieth Century and the TV's pale glow accented the darkness of the room and the ethical depths of the deed. Al Thompson had poured a glass of raw Bourbon. Bill Luther waved away the offer of a toast. Duffy's eyes were strained with nervous tension. The shadowy light from the television tube reflected sharply from T. J. Drextell's long aristocratic jaw, but failed to hide the near panic in his eyes. He had the look of a trapped animal, helpless in his confusion. Al picked up his watch and gently tucked it into a vest pocket. He heaved a deep sigh as he turned closer to the TV set. Madison flicked the volume knob and the silence was shattered by the newscaster's excited voice. "Ex-President Eisenhower indorses Ambassador Lodge for President! Just an hour ago our station filmed this historic .event. Here is the video tape------." C, mpute, Pleas1! o e Lynette Ford The classroom buzzed with nervous excitement. A test day atmosphere permeated the room. Mary Knowles fingered the dials on Faithful Freddie, checked his brief case to make certain that he had brought a few extra tapes. Marcia Gingham fed book-facts to her Impatient Inez and Inez responded with a whir, flash, and 'a click-click. Mr. Maquina entered the room one minute after the hands on the clock pointed at eight. Perfect Pasty, Jerry Trippet's computer, whirred out a message to him. "His timer is off," it read. Jerry sn1iled at Patsy, nodded his head as if he understood, 'and then turned his gaze toward Mr. Maquina. "Today class," droned a voice from somewhere inside Mr. Maquina, "we will have our final on William Shakespeare, the 12 �greatest poet of the Pre-I. B. M. Poetic Era." Mr. Maquina raised his right hand jerkily to his head, scratched his blond hair, and continued. "Each of you, I presume, has brought several tapes to class. This will be at least a two tape test." At these words bright O'reen lights of eagerness flashed on the computers and they urged their students to smile. "It will be the usual procedure. The first person to receive the answer from his computer will bring it to my desk and receive an "A"; the second person will receive a "B" and so on. Are you ready?" Again green lights flashed and students smiled approvingly. "All right, tapes ready to record. What is the main theme of Shakespeare's play Hamlet?" Roars, whirs, buzzes, clangs, clicks, and hums flooded the roon1. Approximately two minutes later Mary Knowles rushed to Mr. Maquina's desk with the answer. She followed a zig-zag course past student's chairs and cabinet like computers or more expensive human-shaped computers and reached his desk slightly ahead of Marcia Gingham. One by one the other twenty-three members of the class brought their answers to the desk. The gradeless answers were dropped reluctantly on the desk and each failing computer resolved to do better on the next questions. The test day race continued through fourteen more questions and then, with the sounding of the bell, students followed their rolling computers out of the room. Terrific Teddy remarked to Perfect Patsy, "This test was one of the hardest ones I've ever computed!" "I computed well but Jerry is ill so he couldn't run like he should." "Aren't humans hard to understand at times?" "Yes, they break down so easily." "Well, time for chemistry class. I had better rush. Are you coming, Tom ?" Teddy spoke to Tom through his speak-aloud system although he had been conversing with Patsy in Click-Glick dialect. Mr. Maquina remained in room 153, filing the test tapes in his huge memory compartment. Just as the clock hand pointed to nine, Mr. Cybernic, the principal, came rolling into the room, holding a news tape in front of him. "More humans committing suicide- 15 yesterday, 28 the day before- and going insane. Thought's the key. They don't let their computers do enough thinking for them. It's such a shame. With all these glorious machines to direct their activities in the right direction, humans remain unhappy. I just don't understand!" 13 �Distillery B'o und Charles Hale Jerry's gaze covered the sun drenched beauty of the hills surrounding him. The gentle chirping of the birds alone interruped the solitude . •Jerry drew a handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped it across his brow. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up, his tie was back in the car, and to heck with his hat. If it was ever 110 degrees in the shade, he knew it was this afternoon. "Are there many fish in this creek?" he inquired looking at the boy, searchingly. "I catch chubs, here all the time," the boy answered. "Jimmy goes over on the White River; he catches biggins over there, I'd like to go but mom won't let me. She says it's too far, and I'm not old enough." "\Vho's Jimrny- your big brother?" Jerry asked, now helping the boy attach a hook to an eight foot line. "Yeh, he's sixteen now, almost as big as pa," was the reply. "I'll bet he is," Jerry stated assuredly. "Aah, I imagine you'll be glad when you are big enough to raise strawberries, watermelons, and core like your daddy?" The boy was about ten years old with straw colored hair and a freckly face. Jerry meant to ask him if he had any shoes but he knew th.at he would get the same answer from any ten year old in these hills, they had them but didn't like to fool around with the laces. "Nah, I think I'm going to be a fisherman when I grow up," the boy said as he swung his line out into the water. Jerry's face tightened a little, "You're not interested in farming these hills then?" The boy cocked his head slightly and gave Jerry a very questioning glance, "What do you want, mister?" Jerry laughed aloud realizing the youngster's comprehension was pretty sharp. "Well, I'm considering talking business with you but you never told me your name." "Tim." "Well, Tim, my name is Jerry. I started a vacation a few days ago." "Whatcha doin' way up here?" Tim asked pointedly. Jerry smiled and said, "I was down the road a few miles this morning and some fellow gave me a drink of the best moonshine 14 �liquor that I ever tasted. Yes sir, I told him that I'd certainly be proud to meet the fellow that could make liquor like that. And do you know, according to the directions he gave me I must be getting very close. I sure would like to buy a jug of that liquor." The boy's face hardened considerably, and his eyes were smart and snappy. "Could you by any chance tell me how to get to the still," Jerry asked abruptly. "Ain't supposed to talk to strangers," Tim answered turning away quickly. "Well, you know I could almost spare a five dollar bill if you would give me a hand," Jerry said very slowly. The boy stood silently for a moment seeming to arrange things in his mind. "If you give me the five dollars, Mister, I might tell you how to get up there." replied the boy quietly. "Well, I'll tell you what," said Jerry trying to make the wisest move toward getting accurate information, "I'll give you the five as soon as I get back." Tim look at him quietly for a moment then answered, "Better give it to me now, Mister, cause if you go up there you ain't comin' back." Jerry leaned against a small cedar, and made no attempt to wipe the egg from his face. Now he knew why he had graduated from law school in nineteen fifty. At the moment he didn't feel able to compete with this crop. Tim didn't wait for another offer. He pulled his line from the water, wrapped it around the pole and bounced out of sight beyond the first hill. Jerry sat down and stretched back against the gentle rise of the earth. All of sudden he was very tired. He could have been ashamed of the way he tried to pry the boy but in this case he was past the capacity for shame. Today was a stab in the dark. For a month he had climbed these hills around Roxboro and to no avail. He knew that reasonably large amounts of moonshine was coming from this area. Tankers had been picked up in Charlotte, North Carolina, Atlanta, Georgia, and Memphis. Some of these were positive trace backs. In the past four weeks, Jerry had tried everything from local stoolies to walking these hills. Jerry rose to his feet and began to make his way back to the car. He was anything but a cruel man. He deeply loved Tennessee and its people. These quiet hills in all their beauty could bring contentment to a weary man's heart. In the fall a Michelanglo couldn't capture the bursting beauty of a thous'a nd colors f.rom Oak Ridge 15 �to the main chain of the Appalachians. It is hard to allow oneself to believe that the solitude of these hills could harbor serious trouble of any kind. However, trouble was here, the syndicate kind. Years ago moonshiners had had their own buyers and outlets but this had changed. The syndicate had appealed effectively to these hill people, and the illegal booze lnarket was now in their hands. As Jerry reached the car, he analyzed the situation. It was evident that his discussion with the boy had turned into a terrific error. Everyone within miles would soon know who and what he was, and how close he was to finding anything. His chances of getting more men assigned to the area were hopeless and the local and county officials didn't particularly want to be of assistance. A group search would result in finding dynamited stills, no evidence, and only a delay in production. Jerry was backing the car around to start down the grade when he saw it. A small cloud hovering a short distance above the ground without a streamer of it extending downward. "Vapor," he gasped, "less than a half mile away." Jerry scanned the area closely with his field glasses, trying desperately to pin-point the position. The vapor soon disappeared and no other clouds followed. Who ever was oveT there must have momentarily loosened the boiler lid, a piece of luck to which Jerry wasn't accustomed. He stepped quickly from the car and walked back to open the trunk. H.e unsheathed a small carbine, pocketed a 32 caliber revolver and ducked into the timber. The underbrush was extremely heavy and Jerry used it to full advantage. The birds were quiet now and the air was deathly still. Below wa s a large iron boiler tank with a copper tube scrolled around it. The tube extended through a cool water tank and ended in a small receiver barrel. It was crudely fashioned but quite efficient. Jerry had circled the area and had seen no evidenc of a guard. He was also very certain that this was one of the smallest stills in that area. Jerry also realized it wasn't going to be there long. He must have been spotted. No one seemed to be anywhere. Jerry didn't have to be told what happened when an explosion .shook the earth. Fragments of metal and wood showered the entire area. Jerry leaned back against a large cottonwood and drew a cigarette fron1 a pack in his shirt. The tension seemed to ease from him and the tightness left his neck and shoulders. That'.s how it goes, he t hought, you catch a few transporters and distributors but this age old art was heck to do anything with. He shook his 16 �head with disgust- merely a delay in production. Jerry turned and made his way back through the maj estic hills of Tennessee. Charles Hale Ed crossed the alley and made his way up the back steps of the little white house that had been his home for fifteen years. It wasn't a large house but it was comfortable and served its purpose. Ed was a rugged looking individual of about six foot four inches. His eyes were grey and his face was very much weather beaten. In his younger days he had been physically trim but the compilation of occasional beers left him with a slight middle age paunch. Ed made his way into the ~kitchen, dropped his hard hat on the table, and seated himself next to the refrigerator. "Helen, where are you ?" A pleasant looking woman of about forty emerged from the living room with a knitting basket in her hand. She was well shaped and her hair possessed a tint of red. "You're home early, Ed. Did you finish the foundation?" she asked with interest. "We finished it this morning." Ed replied with a twitch of his shoulder. "We can start pouring again Monday." Helen kissed her husband lightly on the telnple. "I'm certainly glad that the weather has been all right for you this spring." "Is Chip home from school yet?" Ed asked. Helen turned and walked over to the cupboard. "No, but he's due any minute. There was a brief silence before she continued, "I wish you would talk to the boy, Ed. He has mentioned quitting school quite often lately." Ed rose wearily from his chair. The look in his eyes was one of helpless concern. "I believe I'll take a shower. Will supper be ready soon?" "It'll be ready in about forty-five minutes," Helen replied. The hot water felt good as it blasted off Ed's broad back. He had been a construction worker almost all of his adult life. In the beginning he had thought that it was just a job until something better came along. However, as the years will testify, it had become his life's work and he had learned to like it. As he was getting dressed, he heard the front door close and 17 �Chip's light steps cross the living room to the telephone. Chip was a good boy. His grades had been above average but lately had dropped to low C's. Chip had just finished talking on the phone when Ed walked into the living room. He was a tall boy of seventeen years with sandy red hair and flashing sharp eyes. "Chip, how did it go today?" his father asked. "All right I guess," the boy replied volunteering no further conversation. Ed settled down in his favorite platform rocker, selected a pipe and began filling it from a glass humadore. His son had taken a seat on the couch and was preparing to read a magazine. "Chip, your mother tells me that you 'a re .s till thinking of quitting school. Don't you think that's a little silly with only one year to go?" "I don't think it's silly at all," Chip stated rather hotly. "What good is it going to do n1e?" There was a moment of silence as Ed tried to perceive the boy's point of view. "Don't you think it's important?" Chip'.s agitation eased somewhat. "What is the purpose of it? I'm already as good with English and math as most people. I go to school five days a week and sit couped up for six and a half hours a day and when I get out I won't be qualified for a decent job. If I finished and went on to college, what would I become? A white collar man? And what does a white collar man do? He works in an office all day with nothing happening to him, not really. Naturally I want to make sOlnething of my life but I don't want to waste it on hum drum stuff." The boy hesitated and rubbed his knees in despair. "I don't mean you, Dad, but if anything gets me, it's old people telling me about how wonderful it is to get somewhere, to live in an office of hammering typewriters. I'm beginning to wonder if anyone really knows anything." Chip became quiet as he turned his gaze to the wall. Ed drew gently on his pipe as he pondered the boy's words. Like all fathers he had made mistakes in rearing his son. However, the lines of communication between the two had always been open. Chip certainly wasn't ashamed to speak his piece. "Chip," Ed began, "it may sound a little off the wall to you but I understand all too well how you feel. I must admit that in a way you have a pretty good point. Drudgery is going to get most of the coming young men. It's a fact that the sons of the men that 18 �pushed west in covered wagon,s are punching time clocks in San Francisco." Ed hesitated for a moment as he pounded the ashes from the bowl of his pipe. "Chip, when I was your age, I had a million dreams and they're not to be laughed at. I was going to set the world on fire, so I started by quitting school. That was twenty years ago, and there's a tremendous difference between what's going on now and what was happening then. Anyhow I've been a construction worker for the last fifteen years. Don't knock it because it is a man's work but in the last fifteen years, I've learned one thing real well. Son, a man cannot live in two different worlds. You have to adjust to the breed you work with. Your principles and many things about you can always be yours, but the places you frequent and the things you like have to somewhat correspond with the things enjoyed by your working class. What I am trying to say is that if you become an unskilled worker, you cannot enjoy things that correspond to the tastes of the so-called upper class. If you do, the conflict will break you. You will begin to hate your position, and there won't be a thing that you can do about it. If you become a ditch digger, you have to learn to like it and to like the ways other ditch diggers go about life. I really don't know what is going to happen to today's dropouts, particularly those who have more than enough ability to go on. Son, if you want adventure in the way you feel about it now, you can have it. However, it takes the best education that money can buy. Maybe in a few years your feelings will change. The world would be quite a place if everyone was emotionally geared to be a jet pilot. With the right education you will have more freedom to choose your position of importance. Without it you will have very little choice." Chip gaze quietly at his father. His dad had never been very pretty with words but he had always made sense. He seemed to know about this jumping out of the kettle into the fire business. Yes, Chip thought, he would do, well to at least consider what his father had said. 19 1. 03 �Stereotype Charles Hale Jim walked down the hall and entered the office on the left. Typewriters were clicking and a murn1ur persisted throughout the room. Resting heavily against the counter, he glanced at the various office furnishings. They were nothing fancy, just sturdy and appropriate. As a matter of fact, they were somewhat of a reflection on the ideals of much of mankind. Something becomes wrong only when it quits working. A slender tight lipped woman approached, "May I help you, Sir ?" "Yes," Jim answered gazing critically at her. She could be fairly attractive if it wasn't for the stamp of convention that seemed to be a part of her. "Various tests were administered to me yesterday shortly after I filled out an application blank. Has everything been processed?" "I'm sorry. If you've completed the application, you'll have to select a card and wait in line," she replied. "Of course," he stated grimly as he selected a card from the top of the stack and walked back to a folding chair that stood along the wall. There were approximately ten men of every shape and size seated along that wall; however, they seemed to have a likeness, sort of a tenseness and anticipation. Jim sighed deeply as he pulled a package of ·cigarettes from his coat pocket. For the past eight years, he had been a general science teacher in a junior high school. Being single and interested in many things, he had chosen different summer jobs every year. This, of course, involved travel and changing scenery. On this occassion he had applied at the Homestake Gold Mining Company office in Lead, South Dakota. The woman appeared once more, "Will number six come forward ?" A burly fellow three -seats down arose and approached the counter. No one .seemed to notice. "Mind if I bum one of those coffin nails, Mister?" The man on Jim's right asked. 20 �"Certainly," Jim replied shaking a cigarette out of the pack for him, "have you been waiting long?" "This is the third day," the gentleman replied. "I've had mining experience but they are still checking me out." Jim smiled slightly and slid down on the seat, "Well, I haven't had any experience so I'll probably be turned down or have to sit here for a week." Jim glanced around in an attempt to spy a magazine or newspaper, but evidently none were supplied. The hands of the electric clock on the wall moved slowly as Jin1 proceeded to go to sleep. It seemed as though he had just relaxed when he felt the fellow on his right shake him. "She's calling for number eleven," he stated. Jim glanced at his card, thanked his friend, and stepped to the counter. "Your name please?" " James Anderson." "One moment please," she replied as she .s tepped into an adjoining office with a handful of papers. Soon she reappeared and stood before him, "according to your tests, Mr. Anderson, you would be most suited to work with one of the drill crews." If Jim had taken one of those tests, he had taken a hundred. Not once had the results indicated anything similar. Could it be that the psychology being used was that on the part of the companies trying to encourage people into jobs which they couldn't ordinarily be hired to do? "That will be fine," he answered, feeling that the experience would be good for him. "All right, Mr. Anderson, we would like for you to see Doctor Jones downtown and report back here at seven o'clock in the morning." "Thank you," Jim answered and walked out of the office and down the hall. He wasn't sure whether he was gaining a better mental grasp of his identity or that he had less identity to grasp. He could understand this somewhat because in the past eight years his class had progressively increased in number. It was becoming harder and harder to give time and attention to shy stu- 21 �dents. It was becoming more difficult to even know all of them. He wasn't going to worry about it though. He was certain that they would devise a test soon that would take away loneliness and instill a sense of importance. Jim climbed the long flight of stairs quickly and made his way down the hall. The name of A. D. Jones, M. D., was printed across the opaque glass of the oak door on the right. Jim entered and was preparing to sit down when a gruff old man eappeared from another room. "What can I do for you, young man," he asked. "The mine ,s ent me up for a physical," Jim answered. "I see," the old man grumbled, "come on in here and roll up your sleeve." Jim walked into another small room and sat down quietly. The doctor pressed a stethoscope into the hollow of his arm for a few seconds. "There's nothing wrong with you," he said, "stand up, turn your head and cough, the other way." The old man walked over to his desk and sat down. "Have you ever had heart trouble, tuberculosis, eye trouble, or a rupture." "No." The doctor began filling out a sheet of paper and asked no further questions. "All right, Anderson," he said, "take this sheet with you, and I'll call down now. That will be all." Feeling as though he had just been swept under the rug, Jim strolled out of the office and back to the street. Society's classification of people was a good front but that was all that it amounted to. Basically people haven't changed much in thousands of years. It seemed odd that we would be making the same mistakes. Oh, well, it is just a matter of arranging people. The world is adjusting to being ruled from a filing cabinet. 22 :'T �View, Higher Purpose in Higher Education" Frances Doherty �"Untitled" Joseph Meyer "Artemis" Mary Ordway �"A Family" Ken Lewis �"Trees and Sunset" April Nourse 'Looking Ahead" Mary Ellen Cranno ��"Ascension" Ken Lewis "Number I" Don Niven "Landscape" Frances Doherty �LA.T." Frances Doherty "Lisa" Nancy Merrill "Mother and Child" Renee Nassif �'Joan of Arc" Mary Ordway "Mother Is Blue" Mary Ellen Cranno �Anni al Report Tl The Comm,ittee u o Lynn Huff From the very beginning, I want to stress beyond a doubt that Christianity is definitely making tremendous progress in the world today. Don't let anyone tell you any differently. For example, in my parish alone we've gained 164 new members this year. And membership is expected to sky rocket even higher when the new housing development across the expressway is completed and ready for occupancy. Why, if things keep improving the way they have been, we'll have to add on to our present facilities. I just don't see how we can fit any more Sunday School classes into the sanctuary. There are all ready ten meeting there. Hmm, let me see. If we set up some more chairs in the aisles, and moved the primary class up into the chancel area, we might be able to handle thirty or forty more members. Oh, uh, where was I? Ah, yes! Christianity is definitely on the up and up. We raised the foundation about six or eight inches last fall to stop the seepage that occurs in the narthex during the spring thaw. Old Mrs. Jones, .she's our weekly greeter who shakes hands and welcomes everyone into the fold each Sabbath. Old Mrs. Jones brought to my attention again for the third year, that it was a might bit uncomfortable standing in puddles each Sunday during the spring thaw. She assured me that if nothing could be done about it she could invest in a pair of galoshes, but it would spoil the entire effect of her outfit. Galoshes just weren't the san1e as her salmon colored, open-toed slippers. Along the line of other church improvements, we've decided to enlarge and pave the parking lot, so that the members don't have to wory about getting their Thunderbirds and Lincoln Continentals stuck in the mud in the spring, or covered with dust during the drier months of the year; especially when they've missed the prayer meeting that week to put such a beautiful shine on it. We've also received bids from several electrical contractors about the lighting of the stairway going up to the balcony. Mr. Brown wants to put in a light as a memorial to his late wife who passed on after a most unfortunate accident last month when she tripped on the broken step. A committee has also been set up t o check into the idea of cushions for the pews. We want our congregation to be comfortable, above everything else. And finally, we had our collection plates lined with beautiful royal blue felt, to enrich the 31 �beauty of the service and to reduce embarrassment when members of the congregation drop in their loose change. Now, ah, let me see what the next point of consideration is. Ah, here it is, Christian Outreach and Evangelism. Uh, Christian Outreach and Evangelism. . . ? Oh, yes. Well, our church has taken a very, uh, firm stand on this issue. Let me see, what is the issue this year? Oh, yes, now I remember. We are very firm believers in the separation of the spirit and the flesh. Unlike the Baptist Church down the street a ways, which is offering movies (!) on civil rights and sex ethics (!!) to their young people's group, we hold prayer meetings with altar calls of commitment and dedication to our children. Get 'em while they're young, I, uh, we always say. Under my guidance and counseling, the Ladies' Aid decided against a study group on the problems of integration in our community, and has proceeded energetically with completing plans for the annual bazaar to be held next month; this is a much more pertinent issue I, uh, they feel for a Christian Women's Organization. The young Married's Club decided to hold a clothing drive to obtain clothing for the poor children living on the south side of town. How was it that the one lady, the former Miss Vanderbilt, put it? She said something on the order of the following. "In order to help improve the standards of that section of town, and so give these dear , sweet, charming children an opportunity to experience some of the finer things in life which they wouldn't normally be able to, and thus improve the general appearance of our church as they come to Sunday School each week, I move that our organizatiori sponsor an all church clothing drive." Then, mind you, then, this dear, sweet, young lady offered to lend us her chauffered Rolls Royce to deliver the worn and patched clothing when it had been discarded in the church basement by the. other members. Wasn't that just sweet of her? Ah, yes, I notice that on the evaluation sheet in front of me that there is an item concerning what the church has done to meet the needs of its members and its community. Well, let's see now, last fall our Official Board of Trustees voted to move our church service ahead by 45 minutes during the World Series games, so that our attendence wouldn't drop. We didn't want our men folk feeling guilty for having missed church. The Civic Association brought to our attention during the winter months that our church and parking lot were right on the corner where most of the working people in the area caught the bus into the city everyday for work. The delegate who had come to see me didn't have to say another word. Being the pastor of the largest Protestant con- 32 �gregation in the vicinity, with a slack week-day program, I did exactly what my Christian conscience told me to do. I offered the use of our huge parking lot to them. The additional income from the meters has helped greatly in the financing of the purchase of the before mentioned pew cushions. They are the same heavenly shade of royal blue as the lining of the collection plates, creating a unity of effect during our ser vices. And so in closing, let me strongly emphasize again that Christianity is definitely making tremendous progress in the world today. The Pillow Porter Christine Leonard Diane Bancroft hated everyone she saw because nobody could appreciate her suffering; because only the basic minimum of people who saw "La Dolce Vita" understood; because maybe there was no God; because morals were no longer black and white. She sat alone, huddled inside her coat which was undeniably too long, revealing nothing of the whirpool of emotions save one; defeat. A porter hovered near her, thinking to promote monetary retaliation for services about to be rendered, but shuffled off saying, "Oh, you're crying." Although she hadn't been, Diane forcibly brought a few tears into being so he wouldn't be disappointed. Gazing up at him she said (trying in three words to tell him what a jerk he was and that she loved him to death), "Oh thank you." She wanted to pull his wheezy old man's body down beside her and tell him everything that had happened. She wanted him to put his hand over hers and to comfort her with a million beautiful words. But he just smiled and rearranged his armload of pillows as he continued down the aisle, doing his job in the best way he knew how. "Pillow, mam'? Only a quarter. Pillow, sir?" "A'aaah!" she snorted derisively and turned back to the solace of "but if's and "and yet's." The train clacked back to a semblance of order, the university. She remember ed. "I've got hundreds of things for us to do; there won't be enough time for all of them. You've never been to a ball park, have you? The White Sox play this week end-great! And we can go to 33 �the museum and down to Old Town and, oh, we can't forget the lake." The ridiculous proposition handed to her in the bus station by a man who scooted around the corner when she began howling with laughter. The two boys who sang all the way to Chicago without once shaking hands with Melody. The stoic soldier who never saw anything. He just looked -and thought of God knows what. The flirty bus driver who bought her a candy bar when they stopped for gas. A tribe of tongues invaded the privacy of her thoughts and prodded her back into reality. Maybe sixteen college students fol· lowed by a wispy professor desecrated the murmuring silence. "Where the hell did I put my coat? Hey, Bierbaum, have you seen it?" "Not since we left the restaurant." "For Christ's sake." "Where do you want to sit?" "Where's the bar car?" "You nuts or something? Today's Sunday." Horrified that one of them might sit by her, Diane tore off her coat and bunched it up on the vacant seat, leaving a blob of red where none had been before. "That ought to do it," .she reassured herself 'as she sent secretive glances skimming around the car. It was only after the group had summarily settled itself that she returned to her thoughts. She was on an escalator going somewhere and then he was there kissing her and she was thinking how glad .she was that her hair had just been fixed. Oh, yes, and then there had been a hot fudge sundae which she almost couldn't eat because fists of happiness and fear kept punching her in the stomach. And then the nauseous shock when he took her to his apartment 'and she saw his bed~so ugly; so dirty. And then, oh then, the night. Recoiling from this memory, she jabbed out her cigarette, made a frenzied search for her purse which had somehow or other gotten under the seat, and lurched to the restroom. PASSENGERS WILL PLEASE REFRAIN FROM FLUSHING TOILETS WHILE THE TRAIN IS IN THE STATION. THANK YOU flashed a greeting. Contorted with laughter, she gasped out, "Oh, my God. The comic relief; it's too much!" Refreshed and relieved, she ma34 �neuvered herself back to' her seat. Interest in the car's Qccupants quickly died and Qnce mQre she wandered amQng remembered scenes. There they were Qn their way to' the baseball game; she was eating her first GQQd HumQr bar and nursing the blister that was fQrming Qn her heel. Ah yes, and nQW they are eating CQld hQtdQgs and drinking watery beer, waiting fQr the rain to' stQP sO' the game CQuid gO' Qn. Then the sCQrebQard was explQding because the SQX had just whammed Qut a hQmer. Laughing inside, she remember jamming themselves intO' the EI and after all their careful planning, getting caught in the rain. "Hmmmmm. We really did have a tremendQus time." FQr a whQle cigarette's wQrth Qf minutes she floated in smile.s. "A dQuble feature Qf fQreign films; can yQU beat that 7" The Qutside wQrld had ceased to' be. "And then dQwn to' Old TQwn. SO' much greatness crQwded intO' Qne place." As she reincarnated the rest Qf the night, the cQIQrs in her melted tQgether and fused it intO' Qne black IQathsQme thing. "It was that damn Irish Whiskey. Why I ever asked him to' get it, I'll never knQw. And that girl's picture. I shQuld never have asked him abQut it because then he started thinking and then I had to' make him stop. Only it didn't wQrk fQr very IQng. GQd damn it. GQd damn it." This was the end Qf whatever Diane had had with a man whQm she had never really knQwn. CQnsciQusly she fQught acceptance Qf this fact but amQng the babble Qf sQciety's rejects it grappled its way up the ladder Qf awareness. "He never cared, did he 7 It was a big jQke. NQne Qf it meant anything. Oh Christ, what a laugh; he never cared." She sat alQne, everything inside her dead Qr Qn the verge Qf being SQ. N Qthing CQuid hurt her nQW; there was nO' thing left to' feel pain. She didn't care what happened anymQre; what ever presented itself she WQuid accept with nO' resistance. There was nQthing left to' resist. She was very tired. FrQm behind the hazy curtain that separated her frQm the wQrld, a shape materialized. Dimly she recQgnized the pilQW PQrter. He sPQke. "We'll be pulling intO' IndianapQlis in a few minutes, mam. Is there anything I can help yQU with 7" "NQ. N Qthing at all," she answered in a vQice that made him vaguely uneasy. "YQU did want to' get Qff there, didn't yQU 7" Wearily she pulled back the curtain, "PardQn 7" "I said that's where yQU get Qff, isn't it 7" 35 �"Oh. Yes. Yes, it is." As the train pulled out of the city, she was still sitting in her seat; still thinking what an idiot he was. Merry Clhristmas Anita Yeska Last night the snow had covered everything: the streets, the roofs, the chimneys. . . the sidewalks . . . until it was difficult to know where the gutters ended and the curbs began. By ten o'clock in the morning, the bells had tolled their message and the people answering the beckoning ring had left the white pockmarked, tracked and grimy. A girl stepped through the deep snow on the sidewalk, and made her way past a row of houses set so close together that they seemed almost to lean on each other. She thought: For some reason, I shall never get over feeling this way when I see him. She pulled her collar closer around her neck and turned to step through an unbroken path of white to the rickety front porch on one side of one of the houses. She rapped on the front door and then opened it and stuck her head inside. "Mon1ma! Poppa! It's me . .. Julia!!" "Gom'e in. . .come in," a voice called from the back of the house, and then Momma came hurrying through the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on an expanse of flowered apron, her face wreathed in smiles. "We've been waiting for you, haven't we, Poppa?" The bald headed man sitting in front of the living room window grunted and edged his chair around so he could see the two women better. "Glad to see you, Julie. Where's Charlie, Julie? How come he don't come too?" "His name is Charles, Poppa. He's at home, and you know why he didn't come." Her face felt hot as .s he bent to unzip her overshoes, taking them off and setting them carefully on the rug so the snow wouldn't leave water spots on the wood floor. Momma frowned. "She's right, Poppa, you know why Charles didn't come, so why ask, hmmm? Just to be ornery, that's why . . . and here I ask you just once to be nice . . .to try and be nice, huh? .. eh?" "Alright. . . alright!" The man's florid complexion took on a 36 �deeper shade and he turned and gazed 'again out the window into the street. Julia unbuttoned her fleece coat and laid it over the green flowered overstuffed. "Merry Christmas," she bent and kissed his cold cheek. Without waiting for a response, she turned again to her mother, "Is the tea water hot?" "Yes, ye.s .. .it's hot. Julie, I'm so happy you came!" MomIna took Julie's hand in her firm grasp. "Poppa, want a cup of tea with us?" Julia Dr ewe wasn't surprised that her father shook his head. Charles had told her many times, "Mike McGonigal is one of the stubbornest Irishmen I've ever known." "Are you warm enough in here? You want me to get some chips and start a fire?" Momma knew better than to coax him. Already the old woman had started to the back corner of the room where there was a squat black stove and a string of pipe following the wall up the ceiling. Julia hurried ahead of her mother. "I'll do it, you go fix the tea." Faded eyes bean1ed their thanks. Julia thought that Momma's eyes had the softness of heaven in them sometimes. The mother disappeared through the kitchen doorway. Julia bent to pick up wood chips from an old box on the floor and to crumple pieces of newspaper, stuffing both of these into the hole in the top of the stove left by the lid cover. Then, quickly, she struck a match and dropped it into the hole; pausing to make sure the oil-soaked paper caught fire, she set the lid back in its place. She walked toward the old man and asked, "Are you warm enough, or should I get a blanket for you ?" "Don't bother, you and Charles have done enough for me already." The hoarseness of his tone startled her. She started to speak but, instead took a deep breath. Her throat ached. She thought: Why does he have to be this way? It's harder for all of us to accept this way. She was feeling frustrated and helpless again. Was there any other way to feel about something like this? She turned and walked into the kitchen. The teakettle was singing and Momma was per.spiring over the open oven, hands full of hot pads and bread pans. Setting a loaf pan on the table, Momma smiled, "You are just in time; I baked an apple loaf just like you like. Sit here. Come." "I guess Poppa isn't coming." "Never you mind about Poppa. You and me, we will talk a bit, eh? ." "Momma, it's been almost five weeks since he had to quit working. How much longer do you think he'll be like this? I couldn't 37 �bear his not forgiving Charles and me. Sometimes I think he hates me." "Now Julie, I tell you, quit worrying. Poppa will get used to the idea that he is too old to work in the mines and then everything will be alright again. You wait and see .. eh?" Momma was pouring the tea now into the tiny china cups Poppa had bought for her last Christmas. "And then, maybe, Julie, he'll find something else to do. Your Poppa is a very .smart man." "I know Momma, I know," Julia smiled at her mother, but really didn't feel like smiling inside. She picked up 'a knife and cut slices from the cooling apple loaf and the two women ate the still warm, slightly spiced bread and drank their tea. "I have to go now," Julia said, drinking the last of her tea down. She stood up and bent forward to kiss her mother. "Merry Christmas, Momma. I'll come back tomorrow and stay for dinner. Do you need anything from the store?" "Oh. . .could use some milk and eggs. But I'm so happy you came, Julie!" The slender girl sighed. "I know. I'll be back." Mother and daughter walked out of the circle of the stove's warmth onto the wood floor of the front hallway. Julia pulled her coat on and buttoned it in silence. The old man gazed out the window still. She zipped up her overshoes and reached for the doorknob. "Julie." Her father's voice grated into the silence. She look at him, not. knowing what to say. "Merry Christmas." "Thank you, Poppa." She pulled her collar up around her neck and pulled the door open. She retraced her steps to the edge of the porch and then out to the sidewalk. In the sunlight the new snow was sprinkled with diamond dust. 38 �On Bondage Marj orie Beasley These sparrows on the leafless twigs of lilacs free are but in a sense they're clipped of rights for they to constant color of plumage are confined and the song they sing Oranges Marj orie Beasley I really do like oranges . . . They're round with tough skin. I love to dig into them, To reach their inner personalities. There are two types of oranges. One is thin-skinned, the Kind that has fat, generous Sections, juicy and sweet. The type one likes to have Around all the time. It responds. The other has a .skin that's thick, And stubbornly refuses to peel. It even bleeds juicy tears to make The peeler feel badly, like maybe Privacy has been infringedAnd once inside the complexity of sections Irregular, some small and enclosed By larger- with strings to get in Teeth- these take more effort on My part; but it's worth it; They're sometimes more .sweet. 39 �Discotheque Robert L. Faulhaber Throbbing rhythm and a jungle beat, Flat, narrow, hollow sounds. Monotony with a fever bounds From wall to wall, complete. Writhing, wrenching, jerk, and jolt, A montage of distorted form. With frantic antic as the norm Who knows the human from dolt? Glazed and vacant staring eye, Slack jaw or stilted smile. Reason revolts as horror's profile Brands the emotional lie. Door Knobs Robert L. Faulhaber With round mass of polished brass In lands of later origin Equalitie.s for every class In honor and dignity begin. Angled handles of ancient glory In Europe's halls and castles Separate the Pleb and Tory Creating lords and vassels. Reverse and obverse, old and new The angle harsh, the round benign Do forms precede concepts true Or ideas create design. 40 �Money R. L. Faulhaber Long loops of energy from man to man Ideas, desires and a chain of events Concluding the circuit that benefits all While the power is high. The machinery of man fueled with money To a frantic pace and copious output Or ground to a halt when the pool is dry And the circuit is broken. Silence Robert L. Faulhaber A barren sheet poised in appalling pause. The baton hovers before the muted solo. A jab. A clack. And for 'a cademic cause Blanks shade and blur in creative glow. An artist's brush breaks the awesome strife Of waiting canvas. The stroke is won. Or the surgeon's gentle pause on life. Before the scalpel's deft draw is done. Like the stillness before the battles shattered roar When men are formed and the prayers 'a re said. Then close comradeships pale before The silent white terror of the already dead. All of life whets that prologue pause. A jab. A clack. It's an academic cause. The Valley Robert L. Faulhaber In the dismal valley where shepherds toil Amid green pastures, the docile flocks Graze and are not nourished, yet live 41 �As herds wandering the valley floor. Shadows are deep in the valley, and dark Reflections mirrored in men's souls. Trapped beneath canyon walls, higher Than dogma could dictate- the herd huddles, Standing with the tree and bearing it.s burden Until the high peaks no longer are seen. Cries echo through the valley of night. For one who understands the rain. A Wanderer At Heart Wm. J. Forbes Come bandyshanked lad and follow me to wander to strange lands and every sea. You'll be a good traveler and wander this world, enjoying adventures as they all unfurl. You'll see seas as blue as the sky and peaks of which none are as high, mountains, which, from fire ensued and coral with its kaleidoscopic view. Behold the wary goat on the precarious slope or the windjammer with its miles of rope. Then the enlivening penguin from the frozen land and gushing spouts of whales you'll soon comprehend. For strange things Australia's the place to be, for goalas, kangaroos and aborigines. But as a wanderer you need not see all these only your mind should wander, as leaves in the trees. So put your mind at ease and look at the stars, set your thoughts to patterns as the musician his bars. And I say, sir, if there be no celestial bearing, fret not; the place for inspiration is as far as the bird's wing, it may come from a Spanish guitar or a wood's fine grain, even the refraction of calcite or the clear window pane. So I say to you, stranger, take up your staff, lead your mind forward and discourage not its wide swath, let it be free as the waves that roll and lap on the sea. 80 come now my lad, free your.self and follow me. 42 �Th, Button At The Back e Wm. J. Forbes Tick- tick, tick- tick, the chorus of the clock, it levers, its springs: the entire thing. Tick- tick, tick- tick, mysterious as a lock, peaceful like a snake, but then it will ring. The ringing a message of its climax, that through calculations and time has come. Its being too loud we strike at its back; at the button to quell its troublesome, although awakening sound. To be heard, comprehended, understood; not forlorn like so many brilliant men in this world. These men must be heard and the bell must warn for the ideas of men like bells must report and the buttons that quiet must be stopped. The Diamond Cutter Wm. J. Forbes Praise be the diamond cutter, who creates gems out of hard crystal. . Studying the stone till he's sure, as if intently looking for its soul from which emerges the characteristics of gems, but in unrelated granules. He polishes deftly, with years of experience, 'and creates something ornately beautiful. Only with such motherlike care can this master craftsman perform. Like it was a child of his own nurture, he treats it wisely from the day it's born. Then, with all his work completed and done, he lets the gem seek the world and its fortune. 43 �Cl' ssroom Revisited a Lynette Ford Air-aimed gazes; dreamy staresAbstract questions; careless caresDialogues of Socrates Fathered two philosophies. Should I wear pink, blue, black, or red? Go with Danny, Johnny or Fred? Open books; no one looksPeek at time like a crookAthene touches sad Odysseus Friend of mighty Menelaus. Maybe he'll call tonight at eight, Ask me for a Saturday date. Bodies twitch; eye lids closeQuestions asked; no one knowsThree-in-one is the trinity? God lived from infinity? I'll bet he's dating Betty Kaye. Oh well, it's really best that way! Minerva asks us every hour, Won't you pick the tree's white flower? Le, acy g Lynette Ford A half-live creature lies within my womb, A heart, a hand, a body without a mind - small product of my love defined. A gay little ditty should be his tune But funereal songs are what he'll croon. He must emerge into this world to find The fighting men and lovers intertwined. For all the airs of kindness men assume -They worship on Sunday in a church roomNegroes who must not move in next door Laugh at the sound of the Christmas bell's roar. 44 �And when I think, now I rage and I fume Because my dear child will soon make his home Where wars abound and coffins and tombs. The- Shack Lynette Ford The shack is bare and empty Minus crates and brassy bed. The stale air rushes at me Like the whispers of the dead. My mind begins to wander To that shack in another day When I was a little girl Caring for nothing but play. I heard my mother talking In the blackness of the night. I saw my father walking To avoid another fight. The whiskey on my mother's breath Would drive dad to despair. But he loved his darling Beth Though she was unaware. And tears came to his eyes On that gloom filled Friday noon When they told him she was dead And his death followed soon. The shack is bare and empty Minus crates and brassy bed. And now my heart is free From every string of dread. Tomorrow I will marry A man who loves me too And I know my dar ling Jerry, Like my dad, will be so true. 45 �~hite Is For Virgin But Blue's Only Sad Lynette Ford Goldwater grinned at the ghost of J. F. K. While Birchites babbled barbariously. The day they ripped the red from the white and the blue Stevens en's voice echoed through empty elements And drowned in U Thant's dying dreams. The day they ripped the red from the white and the blue Torn text books paid tattered tribute To a broken and battered bell The day they ripped the red from the white and the blue And a simpleton cried, "God bless America, home of the free and the brave And the white . . . And the blue ... Money Can Buy Everything Lynn Huff It can buy clothes food cars people jobs statu.s education good times I want happiness love security friendship intelligence a home satisfaction freedom money can buy everything nearly 46 �A Painting Deniece Walker She smiles there knowingly with head tucked neatly by her side. She is caught for a moment "being." A fish-like animal lay on her lap and other animals gather 'round as if she were one in Unity with them. Behind her looms a family of birds who have the desired wings of flight and look as if they wait to show her how to fly, like them. Legs and arms protrude from behind her chair, as Unity wraps their humanness with her's. She smiles, the moment remains forever captured by artist and his tools as the painting hangs on yonder wall and I sit here and see. Fruit Jars Deniece Walker When reading meters on a different route He was impressed with what he came to find: Some old fruit jars neglected to be thrown out Were canned with long, cold winter months in mind As for some family these shelves are lined With fruit. But caring stopped, the shelves remained And jars of canned fruit, waiting, no one claimed. They seemed to him like babies sealed in a womb. Never to live and never to begin, But rather abide sealed in a glass tomb. The proper time had never come for them To open forth and a new life to win. Instead the world looks inside their clear walls And sees that inside nothing living crawls. 47 �The treatment of the fruit was not natural. It should have been left on the ground to rot And fertilize the .soil as in furrows It falls from its fearful jump to be caught Where battles for rebirth start to be fought. Instead the stranger sees what was not begun And marvels at what man shouldn't have done. Today Deniece Walker I don't know what came over me today. As I was struggling to .survive the time It seemed as if I had lost my way. I was confused with my thoughts in a bind, Hence, I was some higher power's prey. Myself alone, the escape to be found. But I was caught strangling in the matter As body, not mind became the fatter. I stood askance and looked at a book W'aiting for me to seek what could be found Inside itself, if only I would look. Instead I spent the day messing around. The majority of the time I took Sleeping. But sleep was far from being sound For I was haunted by knowing how short Life is and how wasteful can be its course. Progress Anita Yeska That hill so bare, You see it there? Years back it would Have felt the plow And known the birth Of seed and life. Scarred and scraped. �But I remember When it rose High and rounded, Draped in elm; There . . . a willow Overwhelmed A carpeting Of deepest green. Someone saw it, As I did, But that someone Wished to rid it Of its life! There it stands Dimly shrouded, Barren, waiting. If you're near here Sometime soon, Drive by and see The colored boxes Crowded there. I'm thankful that They killed it quickly. I've seen some Hills die inch By inch gasping Weakly to The last. The Tulips Anita Yeska I noticed them along the walk, Marigolds, moss rose 'a nd Phlox, Where I remembered setting out Tulip bulbs la.st Fall. I thought Perhaps my head was not too clear. 49 �I know I set the tulips where The two paths meet. I tucked their warm Quilts in tender folds; with firm Touch I testified last Fall That when Spring came this year with all Her new new life, I'd hear her call To me .... red tipped shoots would strip The crust of Winter's lethargic grip .off the ground. Then bobbing bells Of blush and buff and bloom would tell Of constancy, of living here And now, and I would share the year, This year of life with them. Where can They be??? (The flower beds are bright and grand.) Where are they now? I asked the maid. She smiled so sweet, but would not say. The Visit Anita Yeska I pleaded with her then, to let him go His- way. She turned from me and glanced a glance. Disdainfully erect, she minced and blew Her petty reasons here and there. My chance To plead my love for him was lost in her Recriminations. Generously granting Me this privilege of seeing where He made his home, she hoped to show me how Absurd I made myself in coming there. What strength of will, what singleness of purpose Her upraised arm and open mouth displayed. A thought shattered my serene composure. Great Heavens!! Has he listened all the way Through thirteen years of married life to this?? A man would surely die a little every day Of every year of living in such 'wedded bliss'. Sitting ... watching her expound at me I felt my love for him lean and list. 50 �The light that dwelt within my heart before, commenced to glimmer in my mind and eyes. This man ... this one who roars his lion's roar At me ... is he a mewling cub who tries To please this female shrew? And has he Spent his life acceding to her sighs Knowing nothing else to do?? I had to leave that Room, his life, his lies far behind l11e I want a man . . . not one who used to be. Fate Malola Atwood They buried me here last summer, In the warm soft, comforting earth. They put me here for my last slumber, To wait for my Redemptive Birth. I can feel the cool, green grass growing, I can hear the cuckoo sing, I can touch the wind blowing, And can feel the breath of spring. My senses know no bounds, Although encased I lay; I can even hear the hounds, As they hold their prey at bay. I can hear the squirming, rushing worms, And away I cannot turn. 51 ������ Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College. Through its several titles—Manuscript, Perspectives, and Kiosk—the magazine has a long history of celebrating creative writing and art on campus. It began publication in 1938 under the title of Manuscript before changing its name to Perspectives in 1953. Then in 1971 it took another name that it is known by currently: Kiosk. It is still published annually by the Morningside College English Department. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1938- Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Morningside College Library Morningside College English Department Ponder, Marcie: Digital Creator Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical PDF Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Title A name given to the resource Kiosk Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource "The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children," (The Kiosk, 2003). Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. rChive ~~ ... ~ BI.8 p 32 1969-_ ' PERSPECTIVES SPRING 1966 VOLUME XXV NUMBER 1 Staff Editor ..... _ ................ _ ................ _.... _ _ _ .......... .......... ..................................-........... Lynette Ford ...................... _ _........... Charles Hale .... Business Manager ............................................... _ Art Consultant ......................._ _ _ _ _ _ Mr. William Zimmerman .... .... .......... .... .... ..... Faculty Advisor ..... _ .......................................................... _ ........... Dr. Howard Levant SIOU CfTY, lOW PERSPECTIVES is published by the students of Morningside College Sioux City, Iowa Love Of Her Life Malola Atwood She walked out of the doctor's office listlessly, her shoulders drooping and head hung as if she had just been punished. The doctor had just told her she was pregnant. "My God!" she thought, "forty years old and going to have another baby." What would the kids think, and how could she tell then1 there would be another mouth to feed when things were already skimpy and Jeanie, the oldest one, was planning to start to college in the fall. How could she inflict this news on them? Her family, of which she was so proud; four lovely intelligent children; so much comfort to her, and the way things had been planned, all grown by the time she was fifty. Now, with a new one coming, John, her husband, would be near retirement when the child graduated from high school and she would be a gray-haired old hag. The months seemed to drag interminably; she was so· sick and the summer months were so hot and sticky. Sleep became a priceless commodity, not to be taken lightly and noise disturbed her until she thought, "What am I becoming? I scream and shout at the children, and ignore John until I create an intense impossible situation, but I can't seem to help myself." One morning in the middle of September, she arose from a troubled sleep and as she was getting breakfast, felt a twinge of pain low in her back. "Well," she thought to herself, "today is the day." At noon, she told the children good-by, giving them detailed instructions for the next week, and drove up to the hospital. Once there, she had one of the attendants call John, because she knew he would want to be there when the baby came. If this one went' like the others had, she should be through by the middle of the afternoon. She was not frightened, only dreading it as a long-forgotten ordeal. It had been ten years since she had had a baby and she wasn't really looking forward to it. Nothing was the same; her evening became a nightmare of pain and frustration. The baby would not come, it was upside down, it was sideways, it was ... She didn't know what it was, she only wished it to be over quickly. At midnight she called the nurse because she knew it was to be now. The nurses hurried her into the delivery room and fifteen minutes later the doctor held up a round, fat; black-haired baby girl. She looked at it with awe and wonder. "Why, I don't hate her .. 3 1 03 at all! She's going to be as precious as the others. She will be my baby. My baby girl!" The nurses cleaned her up and wheeled her into her room where she immediately flopped onto her stomach, thinking, "Oh, how good it feels to be able to lie this way. I could sleep for a week," and promptly she fell into a deep restful slumber. The next morning John was there when she awoke and told her it was necessary for her to have some remedial surgery and she was to go up immediately. Not really surprised, but wondering a little why it was necessary so soon after her delivery, she gave her~elf up to the nurse for the different shots, and long surgical stockings. A half hour later she was deep under the anesthetic. She woke slowly, disoriented for a few minutes and then realizing where she was, heard a voice repeating over and over again, "lVlrs. Comstock, can you hear me? Mrs. Comstock, can you hear me?" She gazed up from the hospital bed into a strange face. Weakly, she nodded her head. "Who are you? I have never seen you before." "Mrs. Comstock, I am Doctor Hanks, I must talk to you. Can you understand me?" He told her that he had been called in on consultation for her and that it had been necessary to perform radical surgery. There would be no more children. She thanked him slowly and precisely, still under the effects of sedation, and promptly fell asleep again. Sh.e didn't awake again until the next morning. Wondering what day it was now, she looked around her in alarm. She had lost days out of her life; and how many ? John wa.s there and as she came fully awake she realized he looked terrible. He had a haunted, lost expression on his face and full blue circles bene'a th his eyes. She asked him, jokingly, if he had been out on the town, but the expression on his face stopped her before she had finished her question. She knew something was wrong and all at once she came fully awake. The baby! Something must be wrong with the new baby. John stood and patted her shoulder absent-mindedly 'a s she asked her question. "What's wrong?" "Well," John stammered "its the baby, she may not live. She has something wrong with her heart. You musn't be alarmed, they are doing all they can." The thought struck her with horror. "I didn't want this one; perhaps I am going to be punished. Please God, let her be safe, 4 she's my precious baby girl. Please, please, don't let her die." It was a half plea and half prayer and was all uttered within herself. The doctor bustled into the room and told them the baby would be all right 'a nd in her heart she answered her prayer to herself. "Thank you, God. Thank you for leaving my family complete." In later years she could never imagine why she hadn't wanted her baby girl-the light, the life, and the love of her later years. The Obsession Cheryl Eichman Carl Anderson turned away from the bright light that was filtering through the venetian blinds and pulled the blankets closer around his neck. He felt a strong urge to lie there and go back to sleep, but he knew that in forty-three minutes he had to be maneuvering his 1966 Buick through the melee of city traffic or he would be late for his job. The thought of his job made him squirm within his warm cocoon. It wasn't a bad job, public accountant for the large.st company in the city, and the pay was sufficient to provide most of the things he and his family wanted but. . . . He started. Marge had called again. Reluctantly throwing the covers aside, Carl struggled out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. The wool carpet was warm on his bare feet and the smell of toast and coffee awoke his senses. Someday he was going to have bacon and eggs for breakfast every morning. Marge was reading the newspaper when he walked into the kitchen. She was a good wife and mother, demanding little and giving much. Many times she had gone without something she needed to get an extra item for him or the children. She was careful in her shopping and could stretch her grocery money to the limit. Being an excellent sewer, she made most of her own clothes. Someday he was going to buy her everything she deserved and .... He kissed the top of her head out of habit and poured himself a cup of coffee. His glance met the long mar on the countertop and he was suddenly very dissatisfied with his surroundings. Then he remembered his dream. It had been more like a nightmar e and he had woken in a sweat. Now, the only thing he could remember was that Jim Morgan had been in it. Morgan's had been their neighbors for years. They had helped 5 each O'ther landscape their yards and pave their drives. They played golf tO'gether for years and every Saturday night was their weekly bridge game. Jim wO'rked for the same cO'mpany that Carl did, but somehO'w there was a difference. Jim's shrubs seemed to' grO'w better, his gO'lf and bridge games were always played with more skill, and sO'mehow Jim had always been chO'sen for the cO'mpany advancements. Rushing to' finish his breakfast, Carl reached for the sugar. His suit sleeve caught a cO'ffee cup and it spread its cO'ntents O'n the surface O'f the table. Brown streams sped around the cereal boxes and milk cartO'n and fell O'ver the table's edge forming limpid amber poO'ls O'n the flO'or. Just Carl's luck. SO'pping up the liquid with his napkin and apO'IO'gizing to Marge, he was again reminded O'f his dream. He remembered that the liquid had been gO'lden and its mO'vement had been an internal churning rather than spreading intO' streams as the cO'ffee has dO'ne. But he didn't have time to' think abO'ut it nO'w. He was five minutes late and Jim hated to' be late fO'r wO'rk. He glanced O'nce mO're with distaste at the cO'ffee and grabbed his attache case. After a light , eck on the cheek fO'r Marge, he p flew to' the garage. Jim was waiting O'n the curb and was in the car almO'st befO're it had stO'pped. _ "Where have yO'u been, bO'y? We're gonna be late if yO'u dO'n't step O'n it." Jim's agitated vO'ice grO'und O'n Carl's nerves but he didn't bO'ther to' explain why he was late. Jim wouldn't be interested anyway. As they mO'ved out intO' the traffic, Jim settled down to' read the mO'rning paper. "Say, yO'u shO'uld see this advertisement. A full page lay-out O'f wO'men's cO'ats fO'r the winter seasO'n. YO'u knO'w, O'ur anniversary is next week and I'll bet June wO'uld 100ve O'ne O'f those shO'rt fur jackets." Jim's comment was typical. He was always trying to' rub it in that he made mO're mO'ney than Carl. Jim went on unmindful O'f Carl's silence. "June really needs a new cO'at. The one she bought last year has really seen its better days." Sure it has, Carl thO'ught. June has prO'bably wO'rn the coat at least six times. Then he thO'ught abO'ut Marge's cO'at. This was its third year and the prO'spects O'f a new O'ne weren't very gO'O'd. Maybe next year. Carl stepped O'n the acceleratO'r, enjO'ying the feeling O'f pO'wer beneath him. The shO'ulders O'f the highw'a y slipped by unseen un6 til his destination finally came into view. The autumn sun reflected from the office building windows and seemed to emit a friendly warmth. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad day after all. II The day had been long and had continued as it had started with nothing going right. After the bad start with the coffee and Jim's blowing, the boss had called him in about his work and said that he wasn't working up to capacity. When he finally 'a rrived home, Marge asked him to punish the children for not coming home right after school. To forget his frustrations, Carl went to bed early. Sleep always provided a good escape. III Sitting bolt upright in bed, Carl was aware that he .had been sleeping for .some time. His body was wet with sweat and his hands and feet were icy cold. His mouth was so dry that it hurt to move it. It had been the dream again. The one which he had had last night and the night before and the nights before that for as long as he could remember. The room was oppressing. Quietly slipping into his clothes, he left the room. The stairs groaned with his weight as he passed through the darkness. One of the children .stirred in his sleep. Outside the night air was heavy and the sky forecasted rain. The atmosphere did little to lift the oppressing weight from him. Carl went to the garage, backed the car out and drove somewhere - anywhere. The headlights played ahead of the car, illuminating objects and creating .shadows. A light mist began to fall, producing an aura of unreality. Carl pulled over on the shoulder of the road and stopped his car. It was then that he thought about the dream again. Like most dreams, it was confusing and mostly incoherent, but he could remember that he and Marge were with Jim. They were touring a new industrial building that Jim had financed. After going up several spiral flights of steps, they found themselves looking down into a huge vat of golden liquid. It had a granular consistency and was bubbling as it slowly churned toward the center of the vat. An odor of sickening sweetness permeated the room. 7 On a platform opposite them were a group of Carl's associates from the company. Sure, there was Pete Johnson and Bob Marques and Larry Robinson ... he couldn't make out the others very clearly. As Jim was explaining the qualities of the liquid to all of them, his face became contorted into absolute fiendishness. The contents of the vat represented all the money that had been invested into the company. It was the life-blood. The gold had been melted and kept moving to be a constant reminder that it was the life-blood of their company and themselves. Money provided them with all the comforts and solace of life. It was life .... The sound of Jim's voice grew faint and Carl grew dizzy from the nausating sweet- . ness in the room. He lost his balance and went plummeting into the vat. The liquid grabbed at his clothing seeking to make Carl a part of itself. It was dragging him deeper and deeper into its depths. He screamed for help but all he received was the hysteric laughter of his friends. As the golden liquid churned about his face, he saw Marge. She was leaning over the railing, pointing her finger at him and laughing ... laughing ... laughing. Carl was resting his forehead on the steering wheel. Small beads of sweat had popped out along his brow. Finally he CO,llsciously remembered the dream that had invaded his sleep for weeks. As Carl reflected on the dream, he was struck with a single thought. What was money? All his life he had struggled to make money and then more money and more money. Why wasn't his appetite for wealth ever sated? And then there was Jim who made more money yet. He hated Jim for . . . He hated him . . . Yes, that was it, he hated Jim and all of his other friends because most of them brought home bigger pay checks than he did. He was jealous of them. But were they any happier? They worked just as hard as he did; they didn't enjoy their new cars and boats any more than he enj oyed his older ones; they spent even less time at home with their families so they could gain overtime. What kind of a life was that? Surely there was more than that. A flash of lightning followed by a loud roll of thunder started Carl from his pensive mood. The rain began to fall. Slowly at first in big drops that splashed on the windshield. Then it came faster in small, hard drops. Carl rolled down the car window. The smell of the wet earth and dead leaves cleared his head. If there was more to life than lTIOney and position, maybe ... just maybe, he was on the road to finding it. 8 The Art 0'1 The Pos: ible s Robert L. Faulhaber The room was a shambles. The tables, perhaps normally used to display a salesman's wares, was strewn with paper, littered ash trays and half-empty glasses. Little droplets of stale ice water reflected from its polished surface. A red-coated bell boy had closed the door creating a dash of draft that .swirled and eddied the layers of smoke hanging listlessly across the slanting rays of the late evening sun. The room's only window looked out over the grey roof tops of Boston. It was spring and only three weeks until the Sta te Primary. Al Thompson, a big hulk of a man, sat tense at the table. His face was livid. A big round badge, inscribed, "NATIONAL CHAIRMAN-LODGE FOR PRESIDENT COMMITTEE," tottered and blinked on his lapel as he breated heavily. "Damn it, Bill," he roared · as his fist thundered on the table top. "It you have no stomach for this, what in the hell are you doing in COPE?" Bill Luther remained slumped in his chair; "Bastard," he t hought, "I won't give the bastard the pleasure of an answer. Stomach! God, what I've been through since that first union meeting back in '35! Stomach! Guts is the word! Raw, tight, bleeding guts! Clawing up out of the picket lines-dull meetings-all night haggling over a few lousy nickles, hoodwinking the mob- broken skulls-soup kitchens- a shot gun blast through the picture window that night in Detroit-dirty deals, clever deals, temporary deals, and some deals that back-fired. Now what about this one? God, could it ever back-fire! So we have a hoaxed-up four-year-old TV tape that now showed the old man indorsing Lodge for President. Sure it would fool the public. But, damn the public- what about some starry-eyed smart-alec reporter pulling the chain? And the old man himself? All right, we do keep him out-of-touch for twenty-four hours while we get the ball rolling. Granted he has straddled every is.sue for eight long years in the White House and every issue since. But this is touchy! It could tee him off enough to force his hand. So many chances. But the word is out." His thoughts trailed off as he contemplated the big picture. The word was out. Stop Goldwater at all costs. Rocky blew his image with that Murphy gal up in Albany and now the last good hope of the party was Lodge. His campaign had caught fire in New Hampshire, but it needed the big push. 9 A harsh shot ring broke the tension in the room and brought Bill's attention back to the here and now. Al had the phone cradled in his big fist before it could ring the second time. "Yeh," he grunted, his knuckles white on the receiver. "Thompson here. O. K., put him on." T. J. Drextell, State Committee Chairman, and all that was left of an old back bay family, was sitting stiff backed on the edge of his chair. "Yeh," repeated AI, "T. J. is here. It's all set up. Hell, his family owns the TV station! Sure, it's ready to run. It's your end we are worried about. Is the fix on the nurse?" There was a breathless pause as he listened. Madison Duffy slumped in his chair. He was ready. The TV tape had been altered. The corners of his mouth crinkled slightly in a smug little smile as he contemplated how cleverly he had mixed a flare of trumpets in the background music to completely obliterate the word, "Vice." It came out loud and clear- Ike backing Lodge for President. His sn1ile deepened into one of self-satisfaction. If this crummy trick sparked the Lodge effort enough to stop Goldwater, there was a chance Madison Duffy would someday be issuing press releases from the White House. Yes, Madison could well afford to smile. AI's voice again thundered through through the room. "0. K.Remember now; if the schedule changes, call at once. If we do not hear from you, we roll the film at 7 :15 prime time." Ice tinkled in a glass as Al slammed the phone cradle on its stand. His dark eyes pierced the smoke as their sharp focus gathered the attention of his cohorts one by one. There was no question who was running the show. "Now one more while we still have time," his voice rasped with tension. "T. J., is your boy ready?" "Yes Sir, AI, the 7 :15 news program will carry the tape. It will roll unless they receive a call from me personally. No hitch there, my boy." T. J. Drextell had long since given up thinkingjust follow orders and not ask too m'any questions. After all the Drextells and the Lodges were both old New England families; no real harm done, you know; 01' Henry was a right fellow- Harvard- 19, Lampoon-------. AI's sarcastic voice interrupted T. J.'s nervous reverie like an echo. "Just follow the plan, T. J., just follow the plan. This is not a little State fiasco we're pulling off." "Now Madison," and his sharp eyes brought the young man up out of his slouch. "We've gone over your stuff. It's good. Re- 10 member the image is the key. Lodge has a good reputation and plenty going for him from his UN bit. Play it up. But that. Asiatic stuff is hot potato- he's on shaky ground there so be careful. AI's hands moved in little jerks across the table as if he were deploying armies of toy soldiers. "Now the next ten minutes will tell the tale. The old man is on his way to the hospital. To be sure he doesn't change his schedule, we are holding until the last minute." His pudgy fist moved a glass over to the edge of the table. "Once he is in Bethesda for his annual check-up we can rely on Bill's boys and the head nurse to be sure tomorrow morning's papers don't reach him. Thank God he never watches TV or listens to the radio when he has a couple of good western magazines to read. By 8 :00 A. M. he'll be down the hall for laboratory check and so on." His hands spread wide decisively, palms down. "Now, that's enough time to make every deadline in the country, Madison, and we want results." "Right, Chief, we're ready." Al slowly shoved the glass toward the center of the table. "By the time the old man finds out he has indorsed our boy, it will be too late for him to deny it without looking like a complete ass. Hagarty will come up with the usual on again- off again fence straddling kind of rubbish he has been dishing out through the whole campaign. "The old man has been good for the party." T. J. Drexell looked sUI})rised that he had actually had the audacity to speak up. He seemed to wilt as the big man slowly turned to him. AI's eyes seemed to focus on the prim little man in gradual realization that he really was there, twitching on the edge of his chair. "Don't be a fool," he rasped. "Don't be a complete fool." Al relaxed his massive frame and sprawled his elbows on the table top. In his right hand he cradled an old-fashioned pocket watch, its gold fob dangling loosely. He laid it gently, face up next to a half-empty bottle of old Grandad. His voice was quiet and yet seemed to fill the room as it rose fron1 the depth of his chest. "Four minutes. The old man is in the hospital by now. Unle.ss we get that call in four minutes, the die is cast. By God, this could be the thing to stop Goldwater. He has got to be stopped." His brow darkened as his voice trailed off, "- got to be stopped- ." Silence hung deadly in the room. The soft click seemed to echo as Madison Duffy twisted the knob of the TV set. The eerie white light of the 21-inch tube 'c ast a ghostly pall over the faces of the men. The sun had set. The smoke haze had faded into 11 gloom, blurring the edges and corners of the room into dark shadow. In another time the four men could have been Druid priests huddled around a ceremonial altar fire, or Nordic knights gazing transfixed into the glowing entrance of a Wagnerian Valhalla. But this was the Twentieth Century and the TV's pale glow accented the darkness of the room and the ethical depths of the deed. Al Thompson had poured a glass of raw Bourbon. Bill Luther waved away the offer of a toast. Duffy's eyes were strained with nervous tension. The shadowy light from the television tube reflected sharply from T. J. Drextell's long aristocratic jaw, but failed to hide the near panic in his eyes. He had the look of a trapped animal, helpless in his confusion. Al picked up his watch and gently tucked it into a vest pocket. He heaved a deep sigh as he turned closer to the TV set. Madison flicked the volume knob and the silence was shattered by the newscaster's excited voice. "Ex-President Eisenhower indorses Ambassador Lodge for President! Just an hour ago our station filmed this historic .event. Here is the video tape------." C, mpute, Pleas, ! o e Lynette Ford The classroom buzzed with nervous excitement. A test day atmosphere permeated the room. Mary Knowles fingered the dials on Faithful Freddie, checked his brief case to make certain that he had brought a few extra tapes. Marcia Gingham fed book-facts to her Impatient Inez and Inez responded with a whir, flash, and a click-click. Mr. Maquina entered the room one minute after the hands on the clock pointed at eight. Perfect Pasty, Jerry Trippet's computer, whirred out a message to him. "His timer is off," it read. Jerry sn1iled at Patsy, nodded his head as if he understood, 'a nd then turned his gaze toward Mr. Maquina. "Today class," droned a voice from somewhere inside Mr. Maquina, "we will have our final on William Shakespeare, the 12 gloom, blurring the edges and corners of the room into dark shadow. In another time the four men could have been Druid priests huddled around a ceremonial altar fire, or Nordic knights gazing transfixed into the glowing entrance of a Wagnerian Valhalla. But this was the Twentieth Century and the TV's pale glow accented the darkness of the room and the ethical depths of the deed. Al Thompson had poured a glass of raw Bourbon. Bill Luther waved away the offer of a toast. Duffy's eyes were strained with nervous tension. The shadowy light from the television tube reflected sharply from T. J. Drextell's long aristocratic jaw, but failed to hide the near panic in his eyes. He had the look of a trapped animal, helpless in his confusion. Al picked up his watch and gently tucked it into a vest pocket. He heaved a deep sigh as he turned closer to the TV set. Madison flicked the volume knob and the silence was shattered by the newscaster's excited voice. "Ex-President Eisenhower indorses Ambassador Lodge for President! Just an hour ago our station filmed this historic .event. Here is the video tape------." C, mpute, Pleas1! o e Lynette Ford The classroom buzzed with nervous excitement. A test day atmosphere permeated the room. Mary Knowles fingered the dials on Faithful Freddie, checked his brief case to make certain that he had brought a few extra tapes. Marcia Gingham fed book-facts to her Impatient Inez and Inez responded with a whir, flash, and 'a click-click. Mr. Maquina entered the room one minute after the hands on the clock pointed at eight. Perfect Pasty, Jerry Trippet's computer, whirred out a message to him. "His timer is off," it read. Jerry sn1iled at Patsy, nodded his head as if he understood, 'and then turned his gaze toward Mr. Maquina. "Today class," droned a voice from somewhere inside Mr. Maquina, "we will have our final on William Shakespeare, the 12 greatest poet of the Pre-I. B. M. Poetic Era." Mr. Maquina raised his right hand jerkily to his head, scratched his blond hair, and continued. "Each of you, I presume, has brought several tapes to class. This will be at least a two tape test." At these words bright O'reen lights of eagerness flashed on the computers and they urged their students to smile. "It will be the usual procedure. The first person to receive the answer from his computer will bring it to my desk and receive an "A"; the second person will receive a "B" and so on. Are you ready?" Again green lights flashed and students smiled approvingly. "All right, tapes ready to record. What is the main theme of Shakespeare's play Hamlet?" Roars, whirs, buzzes, clangs, clicks, and hums flooded the roon1. Approximately two minutes later Mary Knowles rushed to Mr. Maquina's desk with the answer. She followed a zig-zag course past student's chairs and cabinet like computers or more expensive human-shaped computers and reached his desk slightly ahead of Marcia Gingham. One by one the other twenty-three members of the class brought their answers to the desk. The gradeless answers were dropped reluctantly on the desk and each failing computer resolved to do better on the next questions. The test day race continued through fourteen more questions and then, with the sounding of the bell, students followed their rolling computers out of the room. Terrific Teddy remarked to Perfect Patsy, "This test was one of the hardest ones I've ever computed!" "I computed well but Jerry is ill so he couldn't run like he should." "Aren't humans hard to understand at times?" "Yes, they break down so easily." "Well, time for chemistry class. I had better rush. Are you coming, Tom ?" Teddy spoke to Tom through his speak-aloud system although he had been conversing with Patsy in Click-Glick dialect. Mr. Maquina remained in room 153, filing the test tapes in his huge memory compartment. Just as the clock hand pointed to nine, Mr. Cybernic, the principal, came rolling into the room, holding a news tape in front of him. "More humans committing suicide- 15 yesterday, 28 the day before- and going insane. Thought's the key. They don't let their computers do enough thinking for them. It's such a shame. With all these glorious machines to direct their activities in the right direction, humans remain unhappy. I just don't understand!" 13 Distillery B'o und Charles Hale Jerry's gaze covered the sun drenched beauty of the hills surrounding him. The gentle chirping of the birds alone interruped the solitude . •Jerry drew a handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped it across his brow. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up, his tie was back in the car, and to heck with his hat. If it was ever 110 degrees in the shade, he knew it was this afternoon. "Are there many fish in this creek?" he inquired looking at the boy, searchingly. "I catch chubs, here all the time," the boy answered. "Jimmy goes over on the White River; he catches biggins over there, I'd like to go but mom won't let me. She says it's too far, and I'm not old enough." "\Vho's Jimrny- your big brother?" Jerry asked, now helping the boy attach a hook to an eight foot line. "Yeh, he's sixteen now, almost as big as pa," was the reply. "I'll bet he is," Jerry stated assuredly. "Aah, I imagine you'll be glad when you are big enough to raise strawberries, watermelons, and core like your daddy?" The boy was about ten years old with straw colored hair and a freckly face. Jerry meant to ask him if he had any shoes but he knew th.at he would get the same answer from any ten year old in these hills, they had them but didn't like to fool around with the laces. "Nah, I think I'm going to be a fisherman when I grow up," the boy said as he swung his line out into the water. Jerry's face tightened a little, "You're not interested in farming these hills then?" The boy cocked his head slightly and gave Jerry a very questioning glance, "What do you want, mister?" Jerry laughed aloud realizing the youngster's comprehension was pretty sharp. "Well, I'm considering talking business with you but you never told me your name." "Tim." "Well, Tim, my name is Jerry. I started a vacation a few days ago." "Whatcha doin' way up here?" Tim asked pointedly. Jerry smiled and said, "I was down the road a few miles this morning and some fellow gave me a drink of the best moonshine 14 liquor that I ever tasted. Yes sir, I told him that I'd certainly be proud to meet the fellow that could make liquor like that. And do you know, according to the directions he gave me I must be getting very close. I sure would like to buy a jug of that liquor." The boy's face hardened considerably, and his eyes were smart and snappy. "Could you by any chance tell me how to get to the still," Jerry asked abruptly. "Ain't supposed to talk to strangers," Tim answered turning away quickly. "Well, you know I could almost spare a five dollar bill if you would give me a hand," Jerry said very slowly. The boy stood silently for a moment seeming to arrange things in his mind. "If you give me the five dollars, Mister, I might tell you how to get up there." replied the boy quietly. "Well, I'll tell you what," said Jerry trying to make the wisest move toward getting accurate information, "I'll give you the five as soon as I get back." Tim look at him quietly for a moment then answered, "Better give it to me now, Mister, cause if you go up there you ain't comin' back." Jerry leaned against a small cedar, and made no attempt to wipe the egg from his face. Now he knew why he had graduated from law school in nineteen fifty. At the moment he didn't feel able to compete with this crop. Tim didn't wait for another offer. He pulled his line from the water, wrapped it around the pole and bounced out of sight beyond the first hill. Jerry sat down and stretched back against the gentle rise of the earth. All of sudden he was very tired. He could have been ashamed of the way he tried to pry the boy but in this case he was past the capacity for shame. Today was a stab in the dark. For a month he had climbed these hills around Roxboro and to no avail. He knew that reasonably large amounts of moonshine was coming from this area. Tankers had been picked up in Charlotte, North Carolina, Atlanta, Georgia, and Memphis. Some of these were positive trace backs. In the past four weeks, Jerry had tried everything from local stoolies to walking these hills. Jerry rose to his feet and began to make his way back to the car. He was anything but a cruel man. He deeply loved Tennessee and its people. These quiet hills in all their beauty could bring contentment to a weary man's heart. In the fall a Michelanglo couldn't capture the bursting beauty of a thous'a nd colors f.rom Oak Ridge 15 to the main chain of the Appalachians. It is hard to allow oneself to believe that the solitude of these hills could harbor serious trouble of any kind. However, trouble was here, the syndicate kind. Years ago moonshiners had had their own buyers and outlets but this had changed. The syndicate had appealed effectively to these hill people, and the illegal booze lnarket was now in their hands. As Jerry reached the car, he analyzed the situation. It was evident that his discussion with the boy had turned into a terrific error. Everyone within miles would soon know who and what he was, and how close he was to finding anything. His chances of getting more men assigned to the area were hopeless and the local and county officials didn't particularly want to be of assistance. A group search would result in finding dynamited stills, no evidence, and only a delay in production. Jerry was backing the car around to start down the grade when he saw it. A small cloud hovering a short distance above the ground without a streamer of it extending downward. "Vapor," he gasped, "less than a half mile away." Jerry scanned the area closely with his field glasses, trying desperately to pin-point the position. The vapor soon disappeared and no other clouds followed. Who ever was oveT there must have momentarily loosened the boiler lid, a piece of luck to which Jerry wasn't accustomed. He stepped quickly from the car and walked back to open the trunk. H.e unsheathed a small carbine, pocketed a 32 caliber revolver and ducked into the timber. The underbrush was extremely heavy and Jerry used it to full advantage. The birds were quiet now and the air was deathly still. Below wa s a large iron boiler tank with a copper tube scrolled around it. The tube extended through a cool water tank and ended in a small receiver barrel. It was crudely fashioned but quite efficient. Jerry had circled the area and had seen no evidenc of a guard. He was also very certain that this was one of the smallest stills in that area. Jerry also realized it wasn't going to be there long. He must have been spotted. No one seemed to be anywhere. Jerry didn't have to be told what happened when an explosion .shook the earth. Fragments of metal and wood showered the entire area. Jerry leaned back against a large cottonwood and drew a cigarette fron1 a pack in his shirt. The tension seemed to ease from him and the tightness left his neck and shoulders. That'.s how it goes, he t hought, you catch a few transporters and distributors but this age old art was heck to do anything with. He shook his 16 head with disgust- merely a delay in production. Jerry turned and made his way back through the maj estic hills of Tennessee. Charles Hale Ed crossed the alley and made his way up the back steps of the little white house that had been his home for fifteen years. It wasn't a large house but it was comfortable and served its purpose. Ed was a rugged looking individual of about six foot four inches. His eyes were grey and his face was very much weather beaten. In his younger days he had been physically trim but the compilation of occasional beers left him with a slight middle age paunch. Ed made his way into the ~kitchen, dropped his hard hat on the table, and seated himself next to the refrigerator. "Helen, where are you ?" A pleasant looking woman of about forty emerged from the living room with a knitting basket in her hand. She was well shaped and her hair possessed a tint of red. "You're home early, Ed. Did you finish the foundation?" she asked with interest. "We finished it this morning." Ed replied with a twitch of his shoulder. "We can start pouring again Monday." Helen kissed her husband lightly on the telnple. "I'm certainly glad that the weather has been all right for you this spring." "Is Chip home from school yet?" Ed asked. Helen turned and walked over to the cupboard. "No, but he's due any minute. There was a brief silence before she continued, "I wish you would talk to the boy, Ed. He has mentioned quitting school quite often lately." Ed rose wearily from his chair. The look in his eyes was one of helpless concern. "I believe I'll take a shower. Will supper be ready soon?" "It'll be ready in about forty-five minutes," Helen replied. The hot water felt good as it blasted off Ed's broad back. He had been a construction worker almost all of his adult life. In the beginning he had thought that it was just a job until something better came along. However, as the years will testify, it had become his life's work and he had learned to like it. As he was getting dressed, he heard the front door close and 17 Chip's light steps cross the living room to the telephone. Chip was a good boy. His grades had been above average but lately had dropped to low C's. Chip had just finished talking on the phone when Ed walked into the living room. He was a tall boy of seventeen years with sandy red hair and flashing sharp eyes. "Chip, how did it go today?" his father asked. "All right I guess," the boy replied volunteering no further conversation. Ed settled down in his favorite platform rocker, selected a pipe and began filling it from a glass humadore. His son had taken a seat on the couch and was preparing to read a magazine. "Chip, your mother tells me that you 'a re .s till thinking of quitting school. Don't you think that's a little silly with only one year to go?" "I don't think it's silly at all," Chip stated rather hotly. "What good is it going to do n1e?" There was a moment of silence as Ed tried to perceive the boy's point of view. "Don't you think it's important?" Chip'.s agitation eased somewhat. "What is the purpose of it? I'm already as good with English and math as most people. I go to school five days a week and sit couped up for six and a half hours a day and when I get out I won't be qualified for a decent job. If I finished and went on to college, what would I become? A white collar man? And what does a white collar man do? He works in an office all day with nothing happening to him, not really. Naturally I want to make sOlnething of my life but I don't want to waste it on hum drum stuff." The boy hesitated and rubbed his knees in despair. "I don't mean you, Dad, but if anything gets me, it's old people telling me about how wonderful it is to get somewhere, to live in an office of hammering typewriters. I'm beginning to wonder if anyone really knows anything." Chip became quiet as he turned his gaze to the wall. Ed drew gently on his pipe as he pondered the boy's words. Like all fathers he had made mistakes in rearing his son. However, the lines of communication between the two had always been open. Chip certainly wasn't ashamed to speak his piece. "Chip," Ed began, "it may sound a little off the wall to you but I understand all too well how you feel. I must admit that in a way you have a pretty good point. Drudgery is going to get most of the coming young men. It's a fact that the sons of the men that 18 pushed west in covered wagon,s are punching time clocks in San Francisco." Ed hesitated for a moment as he pounded the ashes from the bowl of his pipe. "Chip, when I was your age, I had a million dreams and they're not to be laughed at. I was going to set the world on fire, so I started by quitting school. That was twenty years ago, and there's a tremendous difference between what's going on now and what was happening then. Anyhow I've been a construction worker for the last fifteen years. Don't knock it because it is a man's work but in the last fifteen years, I've learned one thing real well. Son, a man cannot live in two different worlds. You have to adjust to the breed you work with. Your principles and many things about you can always be yours, but the places you frequent and the things you like have to somewhat correspond with the things enjoyed by your working class. What I am trying to say is that if you become an unskilled worker, you cannot enjoy things that correspond to the tastes of the so-called upper class. If you do, the conflict will break you. You will begin to hate your position, and there won't be a thing that you can do about it. If you become a ditch digger, you have to learn to like it and to like the ways other ditch diggers go about life. I really don't know what is going to happen to today's dropouts, particularly those who have more than enough ability to go on. Son, if you want adventure in the way you feel about it now, you can have it. However, it takes the best education that money can buy. Maybe in a few years your feelings will change. The world would be quite a place if everyone was emotionally geared to be a jet pilot. With the right education you will have more freedom to choose your position of importance. Without it you will have very little choice." Chip gaze quietly at his father. His dad had never been very pretty with words but he had always made sense. He seemed to know about this jumping out of the kettle into the fire business. Yes, Chip thought, he would do, well to at least consider what his father had said. 19 1. 03 Stereotype Charles Hale Jim walked down the hall and entered the office on the left. Typewriters were clicking and a murn1ur persisted throughout the room. Resting heavily against the counter, he glanced at the various office furnishings. They were nothing fancy, just sturdy and appropriate. As a matter of fact, they were somewhat of a reflection on the ideals of much of mankind. Something becomes wrong only when it quits working. A slender tight lipped woman approached, "May I help you, Sir ?" "Yes," Jim answered gazing critically at her. She could be fairly attractive if it wasn't for the stamp of convention that seemed to be a part of her. "Various tests were administered to me yesterday shortly after I filled out an application blank. Has everything been processed?" "I'm sorry. If you've completed the application, you'll have to select a card and wait in line," she replied. "Of course," he stated grimly as he selected a card from the top of the stack and walked back to a folding chair that stood along the wall. There were approximately ten men of every shape and size seated along that wall; however, they seemed to have a likeness, sort of a tenseness and anticipation. Jim sighed deeply as he pulled a package of ·cigarettes from his coat pocket. For the past eight years, he had been a general science teacher in a junior high school. Being single and interested in many things, he had chosen different summer jobs every year. This, of course, involved travel and changing scenery. On this occassion he had applied at the Homestake Gold Mining Company office in Lead, South Dakota. The woman appeared once more, "Will number six come forward ?" A burly fellow three -seats down arose and approached the counter. No one .seemed to notice. "Mind if I bum one of those coffin nails, Mister?" The man on Jim's right asked. 20 "Certainly," Jim replied shaking a cigarette out of the pack for him, "have you been waiting long?" "This is the third day," the gentleman replied. "I've had mining experience but they are still checking me out." Jim smiled slightly and slid down on the seat, "Well, I haven't had any experience so I'll probably be turned down or have to sit here for a week." Jim glanced around in an attempt to spy a magazine or newspaper, but evidently none were supplied. The hands of the electric clock on the wall moved slowly as Jin1 proceeded to go to sleep. It seemed as though he had just relaxed when he felt the fellow on his right shake him. "She's calling for number eleven," he stated. Jim glanced at his card, thanked his friend, and stepped to the counter. "Your name please?" " James Anderson." "One moment please," she replied as she .s tepped into an adjoining office with a handful of papers. Soon she reappeared and stood before him, "according to your tests, Mr. Anderson, you would be most suited to work with one of the drill crews." If Jim had taken one of those tests, he had taken a hundred. Not once had the results indicated anything similar. Could it be that the psychology being used was that on the part of the companies trying to encourage people into jobs which they couldn't ordinarily be hired to do? "That will be fine," he answered, feeling that the experience would be good for him. "All right, Mr. Anderson, we would like for you to see Doctor Jones downtown and report back here at seven o'clock in the morning." "Thank you," Jim answered and walked out of the office and down the hall. He wasn't sure whether he was gaining a better mental grasp of his identity or that he had less identity to grasp. He could understand this somewhat because in the past eight years his class had progressively increased in number. It was becoming harder and harder to give time and attention to shy stu- 21 dents. It was becoming more difficult to even know all of them. He wasn't going to worry about it though. He was certain that they would devise a test soon that would take away loneliness and instill a sense of importance. Jim climbed the long flight of stairs quickly and made his way down the hall. The name of A. D. Jones, M. D., was printed across the opaque glass of the oak door on the right. Jim entered and was preparing to sit down when a gruff old man eappeared from another room. "What can I do for you, young man," he asked. "The mine ,s ent me up for a physical," Jim answered. "I see," the old man grumbled, "come on in here and roll up your sleeve." Jim walked into another small room and sat down quietly. The doctor pressed a stethoscope into the hollow of his arm for a few seconds. "There's nothing wrong with you," he said, "stand up, turn your head and cough, the other way." The old man walked over to his desk and sat down. "Have you ever had heart trouble, tuberculosis, eye trouble, or a rupture." "No." The doctor began filling out a sheet of paper and asked no further questions. "All right, Anderson," he said, "take this sheet with you, and I'll call down now. That will be all." Feeling as though he had just been swept under the rug, Jim strolled out of the office and back to the street. Society's classification of people was a good front but that was all that it amounted to. Basically people haven't changed much in thousands of years. It seemed odd that we would be making the same mistakes. Oh, well, it is just a matter of arranging people. The world is adjusting to being ruled from a filing cabinet. 22 :'T View, Higher Purpose in Higher Education" Frances Doherty "Untitled" Joseph Meyer "Artemis" Mary Ordway "A Family" Ken Lewis "Trees and Sunset" April Nourse 'Looking Ahead" Mary Ellen Cranno "Ascension" Ken Lewis "Number I" Don Niven "Landscape" Frances Doherty LA.T." Frances Doherty "Lisa" Nancy Merrill "Mother and Child" Renee Nassif 'Joan of Arc" Mary Ordway "Mother Is Blue" Mary Ellen Cranno Anni al Report Tl The Comm,ittee u o Lynn Huff From the very beginning, I want to stress beyond a doubt that Christianity is definitely making tremendous progress in the world today. Don't let anyone tell you any differently. For example, in my parish alone we've gained 164 new members this year. And membership is expected to sky rocket even higher when the new housing development across the expressway is completed and ready for occupancy. Why, if things keep improving the way they have been, we'll have to add on to our present facilities. I just don't see how we can fit any more Sunday School classes into the sanctuary. There are all ready ten meeting there. Hmm, let me see. If we set up some more chairs in the aisles, and moved the primary class up into the chancel area, we might be able to handle thirty or forty more members. Oh, uh, where was I? Ah, yes! Christianity is definitely on the up and up. We raised the foundation about six or eight inches last fall to stop the seepage that occurs in the narthex during the spring thaw. Old Mrs. Jones, .she's our weekly greeter who shakes hands and welcomes everyone into the fold each Sabbath. Old Mrs. Jones brought to my attention again for the third year, that it was a might bit uncomfortable standing in puddles each Sunday during the spring thaw. She assured me that if nothing could be done about it she could invest in a pair of galoshes, but it would spoil the entire effect of her outfit. Galoshes just weren't the san1e as her salmon colored, open-toed slippers. Along the line of other church improvements, we've decided to enlarge and pave the parking lot, so that the members don't have to wory about getting their Thunderbirds and Lincoln Continentals stuck in the mud in the spring, or covered with dust during the drier months of the year; especially when they've missed the prayer meeting that week to put such a beautiful shine on it. We've also received bids from several electrical contractors about the lighting of the stairway going up to the balcony. Mr. Brown wants to put in a light as a memorial to his late wife who passed on after a most unfortunate accident last month when she tripped on the broken step. A committee has also been set up t o check into the idea of cushions for the pews. We want our congregation to be comfortable, above everything else. And finally, we had our collection plates lined with beautiful royal blue felt, to enrich the 31 beauty of the service and to reduce embarrassment when members of the congregation drop in their loose change. Now, ah, let me see what the next point of consideration is. Ah, here it is, Christian Outreach and Evangelism. Uh, Christian Outreach and Evangelism. . . ? Oh, yes. Well, our church has taken a very, uh, firm stand on this issue. Let me see, what is the issue this year? Oh, yes, now I remember. We are very firm believers in the separation of the spirit and the flesh. Unlike the Baptist Church down the street a ways, which is offering movies (!) on civil rights and sex ethics (!!) to their young people's group, we hold prayer meetings with altar calls of commitment and dedication to our children. Get 'em while they're young, I, uh, we always say. Under my guidance and counseling, the Ladies' Aid decided against a study group on the problems of integration in our community, and has proceeded energetically with completing plans for the annual bazaar to be held next month; this is a much more pertinent issue I, uh, they feel for a Christian Women's Organization. The young Married's Club decided to hold a clothing drive to obtain clothing for the poor children living on the south side of town. How was it that the one lady, the former Miss Vanderbilt, put it? She said something on the order of the following. "In order to help improve the standards of that section of town, and so give these dear , sweet, charming children an opportunity to experience some of the finer things in life which they wouldn't normally be able to, and thus improve the general appearance of our church as they come to Sunday School each week, I move that our organizatiori sponsor an all church clothing drive." Then, mind you, then, this dear, sweet, young lady offered to lend us her chauffered Rolls Royce to deliver the worn and patched clothing when it had been discarded in the church basement by the. other members. Wasn't that just sweet of her? Ah, yes, I notice that on the evaluation sheet in front of me that there is an item concerning what the church has done to meet the needs of its members and its community. Well, let's see now, last fall our Official Board of Trustees voted to move our church service ahead by 45 minutes during the World Series games, so that our attendence wouldn't drop. We didn't want our men folk feeling guilty for having missed church. The Civic Association brought to our attention during the winter months that our church and parking lot were right on the corner where most of the working people in the area caught the bus into the city everyday for work. The delegate who had come to see me didn't have to say another word. Being the pastor of the largest Protestant con- 32 gregation in the vicinity, with a slack week-day program, I did exactly what my Christian conscience told me to do. I offered the use of our huge parking lot to them. The additional income from the meters has helped greatly in the financing of the purchase of the before mentioned pew cushions. They are the same heavenly shade of royal blue as the lining of the collection plates, creating a unity of effect during our ser vices. And so in closing, let me strongly emphasize again that Christianity is definitely making tremendous progress in the world today. The Pillow Porter Christine Leonard Diane Bancroft hated everyone she saw because nobody could appreciate her suffering; because only the basic minimum of people who saw "La Dolce Vita" understood; because maybe there was no God; because morals were no longer black and white. She sat alone, huddled inside her coat which was undeniably too long, revealing nothing of the whirpool of emotions save one; defeat. A porter hovered near her, thinking to promote monetary retaliation for services about to be rendered, but shuffled off saying, "Oh, you're crying." Although she hadn't been, Diane forcibly brought a few tears into being so he wouldn't be disappointed. Gazing up at him she said (trying in three words to tell him what a jerk he was and that she loved him to death), "Oh thank you." She wanted to pull his wheezy old man's body down beside her and tell him everything that had happened. She wanted him to put his hand over hers and to comfort her with a million beautiful words. But he just smiled and rearranged his armload of pillows as he continued down the aisle, doing his job in the best way he knew how. "Pillow, mam'? Only a quarter. Pillow, sir?" "A'aaah!" she snorted derisively and turned back to the solace of "but if's and "and yet's." The train clacked back to a semblance of order, the university. She remember ed. "I've got hundreds of things for us to do; there won't be enough time for all of them. You've never been to a ball park, have you? The White Sox play this week end-great! And we can go to 33 the museum and down to Old Town and, oh, we can't forget the lake." The ridiculous proposition handed to her in the bus station by a man who scooted around the corner when she began howling with laughter. The two boys who sang all the way to Chicago without once shaking hands with Melody. The stoic soldier who never saw anything. He just looked -and thought of God knows what. The flirty bus driver who bought her a candy bar when they stopped for gas. A tribe of tongues invaded the privacy of her thoughts and prodded her back into reality. Maybe sixteen college students fol· lowed by a wispy professor desecrated the murmuring silence. "Where the hell did I put my coat? Hey, Bierbaum, have you seen it?" "Not since we left the restaurant." "For Christ's sake." "Where do you want to sit?" "Where's the bar car?" "You nuts or something? Today's Sunday." Horrified that one of them might sit by her, Diane tore off her coat and bunched it up on the vacant seat, leaving a blob of red where none had been before. "That ought to do it," .she reassured herself 'as she sent secretive glances skimming around the car. It was only after the group had summarily settled itself that she returned to her thoughts. She was on an escalator going somewhere and then he was there kissing her and she was thinking how glad .she was that her hair had just been fixed. Oh, yes, and then there had been a hot fudge sundae which she almost couldn't eat because fists of happiness and fear kept punching her in the stomach. And then the nauseous shock when he took her to his apartment 'and she saw his bed~so ugly; so dirty. And then, oh then, the night. Recoiling from this memory, she jabbed out her cigarette, made a frenzied search for her purse which had somehow or other gotten under the seat, and lurched to the restroom. PASSENGERS WILL PLEASE REFRAIN FROM FLUSHING TOILETS WHILE THE TRAIN IS IN THE STATION. THANK YOU flashed a greeting. Contorted with laughter, she gasped out, "Oh, my God. The comic relief; it's too much!" Refreshed and relieved, she ma34 neuvered herself back to' her seat. Interest in the car's Qccupants quickly died and Qnce mQre she wandered amQng remembered scenes. There they were Qn their way to' the baseball game; she was eating her first GQQd HumQr bar and nursing the blister that was fQrming Qn her heel. Ah yes, and nQW they are eating CQld hQtdQgs and drinking watery beer, waiting fQr the rain to' stQP sO' the game CQuid gO' Qn. Then the sCQrebQard was explQding because the SQX had just whammed Qut a hQmer. Laughing inside, she remember jamming themselves intO' the EI and after all their careful planning, getting caught in the rain. "Hmmmmm. We really did have a tremendQus time." FQr a whQle cigarette's wQrth Qf minutes she floated in smile.s. "A dQuble feature Qf fQreign films; can yQU beat that 7" The Qutside wQrld had ceased to' be. "And then dQwn to' Old TQwn. SO' much greatness crQwded intO' Qne place." As she reincarnated the rest Qf the night, the cQIQrs in her melted tQgether and fused it intO' Qne black IQathsQme thing. "It was that damn Irish Whiskey. Why I ever asked him to' get it, I'll never knQw. And that girl's picture. I shQuld never have asked him abQut it because then he started thinking and then I had to' make him stop. Only it didn't wQrk fQr very IQng. GQd damn it. GQd damn it." This was the end Qf whatever Diane had had with a man whQm she had never really knQwn. CQnsciQusly she fQught acceptance Qf this fact but amQng the babble Qf sQciety's rejects it grappled its way up the ladder Qf awareness. "He never cared, did he 7 It was a big jQke. NQne Qf it meant anything. Oh Christ, what a laugh; he never cared." She sat alQne, everything inside her dead Qr Qn the verge Qf being SQ. N Qthing CQuid hurt her nQW; there was nO' thing left to' feel pain. She didn't care what happened anymQre; what ever presented itself she WQuid accept with nO' resistance. There was nQthing left to' resist. She was very tired. FrQm behind the hazy curtain that separated her frQm the wQrld, a shape materialized. Dimly she recQgnized the pilQW PQrter. He sPQke. "We'll be pulling intO' IndianapQlis in a few minutes, mam. Is there anything I can help yQU with 7" "NQ. N Qthing at all," she answered in a vQice that made him vaguely uneasy. "YQU did want to' get Qff there, didn't yQU 7" Wearily she pulled back the curtain, "PardQn 7" "I said that's where yQU get Qff, isn't it 7" 35 "Oh. Yes. Yes, it is." As the train pulled out of the city, she was still sitting in her seat; still thinking what an idiot he was. Merry Clhristmas Anita Yeska Last night the snow had covered everything: the streets, the roofs, the chimneys. . . the sidewalks . . . until it was difficult to know where the gutters ended and the curbs began. By ten o'clock in the morning, the bells had tolled their message and the people answering the beckoning ring had left the white pockmarked, tracked and grimy. A girl stepped through the deep snow on the sidewalk, and made her way past a row of houses set so close together that they seemed almost to lean on each other. She thought: For some reason, I shall never get over feeling this way when I see him. She pulled her collar closer around her neck and turned to step through an unbroken path of white to the rickety front porch on one side of one of the houses. She rapped on the front door and then opened it and stuck her head inside. "Mon1ma! Poppa! It's me . .. Julia!!" "Gom'e in. . .come in," a voice called from the back of the house, and then Momma came hurrying through the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on an expanse of flowered apron, her face wreathed in smiles. "We've been waiting for you, haven't we, Poppa?" The bald headed man sitting in front of the living room window grunted and edged his chair around so he could see the two women better. "Glad to see you, Julie. Where's Charlie, Julie? How come he don't come too?" "His name is Charles, Poppa. He's at home, and you know why he didn't come." Her face felt hot as .s he bent to unzip her overshoes, taking them off and setting them carefully on the rug so the snow wouldn't leave water spots on the wood floor. Momma frowned. "She's right, Poppa, you know why Charles didn't come, so why ask, hmmm? Just to be ornery, that's why . . . and here I ask you just once to be nice . . .to try and be nice, huh? .. eh?" "Alright. . . alright!" The man's florid complexion took on a 36 deeper shade and he turned and gazed 'again out the window into the street. Julia unbuttoned her fleece coat and laid it over the green flowered overstuffed. "Merry Christmas," she bent and kissed his cold cheek. Without waiting for a response, she turned again to her mother, "Is the tea water hot?" "Yes, ye.s .. .it's hot. Julie, I'm so happy you came!" MomIna took Julie's hand in her firm grasp. "Poppa, want a cup of tea with us?" Julia Dr ewe wasn't surprised that her father shook his head. Charles had told her many times, "Mike McGonigal is one of the stubbornest Irishmen I've ever known." "Are you warm enough in here? You want me to get some chips and start a fire?" Momma knew better than to coax him. Already the old woman had started to the back corner of the room where there was a squat black stove and a string of pipe following the wall up the ceiling. Julia hurried ahead of her mother. "I'll do it, you go fix the tea." Faded eyes bean1ed their thanks. Julia thought that Momma's eyes had the softness of heaven in them sometimes. The mother disappeared through the kitchen doorway. Julia bent to pick up wood chips from an old box on the floor and to crumple pieces of newspaper, stuffing both of these into the hole in the top of the stove left by the lid cover. Then, quickly, she struck a match and dropped it into the hole; pausing to make sure the oil-soaked paper caught fire, she set the lid back in its place. She walked toward the old man and asked, "Are you warm enough, or should I get a blanket for you ?" "Don't bother, you and Charles have done enough for me already." The hoarseness of his tone startled her. She started to speak but, instead took a deep breath. Her throat ached. She thought: Why does he have to be this way? It's harder for all of us to accept this way. She was feeling frustrated and helpless again. Was there any other way to feel about something like this? She turned and walked into the kitchen. The teakettle was singing and Momma was per.spiring over the open oven, hands full of hot pads and bread pans. Setting a loaf pan on the table, Momma smiled, "You are just in time; I baked an apple loaf just like you like. Sit here. Come." "I guess Poppa isn't coming." "Never you mind about Poppa. You and me, we will talk a bit, eh? ." "Momma, it's been almost five weeks since he had to quit working. How much longer do you think he'll be like this? I couldn't 37 bear his not forgiving Charles and me. Sometimes I think he hates me." "Now Julie, I tell you, quit worrying. Poppa will get used to the idea that he is too old to work in the mines and then everything will be alright again. You wait and see .. eh?" Momma was pouring the tea now into the tiny china cups Poppa had bought for her last Christmas. "And then, maybe, Julie, he'll find something else to do. Your Poppa is a very .smart man." "I know Momma, I know," Julia smiled at her mother, but really didn't feel like smiling inside. She picked up 'a knife and cut slices from the cooling apple loaf and the two women ate the still warm, slightly spiced bread and drank their tea. "I have to go now," Julia said, drinking the last of her tea down. She stood up and bent forward to kiss her mother. "Merry Christmas, Momma. I'll come back tomorrow and stay for dinner. Do you need anything from the store?" "Oh. . .could use some milk and eggs. But I'm so happy you came, Julie!" The slender girl sighed. "I know. I'll be back." Mother and daughter walked out of the circle of the stove's warmth onto the wood floor of the front hallway. Julia pulled her coat on and buttoned it in silence. The old man gazed out the window still. She zipped up her overshoes and reached for the doorknob. "Julie." Her father's voice grated into the silence. She look at him, not. knowing what to say. "Merry Christmas." "Thank you, Poppa." She pulled her collar up around her neck and pulled the door open. She retraced her steps to the edge of the porch and then out to the sidewalk. In the sunlight the new snow was sprinkled with diamond dust. 38 On Bondage Marj orie Beasley These sparrows on the leafless twigs of lilacs free are but in a sense they're clipped of rights for they to constant color of plumage are confined and the song they sing Oranges Marj orie Beasley I really do like oranges . . . They're round with tough skin. I love to dig into them, To reach their inner personalities. There are two types of oranges. One is thin-skinned, the Kind that has fat, generous Sections, juicy and sweet. The type one likes to have Around all the time. It responds. The other has a .skin that's thick, And stubbornly refuses to peel. It even bleeds juicy tears to make The peeler feel badly, like maybe Privacy has been infringedAnd once inside the complexity of sections Irregular, some small and enclosed By larger- with strings to get in Teeth- these take more effort on My part; but it's worth it; They're sometimes more .sweet. 39 Discotheque Robert L. Faulhaber Throbbing rhythm and a jungle beat, Flat, narrow, hollow sounds. Monotony with a fever bounds From wall to wall, complete. Writhing, wrenching, jerk, and jolt, A montage of distorted form. With frantic antic as the norm Who knows the human from dolt? Glazed and vacant staring eye, Slack jaw or stilted smile. Reason revolts as horror's profile Brands the emotional lie. Door Knobs Robert L. Faulhaber With round mass of polished brass In lands of later origin Equalitie.s for every class In honor and dignity begin. Angled handles of ancient glory In Europe's halls and castles Separate the Pleb and Tory Creating lords and vassels. Reverse and obverse, old and new The angle harsh, the round benign Do forms precede concepts true Or ideas create design. 40 Money R. L. Faulhaber Long loops of energy from man to man Ideas, desires and a chain of events Concluding the circuit that benefits all While the power is high. The machinery of man fueled with money To a frantic pace and copious output Or ground to a halt when the pool is dry And the circuit is broken. Silence Robert L. Faulhaber A barren sheet poised in appalling pause. The baton hovers before the muted solo. A jab. A clack. And for 'a cademic cause Blanks shade and blur in creative glow. An artist's brush breaks the awesome strife Of waiting canvas. The stroke is won. Or the surgeon's gentle pause on life. Before the scalpel's deft draw is done. Like the stillness before the battles shattered roar When men are formed and the prayers 'a re said. Then close comradeships pale before The silent white terror of the already dead. All of life whets that prologue pause. A jab. A clack. It's an academic cause. The Valley Robert L. Faulhaber In the dismal valley where shepherds toil Amid green pastures, the docile flocks Graze and are not nourished, yet live 41 As herds wandering the valley floor. Shadows are deep in the valley, and dark Reflections mirrored in men's souls. Trapped beneath canyon walls, higher Than dogma could dictate- the herd huddles, Standing with the tree and bearing it.s burden Until the high peaks no longer are seen. Cries echo through the valley of night. For one who understands the rain. A Wanderer At Heart Wm. J. Forbes Come bandyshanked lad and follow me to wander to strange lands and every sea. You'll be a good traveler and wander this world, enjoying adventures as they all unfurl. You'll see seas as blue as the sky and peaks of which none are as high, mountains, which, from fire ensued and coral with its kaleidoscopic view. Behold the wary goat on the precarious slope or the windjammer with its miles of rope. Then the enlivening penguin from the frozen land and gushing spouts of whales you'll soon comprehend. For strange things Australia's the place to be, for goalas, kangaroos and aborigines. But as a wanderer you need not see all these only your mind should wander, as leaves in the trees. So put your mind at ease and look at the stars, set your thoughts to patterns as the musician his bars. And I say, sir, if there be no celestial bearing, fret not; the place for inspiration is as far as the bird's wing, it may come from a Spanish guitar or a wood's fine grain, even the refraction of calcite or the clear window pane. So I say to you, stranger, take up your staff, lead your mind forward and discourage not its wide swath, let it be free as the waves that roll and lap on the sea. 80 come now my lad, free your.self and follow me. 42 Th, Button At The Back e Wm. J. Forbes Tick- tick, tick- tick, the chorus of the clock, it levers, its springs: the entire thing. Tick- tick, tick- tick, mysterious as a lock, peaceful like a snake, but then it will ring. The ringing a message of its climax, that through calculations and time has come. Its being too loud we strike at its back; at the button to quell its troublesome, although awakening sound. To be heard, comprehended, understood; not forlorn like so many brilliant men in this world. These men must be heard and the bell must warn for the ideas of men like bells must report and the buttons that quiet must be stopped. The Diamond Cutter Wm. J. Forbes Praise be the diamond cutter, who creates gems out of hard crystal. . Studying the stone till he's sure, as if intently looking for its soul from which emerges the characteristics of gems, but in unrelated granules. He polishes deftly, with years of experience, 'and creates something ornately beautiful. Only with such motherlike care can this master craftsman perform. Like it was a child of his own nurture, he treats it wisely from the day it's born. Then, with all his work completed and done, he lets the gem seek the world and its fortune. 43 Cl' ssroom Revisited a Lynette Ford Air-aimed gazes; dreamy staresAbstract questions; careless caresDialogues of Socrates Fathered two philosophies. Should I wear pink, blue, black, or red? Go with Danny, Johnny or Fred? Open books; no one looksPeek at time like a crookAthene touches sad Odysseus Friend of mighty Menelaus. Maybe he'll call tonight at eight, Ask me for a Saturday date. Bodies twitch; eye lids closeQuestions asked; no one knowsThree-in-one is the trinity? God lived from infinity? I'll bet he's dating Betty Kaye. Oh well, it's really best that way! Minerva asks us every hour, Won't you pick the tree's white flower? Le, acy g Lynette Ford A half-live creature lies within my womb, A heart, a hand, a body without a mind - small product of my love defined. A gay little ditty should be his tune But funereal songs are what he'll croon. He must emerge into this world to find The fighting men and lovers intertwined. For all the airs of kindness men assume -They worship on Sunday in a church roomNegroes who must not move in next door Laugh at the sound of the Christmas bell's roar. 44 And when I think, now I rage and I fume Because my dear child will soon make his home Where wars abound and coffins and tombs. The- Shack Lynette Ford The shack is bare and empty Minus crates and brassy bed. The stale air rushes at me Like the whispers of the dead. My mind begins to wander To that shack in another day When I was a little girl Caring for nothing but play. I heard my mother talking In the blackness of the night. I saw my father walking To avoid another fight. The whiskey on my mother's breath Would drive dad to despair. But he loved his darling Beth Though she was unaware. And tears came to his eyes On that gloom filled Friday noon When they told him she was dead And his death followed soon. The shack is bare and empty Minus crates and brassy bed. And now my heart is free From every string of dread. Tomorrow I will marry A man who loves me too And I know my dar ling Jerry, Like my dad, will be so true. 45 ~hite Is For Virgin But Blue's Only Sad Lynette Ford Goldwater grinned at the ghost of J. F. K. While Birchites babbled barbariously. The day they ripped the red from the white and the blue Stevens en's voice echoed through empty elements And drowned in U Thant's dying dreams. The day they ripped the red from the white and the blue Torn text books paid tattered tribute To a broken and battered bell The day they ripped the red from the white and the blue And a simpleton cried, "God bless America, home of the free and the brave And the white . . . And the blue ... Money Can Buy Everything Lynn Huff It can buy clothes food cars people jobs statu.s education good times I want happiness love security friendship intelligence a home satisfaction freedom money can buy everything nearly 46 A Painting Deniece Walker She smiles there knowingly with head tucked neatly by her side. She is caught for a moment "being." A fish-like animal lay on her lap and other animals gather 'round as if she were one in Unity with them. Behind her looms a family of birds who have the desired wings of flight and look as if they wait to show her how to fly, like them. Legs and arms protrude from behind her chair, as Unity wraps their humanness with her's. She smiles, the moment remains forever captured by artist and his tools as the painting hangs on yonder wall and I sit here and see. Fruit Jars Deniece Walker When reading meters on a different route He was impressed with what he came to find: Some old fruit jars neglected to be thrown out Were canned with long, cold winter months in mind As for some family these shelves are lined With fruit. But caring stopped, the shelves remained And jars of canned fruit, waiting, no one claimed. They seemed to him like babies sealed in a womb. Never to live and never to begin, But rather abide sealed in a glass tomb. The proper time had never come for them To open forth and a new life to win. Instead the world looks inside their clear walls And sees that inside nothing living crawls. 47 The treatment of the fruit was not natural. It should have been left on the ground to rot And fertilize the .soil as in furrows It falls from its fearful jump to be caught Where battles for rebirth start to be fought. Instead the stranger sees what was not begun And marvels at what man shouldn't have done. Today Deniece Walker I don't know what came over me today. As I was struggling to .survive the time It seemed as if I had lost my way. I was confused with my thoughts in a bind, Hence, I was some higher power's prey. Myself alone, the escape to be found. But I was caught strangling in the matter As body, not mind became the fatter. I stood askance and looked at a book W'aiting for me to seek what could be found Inside itself, if only I would look. Instead I spent the day messing around. The majority of the time I took Sleeping. But sleep was far from being sound For I was haunted by knowing how short Life is and how wasteful can be its course. Progress Anita Yeska That hill so bare, You see it there? Years back it would Have felt the plow And known the birth Of seed and life. Scarred and scraped. But I remember When it rose High and rounded, Draped in elm; There . . . a willow Overwhelmed A carpeting Of deepest green. Someone saw it, As I did, But that someone Wished to rid it Of its life! There it stands Dimly shrouded, Barren, waiting. If you're near here Sometime soon, Drive by and see The colored boxes Crowded there. I'm thankful that They killed it quickly. I've seen some Hills die inch By inch gasping Weakly to The last. The Tulips Anita Yeska I noticed them along the walk, Marigolds, moss rose 'a nd Phlox, Where I remembered setting out Tulip bulbs la.st Fall. I thought Perhaps my head was not too clear. 49 I know I set the tulips where The two paths meet. I tucked their warm Quilts in tender folds; with firm Touch I testified last Fall That when Spring came this year with all Her new new life, I'd hear her call To me .... red tipped shoots would strip The crust of Winter's lethargic grip .off the ground. Then bobbing bells Of blush and buff and bloom would tell Of constancy, of living here And now, and I would share the year, This year of life with them. Where can They be??? (The flower beds are bright and grand.) Where are they now? I asked the maid. She smiled so sweet, but would not say. The Visit Anita Yeska I pleaded with her then, to let him go His- way. She turned from me and glanced a glance. Disdainfully erect, she minced and blew Her petty reasons here and there. My chance To plead my love for him was lost in her Recriminations. Generously granting Me this privilege of seeing where He made his home, she hoped to show me how Absurd I made myself in coming there. What strength of will, what singleness of purpose Her upraised arm and open mouth displayed. A thought shattered my serene composure. Great Heavens!! Has he listened all the way Through thirteen years of married life to this?? A man would surely die a little every day Of every year of living in such 'wedded bliss'. Sitting ... watching her expound at me I felt my love for him lean and list. 50 The light that dwelt within my heart before, commenced to glimmer in my mind and eyes. This man ... this one who roars his lion's roar At me ... is he a mewling cub who tries To please this female shrew? And has he Spent his life acceding to her sighs Knowing nothing else to do?? I had to leave that Room, his life, his lies far behind l11e I want a man . . . not one who used to be. Fate Malola Atwood They buried me here last summer, In the warm soft, comforting earth. They put me here for my last slumber, To wait for my Redemptive Birth. I can feel the cool, green grass growing, I can hear the cuckoo sing, I can touch the wind blowing, And can feel the breath of spring. My senses know no bounds, Although encased I lay; I can even hear the hounds, As they hold their prey at bay. I can hear the squirming, rushing worms, And away I cannot turn. 51  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Perspectives: Volume 25, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Kiosk Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Perspectives contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Atwood, Malola: Author Eichman, Cheryl: Author Faulhaber, Robert L.: Author Ford, Lynette: Author Hale, Charles: Author Doherty, Frances: Artist Meyer, Joseph: Artist Ordway, Mary: Artist Lewis, Ken: Artist Hardy, Rog: Artist Nourse, April: Artist Cranno, Mary Ellen: Artist Boe, Bradley: Artist Niven, Don: Artist Merrill, Nancy: Artist Nassif, Renee: Artist Berg, Lowell: Artist Huff, Lynn: Author Leonard, Christine: Author Yeska, Anita: Author Beasley, Marjorie: Author Forbes, Wm. J.: Author Walker, Deniece: Author Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1966 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-12-11 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-11 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Ford, Lynette: Editor Hale, Charles: Business Manager Zimmerman, William: Art Consultant Levant, Dr. Howard: Faculty Advisor Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical 60 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kiosk Manuscript Perspectives student publications http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/97c5754d9ae2677736a5a5c3cbca19c0.pdf 2e2e9bdb08c6fd4f6ff65a8fa2dafbca Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Manuscript: Volume 09, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Kiosk Perspectives Subject The topic of the resource Student Publications Description An account of the resource This PDF file of Manuscript contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ponder, Marcie Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2014-10-23 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-12-01 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF 4 MB 35 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Manuscript-Vol09-No01_KDC_1947_01-01_01.pdf PDF Text Text MANUSCRIP1 MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE 1947 ��MANUSCRIPT MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE Vol. 9 No.1 1947 �This Magazine Was Prepared for the Students of Morningside College by the MANUSCRIPT CLUB EDITORIAL BOARD Chairman ______ ____________ _____ ________________ _Carolyn Woite Editor _____________________ __ ________________________ Doris Raun Co-Editor ___________________________________________ Vesta Feller Business Manager ______ ______ _____ ___ __ ______ Allen Carter Brown Composition Editor __________ __ _________________ ______ _Hugh Bale Assistant Composition EditoL _____ __ _______ ____ ___ Lorna Williams CONSULTANT BOARD Roger Burgess Cecily Shirk Grace Weaver Mary Ellen Kingsbury Jean Blessing David Halvorsen The Manuscript Club wishes to acknowledge with appreciation and gratitude the inspiration of its adviser MISS MIRAH MILLS �Table of Contents Prose A Bed-Time Fable-Hugh Bale _______________________________ 5 Between These Hills-Allen Brown ___________________________ 7 Other Little Children-Lorna Williams _________________________ 13 School Spirit-Allen Brown ____ _______ ______ __ __________ ____ _ 17 And They Lived Happily Ever After-Doris Raun ______________ 20 I'll Call the Painter--Cecily Sherk ____________________________ 24 Cynicism-Ralph Bollinger ___________________________________ 25 Awakening-Hugh Bale _____________________________________ 26 An Antique Shop--Doris Raun ________________________________ 28 The Only Way-Allen Brown ________________________________ 30 Poetry To One I Love-David Halvorsen _____________________________ 6 Views-Carolyn Wolle _ _ __ __ _ _ _ _ _ _ __ __ _ __ __ ___ __ __ _ __ _ __ ____ _ 11 Thunderstorm-Lorna Williams _______________________________ 12 A Cloud Fairy--Carolyn Wolle ________________________________ 12 Spring-Hugh Bale _ _ __ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _ __ _ _ __ _ __ __ _ _ _ __ _ _ ______ _ _ ___ 15 If-Lorna Williams _ _ ___ ____ _ ____ __ ___ __ ___ _____ _______ _ _____ 16 Sonnet-Vesta Feller ____________________________________ '____ 16 Truth's Touch-Jean Blessing ______________________ 0__________ 16 Epithet or Epitaph?-Doris Raun ______________________________ 19 Sweet Thoughts-Grace Weaver ______________________________ 19 God Gave Me These-Vesta Feller ____________________________ 24 Moods-Lorna Williams ______________________________________ 27 Grown-Up Game-Lorna Williams ___________________________ 28 The Wall-Jean Blessing _____________________________________ 29 �A Bed Time Fable HUGH N. BALE, '50 With apologies to Aesop " 0 you slow one, you clumsy one, your ugly shape and plodding motions make me tootle my horn with laughter," said the sleek convertible to the clerestoried trolley one day as they met on the Avenue. "Perhaps I am ugly and do move slowly," replied the trolley, " but I can beat you in a race to Fourth and Pierce." This made the convertible tootle more loudly than ever, and a motorcycle coming along stopped to see what caused the uproar. The convertible explained the joke and finally asked the motorcycle to hold the stakes and judge the race. Off started the rivals, and almost in the twinkling of an eye the convertible was out of sight. Only a little cloud of exhaust vapor remained to show where he had gone. The day was cold and blustery, and soon he was covered with snow. "Pshaw!" said he, " I can stop at this filling station an hour-can even have my oil changed- and beat that lazy trolley downtown. Suppose he does pass me, I can overtake him quickly enough." Meanwhile the trolley plodded slowly along, kicking up no snow, feeling no heat. When he came up to the convertible, the latter was elevated on a grease rack, and the trolley passed on slowly but surely, moving steadily, never stopping a minute. It was late afternoon when the convertible came off the grease rack and looked up and down the Avenue. "I declare," he said, "that slow-poke has not come along yet. I'll have some anti-freeze put in my radiator, and then run back and meet him." The anti-freeze was sweet and pungent, and it was some time before the convertible again remembered his race. When he did, he turned to the Avenue and examined the tracks. Think how surprised he was to see the trail of the trolley leading by him downtown. There was no more partaking of cold weather protection, no more oil changes or greasing. Off down the Avenue he sped, covering the ground in successive, gear-shifting spurts that brought him quickly to Fourth and Pierce, where, standing lazily at the intersection was the trolley, calmly waiting for the amber caution light. "Here, take your money," said the motorcycle to the trolley, adding as he turned to the convertible, "Steady going wins the race." -5 - .J �To Oll.e I Love 1. DAVID HALVORSEN, '48 To me you are A shining silver blade struck at the sun, A snowy call among the silent hills, A cloud in crimson drenched when day is done. It is the goblet of the gods whence spills The nectar sweet you are into my brimming cup of joy, But less one drop my cup would empty be of happiness and all things that annoy Would, in a bitter potion mixed for me, be drunken deep; And this frail form would lie In stillness, free from love and tears. Tome you are A moment of eternity drawn nigh, The first and last of all my passing years, The poignant question and the reason why A spirit is in flesh enmeshed by fears That fain would wing the boundless universe And breathe the frosted silver from a star. You are the lifting of a seeming curse, And- freedom seems but madness from afar: 'Tis only bound and held here in this place Our two souls can in love combine. To me you are A cold wind blowing keen-edged on my face, Sharp wind shot through with odors of the pine ; In twilight hours, the faintest lingering trace Of rich evaporated morning wine, Distilled in many a delicate petaled flower from newborn dew And bright gold beams abounding in the sun at dawn Sent shar ply down t o pierce the clear drops through. The fragrance cool remains when day is gone. My life entire is sweetly perfumed of My own desire and your lov e. -6- �Between These Hills ALLEN CARTER BROWN, '50 Tommy was fourteen, tall for his age, lean, and wiry. Sauntering down Martha Street, he managed very well to remind one of a puppet walking across a Punch and Judy stage as the puppet-master pulled the strings. He involuntarily moved his hand to the back of his neck and began to scratch absent-mindedly. Tommy was thinking. He never scratched the back of his· neck except when lost in thought . Two housewives across the street watched Tommy. "There goes that Yarchow boy. I certainly feel sorry for him." "My yes, it is such a pity." A sudden break in the trees and houses disclosed to Tommy a low, square, stone building in the valley between the horseshoe of hills on which Bakersville had been built. He paused for a long moment and gazed at the State Penitentiary in the valley. He then stooped for a lath someone had dropped on the sidewalk. Deep in thought, he slouched on down the street, slapping the lath against th~ spaced boards of a white picket fence. Tommy's shuffle gave the impression that he did not particularly wish to reach his destination. He didn't. Tommy was going home, but only because there was no other place to go. The front door of his home protested loudly as Tommy forced it inward. He reminded himself of the many times his father had attempted to repair the door. It still squeaked. As he made his way through the living room, Tommy's fingers played with the backs of the chairs, drummed loudly on the coffee table, and produced a sketchy chromatic scale on the piano. It seemed to be with great effort that Tommy placed one foot ahead of the other on the carpeted stairs. He had reached the upstairs hall when a voice called from the rear of the house. "Izzat you, Tommy?" "Yes, Aunt Lorna." "Whatcha doin'?" "Nuthin'." "Okay, honey, I just wondered who it was." Tommy made no further reply. As he entered his room, a giant -7- �stuffed owl winked from the far wall. The blue wallpaper and the several ship models on the table gave the room a nautical atmosphere. Tommy and his father had spent many hours together in this room, working on the boat :models. It occurred to Tommy, as he dropped his jacket over the back of a ' chair, that he might never construct another model. He sank into the window seat, lighted a cigarette-he had been smoking since he was thirteen-and gazed out over the valley, the steep-sided valley which held the state penitentiary exactly as the branches of a tree might hold a bird's nest. As Tommy was grinding his cigarette butt into the ash tray, the voice in the kitchen called up with spinster-concern. "What do you want for supper, Tommy?" He shouted back that he wasn't hungry and reached into his overall pants for the apple he knew was there. Tommy munched the apple and gazed pensively into the fast-darkening valley. Tommy didn't know how long he sat there in the window seat looking into the valley. He did know that he hadn't fallen asleep because the ash tray was over half filled with crumpled butts. He glanced at his watch. Nine fifteen. He scratched the back of his neck, lost in thought. Tommy wasn't certain of what had happened. He often experienced that uncomfortable feeling after having completely submerged himself in concentrated thoughtfulness. Tommy folded his long fingers around his knees as he recalled another scene that had takn place on this same window seat. His father had been with him in the window on that other day. Daryl Yarchow, a short, stout, balding man with big puppy-dog eyes that beamed behind his bifocals, sat down heavily next to Tommy. _ Tommy looked up from his magazine and grinned his broad, young grin. "Hi, Dad." Mr. Yarchow looked earnest enough at the moment to wipe the smile from Tommy's lips. Something was wrong. Dad Yarchow was very seldom this serious. Tommy laid the magazine aside. "Whatsamatter, Dad?" Mr. Yarchow sighed heavily. "Tommy, I have to tell you some thing, and I don't quite know how to begin. I hate to tell you at all, but you are bound to find out anyway." Mr. Yarchow nervously played with the crease in his trousers. "I'd rather you'd hear it from me first." His hand trembled as he mopped his perspiring face. "I hate to tell you this, though, because I'm afraid that you'll hate me." His voice began to reflect his nervousness. He tried desperately to regain control. "I don't want your sympathy, just understanding. I've tried to teach you never to sympathize with a weak man who couldn't solve his own problems. I want you to remember that. I don't want your sympathy." Mr. Yarchow paused. He wanted to cushion the shock, but he couldn't. He blurted, "Your father is a thief, Tommy, a . common thief." -8 - l �Tommy was struck silent. His eyes began to swim. "Now, Tommy, be a man." Mr. Yarchow moistened his lips. "Most everyone is a thief of some sort. Even you steal when you take advantage of someone or when you copy in a test." He stopped speaking, amazed at what he had said. "I'm sorry, Tommy, I didn't mean to call you a thief." He was losing his nerve. He could feel it. He swallowed before he went on. "There are all kinds of thefts, and most of them are wrong." He was clasping and unclasping his violently trembling fingers. "There are big thieves, Tommy, and little thieves. The big thieves are strong, powerful men. Your father is just a little thief." Tommy's tearful eyes reflected his understanding. Verbal allegiance would have been superfluous. He simply asked, "What did you do? Tell me, Dad." "Okay. My story starts the day you were born. All manner of expenses came right along with you. We had to have special equipment and special doctors-:-and I had to have $500 in a hurry to pay for them. Of course, I didn't have it, so L._.L._._._ Well, you've heard me speak of Dick Martin. He and I were ~airly well acquainted, so I took $500 from his account at the bank. I really intended to put the money back in, but Dick came in one day, said he was moving, and wanted to close his account. There was nothing I could do but give him his money. To do it, I was forced to borrow $500 from the Emporium account." Mr. Yarchow attempted to rationalize. "I wasn't stealing the money, just borrowing it. I really intended to pay it back. But things kept piling up and I had to take more than the original $500. Your mother's long illness and funeral expense . . . this house and presents for you." Tommy understood. "Gee, Dad, that's okay. Mom and me didn't you?" You took it for Mr. Yarchow seemed preoccupied. "Yes, but that isn't all. I've stolen $40,000 during the past fourteen years. That's a lot of money in one chunk, Tommy. Forty thousand dollars. But divide it by fourteen years and it doesn't seem like so much. It wasn't hard to take and spend, but it added up fast." A sudden nervous spasm jerked Dad's face much as a horse twitches to discourage flies. "A month or so ago the Emporium hired a smart-alecky young book-, keeper. You know him-Vic Edwards. He said the first thing he was going to do when he took over his new job would be to check the balance of the Emporium account from the day I took it over." Tommy could not suppress the question. "Did he?" "Yes. He called me at the bank a few weeks ago and said he would like to buy my dinner that night. I told him that I was going -9- �to be busy, but he said I wasn't too busy to hear what he had to say. He picked me up and we drove to the Chop House. He didn't say much at dinner; just sat there with a sneer on his lips. Back in hlis apartment he told me that he was on to what I had been doing. Said that he was going to inform the bank the next day. He began to jeer and insult me. I could take that all right, but then he began. saying things about my family. He told me what would happen to you when the news got around about me. I knew that he was right,' but I got angry, lost my head, and socked him. He fell. His head hit a metal door-stop. He was dead." Tommy exhaled. He had not breathed during the last few, terrible sentences. All he could say was, "Gee, Dad!" All the words he wanted to say refused to be uttered. He wanted to reassure his father that the unfortunate circumstances could have no effect on their companionship. He wanted to convince his father that all would end well. He wanted to let father know that he wasn't really guilty of murdering Vic Edwards. He couldn't. Tommy just sat there breathing hard, working his soundless lips, hating the dead Vic Edwards. Tommy was startled from his reveries when his Aunt Lorna entered the room. He looked around for his father before he realized with a shock that he had merely recalled their conversation. His: father had been gone a long time, a very long time. Aunt Lorna said nothing. She smoothed the unwrinkled bedspread, straightened the straight rug, and set the perfectly timed clock. At the clock she murmured, "Tommy, it's close to eleven." Tommy nodded. He preferred to . remain silent. He didn't want to break down now; his father wouldn't have broken down. Aunt Lorna stood in the middle of the room, taut, silent, looking at Tommy. As the hour of eleven drew closer, the skin seemed to stretch tightly over her bony features. Tommy remained in the window seat, riveting his eyes upon the fort-like structure in the valley. Several times he reached around to scratch his neck, but his eyes remained on the building between the twin hills of the town. Then, suddenly, at eleven o'clock the lights in the room dimmed to only the faintest hint of illumination. All the lights on the far hill dimmed simultaneously. The lights in the penitentiary between the hills dimmed for a moment. Tommy threw himself on the bed, his bony shoulders shaking violently with uncontrolled, unashamed sobs. Without sound, Aunt Lorna closed the door to Tommy's room. She descended the carpeted stairs murmuring to herself, "I don't understand. I just don't understand." She silently disputed the right of men legally to take the lives of other men. Like other thinkers before her time, she failed to comprehend that the man who pulled the switch sending the electric current into the body of Mr. Yarchow -10- �was any less guilty of murder than the condemned knew that it was not Mr. Yarchow who had paid had been released by death. It was Tommy who his father's crime. He would suffer for the rest of know," she repeated. "I just don't know." man himself. She the penalty. He would suffer for his life. "I don't Views CAROLYN WOLLE, '47 Have you the worm's-eye view? God forbid that I should be so low That when it rains my eyes be filled with mud, Or sunny days, be dust-filled, for, although The world be beautiful and bright, I could not sing Because I see no light in anything. Nor would I have the crab's-eye view That, looking up, my eyes be water-filled, And see naught but distorted images; Lord, not a grouch, for then I could not build My castles in tbe air; nor could I dream my dreams, But floundering, drown in lonely, sulking streams. But I would have the bird's-eye view And as the thrush, pour out my heart in song My soul could soar above life's petty things But in the noble, would I join the human throng; Yet see the world in its completeness; then I too Would have a vision like Thy God's-eye View. - 11 - �Thunderstorm LORNA WILLIAMS, '49 When the sky is in the branches Of the elm on our front lawn, And the robin, home from southward, Hunts the worm before the dawn, Then the spring and winter quarrel Over who shall own the cloud, Knit their brows together fiercely, Gnash their teeth and rage, out loud. Spring is younger than her brother, Soon the quarrel makes her weep, And winter, vanquished by her tear-drops, Goes away a year, to sleep. A Cloud Fairy CAROLYN WOLLE, '47 A fairy in the clouds above is seen By anyone whose heart believes her there ; In day break skies her skirts are fog-grey sheen, And girdled with Aurora's dew-pearls fair . Soon joyously she greets Apollo's face And plays at Aeolus' game of hide and seek; Gowned now in azure silk and feathery lace, Happy all day with sunlight on her cheek. At twilight, ribbons has she in her hair W hich she has clipt from sunset's purple rays, And blushing in the rose:glow, does prepare Her midnight velvet robe for lover's praise, And crown-ed with celestial diamonds bright Trysts wit h the moon-his fairy Queen of Night. -12- �Other Little Children LORNA WILLIAMS, '49 I was sick and starving to death. Mother, coming into my room, placed a tray of food before me. I ate all the food from every dish she gave me, but still I was starving. Mine was a hunger different· from that for food. "Mother," I said, "When are the birds coming?" Then she looked at me queerly and answered, "But, dear, the birds are here. Can't you hear them singing?" I turned my head and gazed out of the window. All I could see was the muddy river and· the scraggly pine trees along its muddy flats. I closed my eyes. "Silverado," I thought, "What a disappointment. This country can never cure me. I think I am dying . . . " Mother seated herself at the side of my bed. Then, out of the space between us came her voice, reading to me as she did each day. She was reciting a poem I remembered from long ago, when I was well: "Dark brown is the river, Golden is the sand. It flows along for ever, With trees on either hand. Green leaves a-floating, Castles of the foam, Boats of mine a-boatingWhere will all come home?" The words were familiar and very sweet. Suddenly the birds sang as they had when I was a small child. I found my eyes open and gazing out the window at a queer figure, playing by the river. Then the figure turned and beckoned quickly with a long finger of, its right hand. From under the sheets of my bed I slipped, and out the window quietly. Mother, with her eyes on the book, kept on reading and didn't notice. Half way there the figure met me, his long, black hair flowing in the breeze behind him. Dark eyes twinkled brightly in a thin face as he pulled me eagerly to the river, down which the green leaves were floating. "I'm Robert Louis Stevenson," he said. "Won't you play with me awhile?" I sat down on a stone, for I had been ill in bed for a long time -13 - �and my legs were weak. "Robert Louis Stevenson?" I wonder ed. " B ut he has been dead for many, many years!" The dancing ey es, intent upon the examination of a wrinkled paper, glance d up, and the elflike face looked into mine. "Oh, no," he said. "You are wrong. I am a child, and children never die." Then, with a quick gesture he thrust the wrinkled paper beneath my nose. It was a map of Treasure Island, beautifully colored, which he had drawn. Stooping over, then" he tied the map to a wooden chip, all the while talking animatedly. "I loved drawing maps when I was your age, and ill. Only one other thing I enjoyed doing more, and that was playing soldier in the land of counterpane. I always wished to be a real-life adventurer and when I couldn't be, I made adventures happen on paper inste ad." As he talked I thought I detected a note of sadness in his voice. But I had forgotten it the next minute, for he was sailing the wooden ship, with the map tied on it, away down the river. "There," he said, brushing his hands briskly together, "I always a romanticist. I keep thinking that some child like the children with whom I used to play will find the map and be thrilled, as I was thrilled in making it. When I was little we used to sail the meadow in a basket, you know. It was a picturesque land where I grew up, with its moors and lighthouses. But Scotland is no more romantic than this Napa Valley with its Silverado Trail and Mount St. Helena. After all," said he, turning his gaze to the heights of the mountain towering above us, "anything is romantic if we think it so." wa~ I had followed his gaze to the mountain and now my eyes, wandering slowly back, discerned an indistinct form upon the opposite shore. The figure stood, robed in black, leaning against a tree, and a formidable atmosphere about it made me shudder. Plucking at Robert L-ouis Stevenson's arm, I asked, "Who is that?" He looked, and laughed. "Why, that is myoId friend. We became acquainted in the cold mists and penetrating winds of Scotland, in my tiny nursery, and over many cups of coffee when I was very young. His n-ame is Death. He was very close to me all through my childhood and we grew even closer as the year passed. Some people have told me they would find his constant company distressing, but I found he affected me contrarily, and gave me a light-heartedness which made life quite fascinating. Of course he brought pain, but pain teaches people many things they would otherwise never know." I listened, enchanted. Even to the way he pronounced his words there clung a childish delight in the saying of them, and all the while he talked I was aware of the romance and the spirit in him that would not die. Then, as I looked across at the mysterious figure on the opposite shore, I saw him beckon slowly to my. companion. Robert Louis saw too, and with a sad shake of his head prepared to leave. Stooping down, he picked up all the boats his - 14 - �nimble fingers had fashioned while we talked together, and set them a-sailing on the river. Then he took my arm and led me back toward the window. "Death doesn't want you yet," he remarked as we walked, "and while you are awaiting his call, remember that: 'The world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings'." As I slipped into bed he went away, but I still hear him chanting: "Away down the river A hundred miles or more Other little children Shall bring my boats ashore." Spring HUGH N. BALE, '50 The hilly slopes are clothed with fresh new green, More verdant yet for gentle show'rs; again The trees respond to warmth of sun and rain To unfurl leaves- a season sleeping; e'en The fields of up-turned soil are strangely clean, Are yet in harmony with nature's plane; And at my feet the timid flow'rs attain A brilliant glory, clustered, shy, serene. Thus spring is here! And from my vantage spot, The renaissance of nature is revealed In radiance and beauty; thus I sing To that for which we three long months have sought, To that which now no longer is concealed, A season of vitality- 'tis spring. - 15 - �If LORNA WILLIAMS, '49 My heart would not be sorry, My pen would not have sinned, If I could tell a story With the technique of the wind. Sonnet VESTA FELLER, '48 And what are bells if there's no one to hear Their mighty clanging on the quiet air? And what are bells, though they ring loud and clear, If there's no one to hear their call to prayer? And what's a candle in a darkened room If there's no one to see it's ray of light? Why, what's a candle doing in the gloom If there's no one to pass it in the night? And what is love unless they're two to share In giving this and getting that from life? And what is love unless there's one to care About the other's worry, need, or strife? And what is life? It's meaning is not true, Unless we have a purpose to pursue. Truth' s Touch JEAN BLESSING, '47 Facts contacting consciousness . . . Like frozen crystals touching shrinking, trembling fingers . . . Oh, their naked, numbing iciness! -16- �School Spirit ALLEN CARTER BROWN, '50 The acth-ity most closely associated with American colleges anQ universities, next to that of obtaining an education, is athletics in general and football in particular. It is the unwritten code of the campus that all students display loyalty for their alma mater by turning out en masse for the football games. The poor soul who, on the day following the Big Game, cannot accurately describe "Bullface" Scurinski's amazing blocking technique to his fellow students is, indeed, a gross outsider, a traitor to school spirit. Since it is thus an understood fact that the student must attend the football games, his wisest course of action is to attend in the greatest possible degree of comfort and still display the proper amount of zeal for the home team. That the practical application of this art may be more readily related and understood, we shall assume the role of invisible witnesses to the misadventures of the average Joe College. Joe has been attending games long enough to know exactly the type and quantity of equipment necessary for his full enjoyment of the spectacle. He dresses for the event with meticulous care, donning his Scotch brogues, heavy brown tweeds, and leather jacket. He knows that he must also carry a sweater, topcoat, galoshes, scarf, and ear- muffs, for one cannot accurately predict the capricious late autumn weather . To the above, Joe must add his collegiate equipment: green cap, two banners, pennant, and a small megaphone. Joe remembers just in time to add two cowbells to his collection. Joe would feel lost at any game without his cowbells. He now has all the equipment necessary to display his school spirit. But he is in dire need of supplies for his own comfort. And so to his already imposing pile of needs he adds two laprugs, a blanket, a pillow, two packs of cigarettes, and one sack of potato chips. It is thus that Joe begins the long trek to the stadium, staggering beneath a Herculean armload of equipment. At long last, Joe, exhausted, arrives and makes his way through the gate by the grace of his activity ticket. Although he had planned to arrive early, he was delayed considerably by his potato chips, which were continually falling from the top of his load. Since the game has begun, Joe finds that he must content himself with a first row seat on the five yard line. The cold wind is bitter and raw. He very carefully . lays his blanket on the bleacher, places his pillow on it, dons his topcoat, - 17 - �III green cap , sweater , and ear-muHs . He proceeds by sitting on the pillow and spreading the blanket and rugs over his lap. Although; the teams are playing at the far end of the field, Joe enthusiastically begins to wave his pennants. At this point, two heavy-set matrons enter the scene and seat themselves on either side of Joe. He finds himself pinned to the seat by his lap rugs. In v ain, he attempts to jump to his feet at the proper moments. Of course, it is impossible. This fact dampens Joe's spirit considerably, for the timing of the jump is all-important. One must rise to his feel with the crowd. To fail proves to one's fellow spectators that the closest attention has not been paid to the game. It is only under such pressure that Joe embarrasses both himself and the two rather plump ladies by asking them to place their posteriors some distance from him. Half time. What a welcome recess for both the weary player and equally weary spectator. Joe settles back. The tension of the fast game has momentarily disappeared. Of course, Joe hasn't been able to see many of the brilliant plays from his vantage point on the five yard line, but the loyal supporter of the team never considers such things. Joe ceases waving his pennants for a moment; he stops shouting through his megaphone. Instead, he relaxes and begins to munch his potato chips. Again the dizzy pace of the game is resumed. Although he has puffed wildly on numerous cigarettes in a mad effort to rectify the condition, Joe is dying of thirst, the almost inevitable result of eating potato chips. Usually Joe has lugged a thermos to the game, but tonight his memory has failed him. To top it off, he cannot locate the vendor. This character has been past a dozen times, always blocking the view; but now that he is really needed, nowhere is he to be found. After what seems centuries to poor Joe, he, clutching his throat desparately, induces a stranger seated nearby to offer his flask of hot coffee. Joe drains the container of its mountain-grown contents with gratitude. The fiery stimulant he has consumed raises the pitch of Joe's enthusiasm still higher. It does not spend itself on the few remaining moments of the game, however. And so it is a nervous and disconsulate Joe that makes his weary way from the stadium. Inch by inch, foot by foot, he worms his way toward the exit gate, hampered no end by his load. Once in the sanctuary of his home, Joe drops his armload in the hall and flops into the first easy chair he encounters in the living room. His hand automatically reaches for the radio dial. "Damn," he mutters. "What a fool I've been. I could have stayed right here and listened to the game in solid comfort." -18 - �But he quickly banishes this revolutionary thought from his mind. For although one might enjoy the game more, and at the same time know more of what actually happened, it would be a sin bordering on blasphemy to listen to the game over the radio rather than to make a personal appearance at the stadium. So we shall see Joe at the big game next weekend, and afterward he will have the gall to tell us that he enjoyed the scrap. Epithet or Epitaph? DORIS RAUN, '49 Hurrah, hurrah, it's spring, it's spring! Here comes a junebug on the wing. Now he's crawling on the rugLook out, MotherUGH! Sweet Thoughts GRACE M. WEAVER, '47 Sweet thoughts are glistening dewdrops With rainbows caught inside; Refreshing to their owners, A blessing far and wide. They're nourishing, sustaining, To all on whom they fall, And yet they're clothed in beauty Bringing joy to great and small. - 19 - �And They Lived Happily Ever After DORIS RAUN, '48 "Hi. Ben," called out Butch in the screeching tones that can be produced only by a ten-year-old running at top speed and using his full vocal powers at the same time. His headlong rush across the street was checked to a mere gallop as he caught sight of his friend sitting disconsolately on the curb. "For gosh sakes, what happened to you?" he asked, but Ben, the picture of dejection, made no reply" With the insight that only a friend of long standing can have, Butch sensed the complexity of his friend's emotions. He sat down beside him on the curb to lend a little solid comfort and also to satisfy his natural curiosity, for Ben, besides acting very strangely, was dressed in a manner that neither Butch nor any of the residents of that part of south Chicago had ever seen before on a Saturday morning, or any morning for that matter. Ben was wearing a pair of navy blue wool shorts and a navy blue jacket, a white shirt with a Peter Pan collar and a large, Lord Fauntleroy bow tie in front, white stockings and. black patent leather shoes, and to complete the ensemble, immaculately combed hair. "Jeepers," said Butch. "Yeah," said Ben. They sat on in silence for a few minutes. Suddenly from the house behind them came the shrill sound of a female voice. "Benjamin?" said the voice with a rising inflection .. Then, as Benny did not move or make any sign of having heard, the voice repeated in a somewhat wheedling tone veiled with sternness, "BEN-ja-min." Benny turned to his companion and spoke his first full sentence of the morning. "I don't have to go, 'cause it's only my aunt." Just as he uttered these portentious words, a second female voice, lower but with an unmistakable undertone of command, called "Benny." Benny jumped up, snatched up the handkerchief on which he was sitting to keep the dust off his pants, and with "It's my mother, we're going out," as the only explanation was off down the walk, leaving Butch with a dazed expression sitting on the curb. Later that afternoon, in answer to Butch's shrill and imperative whistle, Ben appeared once more on the porch of his home, dressed in clean blue slacks and a white shirt, his face shining from the recent scrubbing rather than from excessive joy. "Can you come and play ball?" Butch yelled from habit, although he was only a few feet from Ben. -20 - �"Naw," said Ben, "but I can talk a little while. Come on up on the porch." Butch took the four steps in two leaps, dropped the bat he was carrying on the floor, and the two boys sat on the porch swing in studied nonchalance, hands in pockets and feet spread out in front of them. ~ng "School will be out in two days," said Butch, tentatively launchthe conversation. "A lot of good that will do me." replied Ben with disgust, and thrust his hands deeper in his pockets. "My aunt's here, and she leaves the day after school lets out." "Gee." exclaimed Butch, "is that all you're so sad about? That sounds wonderful. You can ride on the ponies, and help put up hay, and go fishing maybe, and get to milk cows, and- " "Oh, no, I won't," interrupted Ben with a sigh. "She lives in the country, but she has what she calls an estate. She says I'll just love it there. There are servants to wait on us at dinner, and give me a bath, and layout my clothes for me, and wait on me hand and foot. What does she think I am, anyway, a baby? Then she says there are some darling little girls living a few miles down the road, and I can have them over for tea in the afternoon, and we'll all have such good times. She's even going to organize a dancing class." With this last indignant statement Ben slumped so low into the swing that his body was at a forty-five degree angle with the floor and his head was sunk deep between his shoulder blades. Butch looked at his friend in dismay. "There must be something you can do. mother you don't want to go?" Have you told your "Oh, sure, but she says it's necessary. We're counting on my aunt to help me through college, and so I have to be very nice to her and let her call me her little darling and_even let her kiss me before breakfast." "Well," said Butch, "how about your aunt? Why don't you ten her about what we do here in the summer, and how much fun we have, and maybe she'll say that you should stay." "I'll try anything once," replied Ben as he rose. "I have to go in and help Mother serve tea. Maybe I can swing the conversation around that way." As Ben disappeared around the door Butch made a face. "Tea! In the middle of Saturday afternoon! Ugh!" With these ungrammatical but highly expressive statements Butch picked up his bat from the porch floor and ran off down the street in the direction of the ball park. - 21- �Inside the house, Ben was l~aving his difficulties. Much to his secret delight and his mother's great embarrassment, while he was carrying the tea he had managed to spill it on his aunt's chartreuse dress. It had been entirely accidental, so he was not too penitent, but when he heard the results of this small act his attitude changed completely, and he would have given his best model airplane to be able to take back the disastrous spots. "You'll have to excuse him, Marie," his mother said. "I'm afraid he hasn't had much first hand experience with a tea cup." "Oh, that's perfectly all right," replied his aunt. "This dress was just about ready for the cleaner anyway. He may serve tea every afternoon while he is at my house, and we'll have such fun, won't we Benny?" As soon as she began to address him, her voice climbed several tones in pitch and she seemed to smile all over her face. Ben quaked inwardly. "I think- " his voice quavered a little, so he decided to start over. "Do you know what I do in the summer when I'm home, Aunt Marie?" he asked with what he hoped was an air of cheerfulness tempered with regret. As his aunt was looking at him with interest and his mother did not stop him, he continued with a little more hopefulness. "We play ball in the vacant lot down the street, and I'm the pitcher. Sometimes we ride the 'el' all day, because it onlY, costs a dime to ride as long as we wanL We go to Riverview Park and ride all the crazy rides, like the loop-the-loop, and go in the fun house and try to walk through the revolving barrel. Once we made a raft and floated it down the river, but Mother wouldn't let us do that again." He paused for a minute, occupied with nostalgic memories of the coolness of the water on his feet (the raft floated about a foot under water) and the buildings on the shore drifting lazily by, Then his aunt broke in. "Why you poor boy, to have to resort to such forms of amusement! That settles it. You simply must live with me this summer, and I will show you how to really live." Ben said no more, but bowed his head in stunned and hopeless submission to the hands of fate About a week after Ben's departure, Butch came home for dinner without as much evidence of his noisy exuberance as usual. His team had just lost the second game in succession, and he wished that Ben were there at least to console, if not to pitch for him. "If Ben had been pitching, we would have won," he mumbled through lips compressed with the effort to keep back the tears, for he missed his friend and he was tired from the heat and exertion. His mother smiled down at the tired little boy and said compassionately and a little teasingly, "My goodness, honey, you look tuckered out. There's - 22 - �a letter from Ben and a package too, but I suppose you're too tired to open them. I'll save them till tomorrow, if you want me to." Butch leaped wildly for his mother's hands, for he had already caught sight of a white envelope and a large paper package hidden behind her back. Laughingly she jerked them away, but not too quickly. As he ran to a corner with the precious package and the letter, all vestiges of his former lassitude disappeared. He opened the package first, for no human power could make a nine-year-old more curious about the written word than about a package with unknown contents, and his eyes betrayed his excitement as his clumsy fingers finally tore off the wrappings. "Wow!" he said softly. "Wow." He opened the letter. "Dear Butch," it began, in the childish scrawl characteristic of school boys an over the U. S. "How are you? I am having a fIne time after all. It all started when we got to my Aunt's hous, which is pretty. My aunt right away wanted to take me over to visit the two darling little girls, but when we got home, guess who was there? My aunt's husband, who is my uncle. He has been in the N ayvy and he is going to be home all summer recuperating. (He told me how to spell that word.) He is not even sick, just sick of the Nayvy, he says. That day he took me to the stabls to see the horses, and he even has one I can ride. It is white and brown. It is a little horse, and not a pony. The next day we all went on a picnic to the sea-shore, and he took me sailing on the sound. There are all sorts of wonderful things to do hear, and my aunt is so excited having my uncle home that she duzn't care what I do. Just so my uncle likes it. My uncel bought this catcher's mit for you, becauze I told him about our baseball league. He also wants you to cum and visit for a week this summer, if you can arrange it with your mother. Tell the team they better win all the games. Love, Ben." Butch ran, yelling with his customary shrill tones, although his mother was only a few yards away in the next room, and thrust the letter and the package into her hands. "Read it, Mother," he yelled. "Wow!" -23- �God Gave Me These VESTA FELLER, '48 God gave me not ten talents or a fruit tree or a lamb, But He gave me life and soul and mind and made me as I am. He doesn't come in flesh to me and walk along my way, But He gave me lips and words and knees to help me when I pray. There is no fire or burning bush to show me He is near, But He made green trees and lakes and skies; I know that He is here He doesn't send His angels out or all His heavenly throngs, But I feel that He is very close in birds and crickets' songs. I'll Call The Painter CECILY SHERK, '49 As the days passed I found myself very eager to go home. My mother had written that the house had been completely redecorated. Of course I love my family and this affection alone would have made the prospect of going home delightful, but the visualization of new wallpaper filled me with an increased sense of pleasant anticipation. Now, ordinarily my mother selects her own paper (and does a good job, too), but I had deduced from a few disparaging remarks from Father, that upon this occasion Mother had consulted a specialist, and that the results were startling. In the excitement of meeting the family and having my small brother disclose the exciting news that he had three girl friends, that Daddy was getting a brown coffee table for Christmas, and that one cow was "awful" sick, all in one breath- I nearly forgot about the new wallpaper. Not for long, however. I stepped into the entrance hall only to be greeted by a maze of elves under mazes of toadstools. I was not allowed to look long. Mother rattled on about the new, new melon shade and how well it blended with cream, and I stepped into what was formerly a living room, but was now a series of Paul Reveres riding over New England countrysides. The Paul Reveres with their blushing melon faces were something to see! The dining room had that new striped effect- alternate panels of melon and cream, with a border of waxed fruit. -24 - �p I went to the kitchen for a drink, but the kitchen was steaming with melon colored teapots. I took one good look and flew to the bathroom--only to find creamy sail boats, sailing on melon seas. Mother looked injured so I went back to the Paul Reveres and tried to talk to the family. Within the first twenty minutes I had counted 99 Pauls, when Dad noticed my plight and informed me that there were exactly 301 Pauls, 301 horses, and 301 stone walls. Anyway, r soon became accustomed to the scenery and the evening was spent in delightful conversation. As the clock struck eleven, we decided to retire. My brother was raving about his room. He said that there were hundreds of airplanes- and there were. Father was raving too- and you would have seen why. His room was the latest thing! Paneled floorboards ran up across three walls and the ceiling. If you weren't careful you'd walk up the wall. As for the fourth wall, it was cov'ered with decrepit horses hanging over moss-covered walls, complete with old, oaken buckets. I was afraid to go into my own room, but Mother informed me that she had left my walls painted, and she said she hoped I didn't mind. I didn't mind in the least, and I slept very well. The whole house looked better in the morning. Still, all things considered, when I decorate my house I'll call the painter. The first thing I'll say is: "Nothing melon, please!" Cynicism RALPH BOLLINGER, '50 I am a cynic. So take me with a grain of salt, for all that I say will be hard and bitter-but it will be the truth. I say that man will never understand the ways of peace, for he has never really tried to learn- and when he begins to try he will be too late. I say that when we teach our children the fundamental hate and strife of war before they know the Prince of Peace, we may prepare the Cross again. For a child, dying of hunger or maimed by a bomb, is a prognostic that forshadows the gloom of the coming age- -25- �I"" Awal~ening HUGH BALE, '50 J. P. Carter, wealthy owner of the Valley Syndicate, a chain of small newspapers, waited impatiently at the station for the ten o'clock express. The train was half an hour overdue. J. P. seemed resigned to that fact-he had half-expected the express to arrive late. He glanced at his watch-lO:35. He compared his time with that of the clock over the gates to the platform. He paused to look at the headlines of a crumpled daily, trodden on the floor. Outside the wind was trying to force its way through the dimly lit station. Carter could see the flickering streetlight through the whirling snow storm. Except for a telegraph operator and the businessman, the station was empty. That was understandable- nobody but a fool would venture forth on a trip on such a miserable night. The head of the Valley Syndicate wondered what had possessed him to leave the security of his apartment to accept the invitation of Harry Burke to weekend at the mountain lodge. They had been fraternity brothers- were once intimately acquainted. Eight years had gone by since those carefree days, and the two had lost contact with each other. Harry had been insistent in his telephone invitation; J. P. had accepted out of curiosity rather than for friendship's sake. At eleven o'clock the full-throated blast of a diesel locomotive quickly faded out against the competition of the elements. Three minutes later the pounding express eased to a quiet stop on track three. Possibly half a dozen people hurried past Carter as he wound his way through stacks of baggage to the idling train. The conductor was nowhere in sight, and the lone passenger climbed up the steps and walked into the coach. For once he would I)ot have to waken any lounging sleeper- all seats were unoccupied. J. P. shrugged out of his overcoat which he threw across the back of a seat. Tossing his hat into the luggage rack, he eased down into the airfoam cushions. He notched the back of the chair to three fourths of the way, gazed through half-closed eyes at the shadowed outlines of the station. Silently and swiftly that building was gone; the window reflected only the bright lights of the interior. Carter pulled a time table from his pocket, located his schedule with some difficulty, and estimated the time of his arrival in the mountains. Normally the train should get there at one o'clock in the morning, but considering the hour behind schedule now, and the storm, the passenger decided that two-thirty would be the earliest time, possibly later. He folded the pamphlet and replaced it in his pocket. Carter caught a fleeting glimpse of the lights of a whistlestop as the train -26- �highballed down the main track. He heard the hissing of air as brakes were applied on a turn, the rumble of the trucks over a bridge. He sensed the steady pull of the engine up a steep grade. The train stopped at a station at the top of the climb. Carter peered through the window and made out three figures on the platform. They passed from his range of vision, and he sighed as he felt the rolling of the coach. For a few seconds Carter was relaxed. Suddenly he sat up frigidly as he realized that the train was speeding backward. In the inner reaches of his mind, the publisher visualized the night's ha~ penings. Everything was running true to form-the phone call, the snow and wind, the deserted station, the empty coach, the halt at the top of the hill. He had seen it all before-a dream, that was what the entire thing seemed like. But how did it end? Carter could not recall any ending. He looked hard through the window, but could see nothing. He was aware of the speed of the train, felt the sway of the coach as it banked around a curve. When he heard the faint rattle of the trucks as the train moved onto the approach to- the bridge, Carter knew the answer to his question, but he could donothing now. The morning papers carried a short paragraph headlined: "Runaway train crashes through bridge." The few sentences following explained briefly: "The ten o'clock express crashed through a bridge over the North river last night. When engine trouble developed, the fast dieseliner stopped at King's Hill station where the crew detrained to investigate. While the railroad men were warming up in the station, the express started rolling down hill, gathering momentum so quickly that attempts to catch the runaway were futile. Fortunately no passengers were aboard." Moods LORNA WILLIAMS, '49 Let the lady weep, my lad, Let the lady storm! 'Tis a well established wont Peculiar to her form. Remember, lad, that Mother Nature, Wisest gal beneath the blue, Has her days beneath the weather, Has her rain and sunshine, too. I -27- I II1II �r Grown-up Game LORNA WILLIAMS, '49 When I was small I used to play At baseball, in the lot all day, And 'round the rose bush slyly peek In coun tless games of hide and seek. But now my frame has grown too tall For hide and seek and games of ball; I play in other worlds instead, And romp, with thoughts, inside my head. An Antique Shop DORIS RAUN, '48 As I came around the corner a little gust of autumn wind blew a whirlwind of dust before me, and when the spiral unwound and was quiet once more I saw an old building which had not been visible before. It was ridiculously tiny and out of place in this noisy, modern section of the city. On the single, dirty window was written in peeling gilt letters "Antique Shoppe." The final "E" was almost a thing of the past. All that was left of it was a faint outline. The door; too, was lettered in gilt with some strangely foreign name and PROP. in large capitals after it. When I opened the door an exceedingly un-modern sounding bell, announcing a prospective customer, tinkled in the back of the shop. With that slight noise all the hurrying world was shut out, and I was caught in the snare of mystery that old things hold. Everything that I saw or touched had its own secret, its own aliveness. As my eyes became accustomed to the dim light after the glare of the autumn sun on the pavement" I saw the backs of the figureines that made up the window display. They were of varied sizes and shapes, but they were all, with one accord, staring straight ahead at the turbulent stream of traffic and pedestrians that could be seen only dimly through the window. In spite of their pale blue and gold porcelain finery they seemed a trifle wistful, poor, silly things. Turning away from the window, I looked down the long, narrow room that made up the rest of the shop. Down the center ran an im- - 28- �pertinent little aisle, that looked as if it had pushed out of its path anything presumptuous enough to block the way. On either side of it were large sofas with escaping stuffings, and a few other nondescript pieces of aged furniture. There were an old grandfather's clock, and a high corner .cupboard that looked like Old Mother Hubbard's original piece, and three or four old bureau drawer sets. Two or three paths branched off from the main one and wormed their way into the farthest and most unexplored corners. Catching a gleam of white down one of these paths, I turned to investigate. There, at its conclusion, stood an old spinet with a stack of music on its back. The ivory keys were yellowed, and some had fallen off, leav ing black gaps. The keyboard looked like an ol~ man's smile. A needlepoint stool was pushed a little away from it as if someone had just risen to hide from my intrusion. On the music rack was a yellowed, dusty manuscript, o'n ly half-completed. Per-; haps it was the work of some undiscovered genius, or a score of one of the great master's that had never been published. It could have been a girl student's practice sheet, or a lover's song, or . . . But I was destined never to know the secret of the manuscript, for at that moment the man to whom the gilt letters on the door evidenly applied came to ask if there was something I wanted. I was going to tell him no, but he looked so forlorn and old that I bought the tiniest porcelain doll. As I walked out with my purchase I could see the figurines still staring out at the never-ending panorama, but they looked even more wistful than before. The Wall JEAN BLESSING, '47 Bound by inert, invisible walls Of time and blind, limiting matter, Inaccessible to Beauty, I stand with dumb lips and clumsy hands Dully inarticulate and uncreating. Unrelenting, Beauty pulls stretched Sinews of the soul; and though I long To rise responding to her, full-throated, Freely singing the exquisite lyric, I only struggle in uncomprehending pain Muffled in vast overwhelming silence . . In great blank gulfs of endless emptiness. -29 - �The Only Way ALLEN CARTER BROWN, '50 Tony Van Glyke dropped silently onto the arm of the nearest chair. His brown eyes quickly re-read the telegram clutched in his long, trembling fingers. The wire floated toward the Oriental carpet as Tony raised his sensitive fingers to run them through his curly brown hair. "Damn," he said softly to himself. Tony had acquired a way of swearing which made the word sound no more vulgar than if he had said "Goodness." He picked up the wire and read it for the third time. He couldn't believe it. Unconsciously, he read it aloud. MR. TONY VAN GLYKE. LIND GREEN TOWERS. CHICAGO, ILL. TONY- UNITED OIL OFF 3 POINTS TODAY'S TRADING STOP MUST SELL TOMORROW UNLESS YOU SUPPLY Ih MILLION MORE MARGIN SAM Tony stepped to the liquor cabinet, selected the decanter of Hague and Hague, and poured himself a Scotch and soda. It was a litt le too strong, so he added more soda. One half a million dollars. Tony knew without consulting Sam Martin, his business manager in New York, that it was impossible to borrow that much on such short notice. The resources of Van Glyke Newspapers, Inc. had been mortgaged to the hilt to buy the oil stock in the first place. It was supposed t o hav e been a sure thing, an inv estment of three months and a 30 % pr ofit. Tony mixed anot her Scotch. He sank into a deep chair and placed a cigarette between his lips. He was cleaned out- broke - bankrupt. Tony wondered what he would do now. "No doubt," he mused, " the receivers of the newspapers will provide a cushy, charitable job for me." He flatly declared to himself that he would not accept. "No," he decided, "I'll start over again. I'll struggle back to the top." He surveyed the room with satisfaction. It was finished in conserv ative, expensive George II. The deep stain of the furniture combined with the color of the Persian rug to produce an effect of beauty and good taste. Two El Grecos adorned either side of the massive fireplace . They were not prints of El Grecos, they were El Grecos. Tony congratulated himself on picking them up on his way to the south of France four seasons ago . He thoughtfully placed the glass to his lips, and then inhaled deeply on his cigar ette. As a result of t he liquor he had consumed, he felt the closeness of the - 30 - �smoke-filled room and impulsively rushed into the hall and downstairs. The doorman nodded congenially, and merrily said, " Good morning, Mr. Van Glyke." Tony did not reply, but glanced at his watch instead. The doorman had said "Good morning." Tony's watch confirmed the greeting It was two. A bleak, cold wind found its way through Tony's suitcoat. The night was a blue-grey with the moon' beaming faithfully through a light mist. Usually the jingle of coins in his pocket brought him an undefinable peace of mind, but on this particular morning the sound produced an opposite effect. Tony could not help reminding himself that those jingling coins constituted his entire capital. He tortured himself, as he walked briskly down Lake Shore Drive, with conjectures on what the dismal future could possibly bring. Tony was no longer in high spirits. The mist and the barren, ugly streets of early-morning Chicago were indeed conducive to dismal thoughts. Tony stubbed his toe on a rock in the middle of the sidewalk and cursed with eloquence. He continued to walk past the darkened shops and offices. "If I could only · stop thinking," he said to himself. He couldn't. He had lost the inclination to attempt to build another fortune. The atmosphere was no ally to ambition. Tony soon found himself at the hotel entrance. He had no idea of the route he had taken, but he had returned nevertheless. He decided that he wouldn't go up to his apartment just yet. He wanted to walk and think some more. "Have to think." But, being badly in need of both external and internal warmth, he changed his mind and went up to the suite. He mixed a drink before slouching in the window seat. Languidly hanging an arm over his knee, he sipped his Scotch while gazing out of the window. The city yawned and awakened beneath him. The occasional pedestrian became a milling throng; the lonely automobile a mechanical snake. Tony sat in the window for a long time, his head throbbing with the question that demanded an answer: "What shall I do? What shall I do?" He knew that he would never give up all that he now possessed and accept some remote editorship. He would never start over again- the road had been too bumpy. Tony realized, though, that he had to acquire an income of some sort in order to live. He dropped his head into his hands and sobbed softly. "I guess I'm just a weak sister after all. Haven't the guts to start over, but don't know what else to do. What shall I do? WHAT SHALL I DO?" And then, as he watched the crowd below, Tony answered his own question. There was obviously, he reasoned, only one thing to do. He swung his legs over the window sill and crawled onto the parapet. He stood erect, muttered "To Hell with it," and jumped. - 31 - ���� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College. Through its several titles—Manuscript, Perspectives, and Kiosk—the magazine has a long history of celebrating creative writing and art on campus. It began publication in 1938 under the title of Manuscript before changing its name to Perspectives in 1953. Then in 1971 it took another name that it is known by currently: Kiosk. It is still published annually by the Morningside College English Department. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1938- Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Morningside College Library Morningside College English Department Ponder, Marcie: Digital Creator Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical PDF Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Title A name given to the resource Kiosk Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource "The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children," (The Kiosk, 2003). Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. MANUSCRIP1 MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE 1947 MANUSCRIPT MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE Vol. 9 No.1 1947 This Magazine Was Prepared for the Students of Morningside College by the MANUSCRIPT CLUB EDITORIAL BOARD Chairman ______ ____________ _____ ________________ _Carolyn Woite Editor _____________________ __ ________________________ Doris Raun Co-Editor ___________________________________________ Vesta Feller Business Manager ______ ______ _____ ___ __ ______ Allen Carter Brown Composition Editor __________ __ _________________ ______ _Hugh Bale Assistant Composition EditoL _____ __ _______ ____ ___ Lorna Williams CONSULTANT BOARD Roger Burgess Cecily Shirk Grace Weaver Mary Ellen Kingsbury Jean Blessing David Halvorsen The Manuscript Club wishes to acknowledge with appreciation and gratitude the inspiration of its adviser MISS MIRAH MILLS Table of Contents Prose A Bed-Time Fable-Hugh Bale _______________________________ 5 Between These Hills-Allen Brown ___________________________ 7 Other Little Children-Lorna Williams _________________________ 13 School Spirit-Allen Brown ____ _______ ______ __ __________ ____ _ 17 And They Lived Happily Ever After-Doris Raun ______________ 20 I'll Call the Painter--Cecily Sherk ____________________________ 24 Cynicism-Ralph Bollinger ___________________________________ 25 Awakening-Hugh Bale _____________________________________ 26 An Antique Shop--Doris Raun ________________________________ 28 The Only Way-Allen Brown ________________________________ 30 Poetry To One I Love-David Halvorsen _____________________________ 6 Views-Carolyn Wolle _ _ __ __ _ _ _ _ _ _ __ __ _ __ __ ___ __ __ _ __ _ __ ____ _ 11 Thunderstorm-Lorna Williams _______________________________ 12 A Cloud Fairy--Carolyn Wolle ________________________________ 12 Spring-Hugh Bale _ _ __ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _ __ _ _ __ _ __ __ _ _ _ __ _ _ ______ _ _ ___ 15 If-Lorna Williams _ _ ___ ____ _ ____ __ ___ __ ___ _____ _______ _ _____ 16 Sonnet-Vesta Feller ____________________________________ '____ 16 Truth's Touch-Jean Blessing ______________________ 0__________ 16 Epithet or Epitaph?-Doris Raun ______________________________ 19 Sweet Thoughts-Grace Weaver ______________________________ 19 God Gave Me These-Vesta Feller ____________________________ 24 Moods-Lorna Williams ______________________________________ 27 Grown-Up Game-Lorna Williams ___________________________ 28 The Wall-Jean Blessing _____________________________________ 29 A Bed Time Fable HUGH N. BALE, '50 With apologies to Aesop " 0 you slow one, you clumsy one, your ugly shape and plodding motions make me tootle my horn with laughter," said the sleek convertible to the clerestoried trolley one day as they met on the Avenue. "Perhaps I am ugly and do move slowly," replied the trolley, " but I can beat you in a race to Fourth and Pierce." This made the convertible tootle more loudly than ever, and a motorcycle coming along stopped to see what caused the uproar. The convertible explained the joke and finally asked the motorcycle to hold the stakes and judge the race. Off started the rivals, and almost in the twinkling of an eye the convertible was out of sight. Only a little cloud of exhaust vapor remained to show where he had gone. The day was cold and blustery, and soon he was covered with snow. "Pshaw!" said he, " I can stop at this filling station an hour-can even have my oil changed- and beat that lazy trolley downtown. Suppose he does pass me, I can overtake him quickly enough." Meanwhile the trolley plodded slowly along, kicking up no snow, feeling no heat. When he came up to the convertible, the latter was elevated on a grease rack, and the trolley passed on slowly but surely, moving steadily, never stopping a minute. It was late afternoon when the convertible came off the grease rack and looked up and down the Avenue. "I declare," he said, "that slow-poke has not come along yet. I'll have some anti-freeze put in my radiator, and then run back and meet him." The anti-freeze was sweet and pungent, and it was some time before the convertible again remembered his race. When he did, he turned to the Avenue and examined the tracks. Think how surprised he was to see the trail of the trolley leading by him downtown. There was no more partaking of cold weather protection, no more oil changes or greasing. Off down the Avenue he sped, covering the ground in successive, gear-shifting spurts that brought him quickly to Fourth and Pierce, where, standing lazily at the intersection was the trolley, calmly waiting for the amber caution light. "Here, take your money," said the motorcycle to the trolley, adding as he turned to the convertible, "Steady going wins the race." -5 - .J To Oll.e I Love 1. DAVID HALVORSEN, '48 To me you are A shining silver blade struck at the sun, A snowy call among the silent hills, A cloud in crimson drenched when day is done. It is the goblet of the gods whence spills The nectar sweet you are into my brimming cup of joy, But less one drop my cup would empty be of happiness and all things that annoy Would, in a bitter potion mixed for me, be drunken deep; And this frail form would lie In stillness, free from love and tears. Tome you are A moment of eternity drawn nigh, The first and last of all my passing years, The poignant question and the reason why A spirit is in flesh enmeshed by fears That fain would wing the boundless universe And breathe the frosted silver from a star. You are the lifting of a seeming curse, And- freedom seems but madness from afar: 'Tis only bound and held here in this place Our two souls can in love combine. To me you are A cold wind blowing keen-edged on my face, Sharp wind shot through with odors of the pine ; In twilight hours, the faintest lingering trace Of rich evaporated morning wine, Distilled in many a delicate petaled flower from newborn dew And bright gold beams abounding in the sun at dawn Sent shar ply down t o pierce the clear drops through. The fragrance cool remains when day is gone. My life entire is sweetly perfumed of My own desire and your lov e. -6- Between These Hills ALLEN CARTER BROWN, '50 Tommy was fourteen, tall for his age, lean, and wiry. Sauntering down Martha Street, he managed very well to remind one of a puppet walking across a Punch and Judy stage as the puppet-master pulled the strings. He involuntarily moved his hand to the back of his neck and began to scratch absent-mindedly. Tommy was thinking. He never scratched the back of his· neck except when lost in thought . Two housewives across the street watched Tommy. "There goes that Yarchow boy. I certainly feel sorry for him." "My yes, it is such a pity." A sudden break in the trees and houses disclosed to Tommy a low, square, stone building in the valley between the horseshoe of hills on which Bakersville had been built. He paused for a long moment and gazed at the State Penitentiary in the valley. He then stooped for a lath someone had dropped on the sidewalk. Deep in thought, he slouched on down the street, slapping the lath against th~ spaced boards of a white picket fence. Tommy's shuffle gave the impression that he did not particularly wish to reach his destination. He didn't. Tommy was going home, but only because there was no other place to go. The front door of his home protested loudly as Tommy forced it inward. He reminded himself of the many times his father had attempted to repair the door. It still squeaked. As he made his way through the living room, Tommy's fingers played with the backs of the chairs, drummed loudly on the coffee table, and produced a sketchy chromatic scale on the piano. It seemed to be with great effort that Tommy placed one foot ahead of the other on the carpeted stairs. He had reached the upstairs hall when a voice called from the rear of the house. "Izzat you, Tommy?" "Yes, Aunt Lorna." "Whatcha doin'?" "Nuthin'." "Okay, honey, I just wondered who it was." Tommy made no further reply. As he entered his room, a giant -7- stuffed owl winked from the far wall. The blue wallpaper and the several ship models on the table gave the room a nautical atmosphere. Tommy and his father had spent many hours together in this room, working on the boat :models. It occurred to Tommy, as he dropped his jacket over the back of a ' chair, that he might never construct another model. He sank into the window seat, lighted a cigarette-he had been smoking since he was thirteen-and gazed out over the valley, the steep-sided valley which held the state penitentiary exactly as the branches of a tree might hold a bird's nest. As Tommy was grinding his cigarette butt into the ash tray, the voice in the kitchen called up with spinster-concern. "What do you want for supper, Tommy?" He shouted back that he wasn't hungry and reached into his overall pants for the apple he knew was there. Tommy munched the apple and gazed pensively into the fast-darkening valley. Tommy didn't know how long he sat there in the window seat looking into the valley. He did know that he hadn't fallen asleep because the ash tray was over half filled with crumpled butts. He glanced at his watch. Nine fifteen. He scratched the back of his neck, lost in thought. Tommy wasn't certain of what had happened. He often experienced that uncomfortable feeling after having completely submerged himself in concentrated thoughtfulness. Tommy folded his long fingers around his knees as he recalled another scene that had takn place on this same window seat. His father had been with him in the window on that other day. Daryl Yarchow, a short, stout, balding man with big puppy-dog eyes that beamed behind his bifocals, sat down heavily next to Tommy. _ Tommy looked up from his magazine and grinned his broad, young grin. "Hi, Dad." Mr. Yarchow looked earnest enough at the moment to wipe the smile from Tommy's lips. Something was wrong. Dad Yarchow was very seldom this serious. Tommy laid the magazine aside. "Whatsamatter, Dad?" Mr. Yarchow sighed heavily. "Tommy, I have to tell you some thing, and I don't quite know how to begin. I hate to tell you at all, but you are bound to find out anyway." Mr. Yarchow nervously played with the crease in his trousers. "I'd rather you'd hear it from me first." His hand trembled as he mopped his perspiring face. "I hate to tell you this, though, because I'm afraid that you'll hate me." His voice began to reflect his nervousness. He tried desperately to regain control. "I don't want your sympathy, just understanding. I've tried to teach you never to sympathize with a weak man who couldn't solve his own problems. I want you to remember that. I don't want your sympathy." Mr. Yarchow paused. He wanted to cushion the shock, but he couldn't. He blurted, "Your father is a thief, Tommy, a . common thief." -8 - l Tommy was struck silent. His eyes began to swim. "Now, Tommy, be a man." Mr. Yarchow moistened his lips. "Most everyone is a thief of some sort. Even you steal when you take advantage of someone or when you copy in a test." He stopped speaking, amazed at what he had said. "I'm sorry, Tommy, I didn't mean to call you a thief." He was losing his nerve. He could feel it. He swallowed before he went on. "There are all kinds of thefts, and most of them are wrong." He was clasping and unclasping his violently trembling fingers. "There are big thieves, Tommy, and little thieves. The big thieves are strong, powerful men. Your father is just a little thief." Tommy's tearful eyes reflected his understanding. Verbal allegiance would have been superfluous. He simply asked, "What did you do? Tell me, Dad." "Okay. My story starts the day you were born. All manner of expenses came right along with you. We had to have special equipment and special doctors-:-and I had to have $500 in a hurry to pay for them. Of course, I didn't have it, so L._.L._._._ Well, you've heard me speak of Dick Martin. He and I were ~airly well acquainted, so I took $500 from his account at the bank. I really intended to put the money back in, but Dick came in one day, said he was moving, and wanted to close his account. There was nothing I could do but give him his money. To do it, I was forced to borrow $500 from the Emporium account." Mr. Yarchow attempted to rationalize. "I wasn't stealing the money, just borrowing it. I really intended to pay it back. But things kept piling up and I had to take more than the original $500. Your mother's long illness and funeral expense . . . this house and presents for you." Tommy understood. "Gee, Dad, that's okay. Mom and me didn't you?" You took it for Mr. Yarchow seemed preoccupied. "Yes, but that isn't all. I've stolen $40,000 during the past fourteen years. That's a lot of money in one chunk, Tommy. Forty thousand dollars. But divide it by fourteen years and it doesn't seem like so much. It wasn't hard to take and spend, but it added up fast." A sudden nervous spasm jerked Dad's face much as a horse twitches to discourage flies. "A month or so ago the Emporium hired a smart-alecky young book-, keeper. You know him-Vic Edwards. He said the first thing he was going to do when he took over his new job would be to check the balance of the Emporium account from the day I took it over." Tommy could not suppress the question. "Did he?" "Yes. He called me at the bank a few weeks ago and said he would like to buy my dinner that night. I told him that I was going -9- to be busy, but he said I wasn't too busy to hear what he had to say. He picked me up and we drove to the Chop House. He didn't say much at dinner; just sat there with a sneer on his lips. Back in hlis apartment he told me that he was on to what I had been doing. Said that he was going to inform the bank the next day. He began to jeer and insult me. I could take that all right, but then he began. saying things about my family. He told me what would happen to you when the news got around about me. I knew that he was right,' but I got angry, lost my head, and socked him. He fell. His head hit a metal door-stop. He was dead." Tommy exhaled. He had not breathed during the last few, terrible sentences. All he could say was, "Gee, Dad!" All the words he wanted to say refused to be uttered. He wanted to reassure his father that the unfortunate circumstances could have no effect on their companionship. He wanted to convince his father that all would end well. He wanted to let father know that he wasn't really guilty of murdering Vic Edwards. He couldn't. Tommy just sat there breathing hard, working his soundless lips, hating the dead Vic Edwards. Tommy was startled from his reveries when his Aunt Lorna entered the room. He looked around for his father before he realized with a shock that he had merely recalled their conversation. His: father had been gone a long time, a very long time. Aunt Lorna said nothing. She smoothed the unwrinkled bedspread, straightened the straight rug, and set the perfectly timed clock. At the clock she murmured, "Tommy, it's close to eleven." Tommy nodded. He preferred to . remain silent. He didn't want to break down now; his father wouldn't have broken down. Aunt Lorna stood in the middle of the room, taut, silent, looking at Tommy. As the hour of eleven drew closer, the skin seemed to stretch tightly over her bony features. Tommy remained in the window seat, riveting his eyes upon the fort-like structure in the valley. Several times he reached around to scratch his neck, but his eyes remained on the building between the twin hills of the town. Then, suddenly, at eleven o'clock the lights in the room dimmed to only the faintest hint of illumination. All the lights on the far hill dimmed simultaneously. The lights in the penitentiary between the hills dimmed for a moment. Tommy threw himself on the bed, his bony shoulders shaking violently with uncontrolled, unashamed sobs. Without sound, Aunt Lorna closed the door to Tommy's room. She descended the carpeted stairs murmuring to herself, "I don't understand. I just don't understand." She silently disputed the right of men legally to take the lives of other men. Like other thinkers before her time, she failed to comprehend that the man who pulled the switch sending the electric current into the body of Mr. Yarchow -10- was any less guilty of murder than the condemned knew that it was not Mr. Yarchow who had paid had been released by death. It was Tommy who his father's crime. He would suffer for the rest of know," she repeated. "I just don't know." man himself. She the penalty. He would suffer for his life. "I don't Views CAROLYN WOLLE, '47 Have you the worm's-eye view? God forbid that I should be so low That when it rains my eyes be filled with mud, Or sunny days, be dust-filled, for, although The world be beautiful and bright, I could not sing Because I see no light in anything. Nor would I have the crab's-eye view That, looking up, my eyes be water-filled, And see naught but distorted images; Lord, not a grouch, for then I could not build My castles in tbe air; nor could I dream my dreams, But floundering, drown in lonely, sulking streams. But I would have the bird's-eye view And as the thrush, pour out my heart in song My soul could soar above life's petty things But in the noble, would I join the human throng; Yet see the world in its completeness; then I too Would have a vision like Thy God's-eye View. - 11 - Thunderstorm LORNA WILLIAMS, '49 When the sky is in the branches Of the elm on our front lawn, And the robin, home from southward, Hunts the worm before the dawn, Then the spring and winter quarrel Over who shall own the cloud, Knit their brows together fiercely, Gnash their teeth and rage, out loud. Spring is younger than her brother, Soon the quarrel makes her weep, And winter, vanquished by her tear-drops, Goes away a year, to sleep. A Cloud Fairy CAROLYN WOLLE, '47 A fairy in the clouds above is seen By anyone whose heart believes her there ; In day break skies her skirts are fog-grey sheen, And girdled with Aurora's dew-pearls fair . Soon joyously she greets Apollo's face And plays at Aeolus' game of hide and seek; Gowned now in azure silk and feathery lace, Happy all day with sunlight on her cheek. At twilight, ribbons has she in her hair W hich she has clipt from sunset's purple rays, And blushing in the rose:glow, does prepare Her midnight velvet robe for lover's praise, And crown-ed with celestial diamonds bright Trysts wit h the moon-his fairy Queen of Night. -12- Other Little Children LORNA WILLIAMS, '49 I was sick and starving to death. Mother, coming into my room, placed a tray of food before me. I ate all the food from every dish she gave me, but still I was starving. Mine was a hunger different· from that for food. "Mother," I said, "When are the birds coming?" Then she looked at me queerly and answered, "But, dear, the birds are here. Can't you hear them singing?" I turned my head and gazed out of the window. All I could see was the muddy river and· the scraggly pine trees along its muddy flats. I closed my eyes. "Silverado," I thought, "What a disappointment. This country can never cure me. I think I am dying . . . " Mother seated herself at the side of my bed. Then, out of the space between us came her voice, reading to me as she did each day. She was reciting a poem I remembered from long ago, when I was well: "Dark brown is the river, Golden is the sand. It flows along for ever, With trees on either hand. Green leaves a-floating, Castles of the foam, Boats of mine a-boatingWhere will all come home?" The words were familiar and very sweet. Suddenly the birds sang as they had when I was a small child. I found my eyes open and gazing out the window at a queer figure, playing by the river. Then the figure turned and beckoned quickly with a long finger of, its right hand. From under the sheets of my bed I slipped, and out the window quietly. Mother, with her eyes on the book, kept on reading and didn't notice. Half way there the figure met me, his long, black hair flowing in the breeze behind him. Dark eyes twinkled brightly in a thin face as he pulled me eagerly to the river, down which the green leaves were floating. "I'm Robert Louis Stevenson," he said. "Won't you play with me awhile?" I sat down on a stone, for I had been ill in bed for a long time -13 - and my legs were weak. "Robert Louis Stevenson?" I wonder ed. " B ut he has been dead for many, many years!" The dancing ey es, intent upon the examination of a wrinkled paper, glance d up, and the elflike face looked into mine. "Oh, no," he said. "You are wrong. I am a child, and children never die." Then, with a quick gesture he thrust the wrinkled paper beneath my nose. It was a map of Treasure Island, beautifully colored, which he had drawn. Stooping over, then" he tied the map to a wooden chip, all the while talking animatedly. "I loved drawing maps when I was your age, and ill. Only one other thing I enjoyed doing more, and that was playing soldier in the land of counterpane. I always wished to be a real-life adventurer and when I couldn't be, I made adventures happen on paper inste ad." As he talked I thought I detected a note of sadness in his voice. But I had forgotten it the next minute, for he was sailing the wooden ship, with the map tied on it, away down the river. "There," he said, brushing his hands briskly together, "I always a romanticist. I keep thinking that some child like the children with whom I used to play will find the map and be thrilled, as I was thrilled in making it. When I was little we used to sail the meadow in a basket, you know. It was a picturesque land where I grew up, with its moors and lighthouses. But Scotland is no more romantic than this Napa Valley with its Silverado Trail and Mount St. Helena. After all," said he, turning his gaze to the heights of the mountain towering above us, "anything is romantic if we think it so." wa~ I had followed his gaze to the mountain and now my eyes, wandering slowly back, discerned an indistinct form upon the opposite shore. The figure stood, robed in black, leaning against a tree, and a formidable atmosphere about it made me shudder. Plucking at Robert L-ouis Stevenson's arm, I asked, "Who is that?" He looked, and laughed. "Why, that is myoId friend. We became acquainted in the cold mists and penetrating winds of Scotland, in my tiny nursery, and over many cups of coffee when I was very young. His n-ame is Death. He was very close to me all through my childhood and we grew even closer as the year passed. Some people have told me they would find his constant company distressing, but I found he affected me contrarily, and gave me a light-heartedness which made life quite fascinating. Of course he brought pain, but pain teaches people many things they would otherwise never know." I listened, enchanted. Even to the way he pronounced his words there clung a childish delight in the saying of them, and all the while he talked I was aware of the romance and the spirit in him that would not die. Then, as I looked across at the mysterious figure on the opposite shore, I saw him beckon slowly to my. companion. Robert Louis saw too, and with a sad shake of his head prepared to leave. Stooping down, he picked up all the boats his - 14 - nimble fingers had fashioned while we talked together, and set them a-sailing on the river. Then he took my arm and led me back toward the window. "Death doesn't want you yet," he remarked as we walked, "and while you are awaiting his call, remember that: 'The world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings'." As I slipped into bed he went away, but I still hear him chanting: "Away down the river A hundred miles or more Other little children Shall bring my boats ashore." Spring HUGH N. BALE, '50 The hilly slopes are clothed with fresh new green, More verdant yet for gentle show'rs; again The trees respond to warmth of sun and rain To unfurl leaves- a season sleeping; e'en The fields of up-turned soil are strangely clean, Are yet in harmony with nature's plane; And at my feet the timid flow'rs attain A brilliant glory, clustered, shy, serene. Thus spring is here! And from my vantage spot, The renaissance of nature is revealed In radiance and beauty; thus I sing To that for which we three long months have sought, To that which now no longer is concealed, A season of vitality- 'tis spring. - 15 - If LORNA WILLIAMS, '49 My heart would not be sorry, My pen would not have sinned, If I could tell a story With the technique of the wind. Sonnet VESTA FELLER, '48 And what are bells if there's no one to hear Their mighty clanging on the quiet air? And what are bells, though they ring loud and clear, If there's no one to hear their call to prayer? And what's a candle in a darkened room If there's no one to see it's ray of light? Why, what's a candle doing in the gloom If there's no one to pass it in the night? And what is love unless they're two to share In giving this and getting that from life? And what is love unless there's one to care About the other's worry, need, or strife? And what is life? It's meaning is not true, Unless we have a purpose to pursue. Truth' s Touch JEAN BLESSING, '47 Facts contacting consciousness . . . Like frozen crystals touching shrinking, trembling fingers . . . Oh, their naked, numbing iciness! -16- School Spirit ALLEN CARTER BROWN, '50 The acth-ity most closely associated with American colleges anQ universities, next to that of obtaining an education, is athletics in general and football in particular. It is the unwritten code of the campus that all students display loyalty for their alma mater by turning out en masse for the football games. The poor soul who, on the day following the Big Game, cannot accurately describe "Bullface" Scurinski's amazing blocking technique to his fellow students is, indeed, a gross outsider, a traitor to school spirit. Since it is thus an understood fact that the student must attend the football games, his wisest course of action is to attend in the greatest possible degree of comfort and still display the proper amount of zeal for the home team. That the practical application of this art may be more readily related and understood, we shall assume the role of invisible witnesses to the misadventures of the average Joe College. Joe has been attending games long enough to know exactly the type and quantity of equipment necessary for his full enjoyment of the spectacle. He dresses for the event with meticulous care, donning his Scotch brogues, heavy brown tweeds, and leather jacket. He knows that he must also carry a sweater, topcoat, galoshes, scarf, and ear- muffs, for one cannot accurately predict the capricious late autumn weather . To the above, Joe must add his collegiate equipment: green cap, two banners, pennant, and a small megaphone. Joe remembers just in time to add two cowbells to his collection. Joe would feel lost at any game without his cowbells. He now has all the equipment necessary to display his school spirit. But he is in dire need of supplies for his own comfort. And so to his already imposing pile of needs he adds two laprugs, a blanket, a pillow, two packs of cigarettes, and one sack of potato chips. It is thus that Joe begins the long trek to the stadium, staggering beneath a Herculean armload of equipment. At long last, Joe, exhausted, arrives and makes his way through the gate by the grace of his activity ticket. Although he had planned to arrive early, he was delayed considerably by his potato chips, which were continually falling from the top of his load. Since the game has begun, Joe finds that he must content himself with a first row seat on the five yard line. The cold wind is bitter and raw. He very carefully . lays his blanket on the bleacher, places his pillow on it, dons his topcoat, - 17 - III green cap , sweater , and ear-muHs . He proceeds by sitting on the pillow and spreading the blanket and rugs over his lap. Although; the teams are playing at the far end of the field, Joe enthusiastically begins to wave his pennants. At this point, two heavy-set matrons enter the scene and seat themselves on either side of Joe. He finds himself pinned to the seat by his lap rugs. In v ain, he attempts to jump to his feet at the proper moments. Of course, it is impossible. This fact dampens Joe's spirit considerably, for the timing of the jump is all-important. One must rise to his feel with the crowd. To fail proves to one's fellow spectators that the closest attention has not been paid to the game. It is only under such pressure that Joe embarrasses both himself and the two rather plump ladies by asking them to place their posteriors some distance from him. Half time. What a welcome recess for both the weary player and equally weary spectator. Joe settles back. The tension of the fast game has momentarily disappeared. Of course, Joe hasn't been able to see many of the brilliant plays from his vantage point on the five yard line, but the loyal supporter of the team never considers such things. Joe ceases waving his pennants for a moment; he stops shouting through his megaphone. Instead, he relaxes and begins to munch his potato chips. Again the dizzy pace of the game is resumed. Although he has puffed wildly on numerous cigarettes in a mad effort to rectify the condition, Joe is dying of thirst, the almost inevitable result of eating potato chips. Usually Joe has lugged a thermos to the game, but tonight his memory has failed him. To top it off, he cannot locate the vendor. This character has been past a dozen times, always blocking the view; but now that he is really needed, nowhere is he to be found. After what seems centuries to poor Joe, he, clutching his throat desparately, induces a stranger seated nearby to offer his flask of hot coffee. Joe drains the container of its mountain-grown contents with gratitude. The fiery stimulant he has consumed raises the pitch of Joe's enthusiasm still higher. It does not spend itself on the few remaining moments of the game, however. And so it is a nervous and disconsulate Joe that makes his weary way from the stadium. Inch by inch, foot by foot, he worms his way toward the exit gate, hampered no end by his load. Once in the sanctuary of his home, Joe drops his armload in the hall and flops into the first easy chair he encounters in the living room. His hand automatically reaches for the radio dial. "Damn," he mutters. "What a fool I've been. I could have stayed right here and listened to the game in solid comfort." -18 - But he quickly banishes this revolutionary thought from his mind. For although one might enjoy the game more, and at the same time know more of what actually happened, it would be a sin bordering on blasphemy to listen to the game over the radio rather than to make a personal appearance at the stadium. So we shall see Joe at the big game next weekend, and afterward he will have the gall to tell us that he enjoyed the scrap. Epithet or Epitaph? DORIS RAUN, '49 Hurrah, hurrah, it's spring, it's spring! Here comes a junebug on the wing. Now he's crawling on the rugLook out, MotherUGH! Sweet Thoughts GRACE M. WEAVER, '47 Sweet thoughts are glistening dewdrops With rainbows caught inside; Refreshing to their owners, A blessing far and wide. They're nourishing, sustaining, To all on whom they fall, And yet they're clothed in beauty Bringing joy to great and small. - 19 - And They Lived Happily Ever After DORIS RAUN, '48 "Hi. Ben," called out Butch in the screeching tones that can be produced only by a ten-year-old running at top speed and using his full vocal powers at the same time. His headlong rush across the street was checked to a mere gallop as he caught sight of his friend sitting disconsolately on the curb. "For gosh sakes, what happened to you?" he asked, but Ben, the picture of dejection, made no reply" With the insight that only a friend of long standing can have, Butch sensed the complexity of his friend's emotions. He sat down beside him on the curb to lend a little solid comfort and also to satisfy his natural curiosity, for Ben, besides acting very strangely, was dressed in a manner that neither Butch nor any of the residents of that part of south Chicago had ever seen before on a Saturday morning, or any morning for that matter. Ben was wearing a pair of navy blue wool shorts and a navy blue jacket, a white shirt with a Peter Pan collar and a large, Lord Fauntleroy bow tie in front, white stockings and. black patent leather shoes, and to complete the ensemble, immaculately combed hair. "Jeepers," said Butch. "Yeah," said Ben. They sat on in silence for a few minutes. Suddenly from the house behind them came the shrill sound of a female voice. "Benjamin?" said the voice with a rising inflection .. Then, as Benny did not move or make any sign of having heard, the voice repeated in a somewhat wheedling tone veiled with sternness, "BEN-ja-min." Benny turned to his companion and spoke his first full sentence of the morning. "I don't have to go, 'cause it's only my aunt." Just as he uttered these portentious words, a second female voice, lower but with an unmistakable undertone of command, called "Benny." Benny jumped up, snatched up the handkerchief on which he was sitting to keep the dust off his pants, and with "It's my mother, we're going out," as the only explanation was off down the walk, leaving Butch with a dazed expression sitting on the curb. Later that afternoon, in answer to Butch's shrill and imperative whistle, Ben appeared once more on the porch of his home, dressed in clean blue slacks and a white shirt, his face shining from the recent scrubbing rather than from excessive joy. "Can you come and play ball?" Butch yelled from habit, although he was only a few feet from Ben. -20 - "Naw," said Ben, "but I can talk a little while. Come on up on the porch." Butch took the four steps in two leaps, dropped the bat he was carrying on the floor, and the two boys sat on the porch swing in studied nonchalance, hands in pockets and feet spread out in front of them. ~ng "School will be out in two days," said Butch, tentatively launchthe conversation. "A lot of good that will do me." replied Ben with disgust, and thrust his hands deeper in his pockets. "My aunt's here, and she leaves the day after school lets out." "Gee." exclaimed Butch, "is that all you're so sad about? That sounds wonderful. You can ride on the ponies, and help put up hay, and go fishing maybe, and get to milk cows, and- " "Oh, no, I won't," interrupted Ben with a sigh. "She lives in the country, but she has what she calls an estate. She says I'll just love it there. There are servants to wait on us at dinner, and give me a bath, and layout my clothes for me, and wait on me hand and foot. What does she think I am, anyway, a baby? Then she says there are some darling little girls living a few miles down the road, and I can have them over for tea in the afternoon, and we'll all have such good times. She's even going to organize a dancing class." With this last indignant statement Ben slumped so low into the swing that his body was at a forty-five degree angle with the floor and his head was sunk deep between his shoulder blades. Butch looked at his friend in dismay. "There must be something you can do. mother you don't want to go?" Have you told your "Oh, sure, but she says it's necessary. We're counting on my aunt to help me through college, and so I have to be very nice to her and let her call me her little darling and_even let her kiss me before breakfast." "Well," said Butch, "how about your aunt? Why don't you ten her about what we do here in the summer, and how much fun we have, and maybe she'll say that you should stay." "I'll try anything once," replied Ben as he rose. "I have to go in and help Mother serve tea. Maybe I can swing the conversation around that way." As Ben disappeared around the door Butch made a face. "Tea! In the middle of Saturday afternoon! Ugh!" With these ungrammatical but highly expressive statements Butch picked up his bat from the porch floor and ran off down the street in the direction of the ball park. - 21- Inside the house, Ben was l~aving his difficulties. Much to his secret delight and his mother's great embarrassment, while he was carrying the tea he had managed to spill it on his aunt's chartreuse dress. It had been entirely accidental, so he was not too penitent, but when he heard the results of this small act his attitude changed completely, and he would have given his best model airplane to be able to take back the disastrous spots. "You'll have to excuse him, Marie," his mother said. "I'm afraid he hasn't had much first hand experience with a tea cup." "Oh, that's perfectly all right," replied his aunt. "This dress was just about ready for the cleaner anyway. He may serve tea every afternoon while he is at my house, and we'll have such fun, won't we Benny?" As soon as she began to address him, her voice climbed several tones in pitch and she seemed to smile all over her face. Ben quaked inwardly. "I think- " his voice quavered a little, so he decided to start over. "Do you know what I do in the summer when I'm home, Aunt Marie?" he asked with what he hoped was an air of cheerfulness tempered with regret. As his aunt was looking at him with interest and his mother did not stop him, he continued with a little more hopefulness. "We play ball in the vacant lot down the street, and I'm the pitcher. Sometimes we ride the 'el' all day, because it onlY, costs a dime to ride as long as we wanL We go to Riverview Park and ride all the crazy rides, like the loop-the-loop, and go in the fun house and try to walk through the revolving barrel. Once we made a raft and floated it down the river, but Mother wouldn't let us do that again." He paused for a minute, occupied with nostalgic memories of the coolness of the water on his feet (the raft floated about a foot under water) and the buildings on the shore drifting lazily by, Then his aunt broke in. "Why you poor boy, to have to resort to such forms of amusement! That settles it. You simply must live with me this summer, and I will show you how to really live." Ben said no more, but bowed his head in stunned and hopeless submission to the hands of fate About a week after Ben's departure, Butch came home for dinner without as much evidence of his noisy exuberance as usual. His team had just lost the second game in succession, and he wished that Ben were there at least to console, if not to pitch for him. "If Ben had been pitching, we would have won," he mumbled through lips compressed with the effort to keep back the tears, for he missed his friend and he was tired from the heat and exertion. His mother smiled down at the tired little boy and said compassionately and a little teasingly, "My goodness, honey, you look tuckered out. There's - 22 - a letter from Ben and a package too, but I suppose you're too tired to open them. I'll save them till tomorrow, if you want me to." Butch leaped wildly for his mother's hands, for he had already caught sight of a white envelope and a large paper package hidden behind her back. Laughingly she jerked them away, but not too quickly. As he ran to a corner with the precious package and the letter, all vestiges of his former lassitude disappeared. He opened the package first, for no human power could make a nine-year-old more curious about the written word than about a package with unknown contents, and his eyes betrayed his excitement as his clumsy fingers finally tore off the wrappings. "Wow!" he said softly. "Wow." He opened the letter. "Dear Butch," it began, in the childish scrawl characteristic of school boys an over the U. S. "How are you? I am having a fIne time after all. It all started when we got to my Aunt's hous, which is pretty. My aunt right away wanted to take me over to visit the two darling little girls, but when we got home, guess who was there? My aunt's husband, who is my uncle. He has been in the N ayvy and he is going to be home all summer recuperating. (He told me how to spell that word.) He is not even sick, just sick of the Nayvy, he says. That day he took me to the stabls to see the horses, and he even has one I can ride. It is white and brown. It is a little horse, and not a pony. The next day we all went on a picnic to the sea-shore, and he took me sailing on the sound. There are all sorts of wonderful things to do hear, and my aunt is so excited having my uncle home that she duzn't care what I do. Just so my uncle likes it. My uncel bought this catcher's mit for you, becauze I told him about our baseball league. He also wants you to cum and visit for a week this summer, if you can arrange it with your mother. Tell the team they better win all the games. Love, Ben." Butch ran, yelling with his customary shrill tones, although his mother was only a few yards away in the next room, and thrust the letter and the package into her hands. "Read it, Mother," he yelled. "Wow!" -23- God Gave Me These VESTA FELLER, '48 God gave me not ten talents or a fruit tree or a lamb, But He gave me life and soul and mind and made me as I am. He doesn't come in flesh to me and walk along my way, But He gave me lips and words and knees to help me when I pray. There is no fire or burning bush to show me He is near, But He made green trees and lakes and skies; I know that He is here He doesn't send His angels out or all His heavenly throngs, But I feel that He is very close in birds and crickets' songs. I'll Call The Painter CECILY SHERK, '49 As the days passed I found myself very eager to go home. My mother had written that the house had been completely redecorated. Of course I love my family and this affection alone would have made the prospect of going home delightful, but the visualization of new wallpaper filled me with an increased sense of pleasant anticipation. Now, ordinarily my mother selects her own paper (and does a good job, too), but I had deduced from a few disparaging remarks from Father, that upon this occasion Mother had consulted a specialist, and that the results were startling. In the excitement of meeting the family and having my small brother disclose the exciting news that he had three girl friends, that Daddy was getting a brown coffee table for Christmas, and that one cow was "awful" sick, all in one breath- I nearly forgot about the new wallpaper. Not for long, however. I stepped into the entrance hall only to be greeted by a maze of elves under mazes of toadstools. I was not allowed to look long. Mother rattled on about the new, new melon shade and how well it blended with cream, and I stepped into what was formerly a living room, but was now a series of Paul Reveres riding over New England countrysides. The Paul Reveres with their blushing melon faces were something to see! The dining room had that new striped effect- alternate panels of melon and cream, with a border of waxed fruit. -24 - p I went to the kitchen for a drink, but the kitchen was steaming with melon colored teapots. I took one good look and flew to the bathroom--only to find creamy sail boats, sailing on melon seas. Mother looked injured so I went back to the Paul Reveres and tried to talk to the family. Within the first twenty minutes I had counted 99 Pauls, when Dad noticed my plight and informed me that there were exactly 301 Pauls, 301 horses, and 301 stone walls. Anyway, r soon became accustomed to the scenery and the evening was spent in delightful conversation. As the clock struck eleven, we decided to retire. My brother was raving about his room. He said that there were hundreds of airplanes- and there were. Father was raving too- and you would have seen why. His room was the latest thing! Paneled floorboards ran up across three walls and the ceiling. If you weren't careful you'd walk up the wall. As for the fourth wall, it was cov'ered with decrepit horses hanging over moss-covered walls, complete with old, oaken buckets. I was afraid to go into my own room, but Mother informed me that she had left my walls painted, and she said she hoped I didn't mind. I didn't mind in the least, and I slept very well. The whole house looked better in the morning. Still, all things considered, when I decorate my house I'll call the painter. The first thing I'll say is: "Nothing melon, please!" Cynicism RALPH BOLLINGER, '50 I am a cynic. So take me with a grain of salt, for all that I say will be hard and bitter-but it will be the truth. I say that man will never understand the ways of peace, for he has never really tried to learn- and when he begins to try he will be too late. I say that when we teach our children the fundamental hate and strife of war before they know the Prince of Peace, we may prepare the Cross again. For a child, dying of hunger or maimed by a bomb, is a prognostic that forshadows the gloom of the coming age- -25- I"" Awal~ening HUGH BALE, '50 J. P. Carter, wealthy owner of the Valley Syndicate, a chain of small newspapers, waited impatiently at the station for the ten o'clock express. The train was half an hour overdue. J. P. seemed resigned to that fact-he had half-expected the express to arrive late. He glanced at his watch-lO:35. He compared his time with that of the clock over the gates to the platform. He paused to look at the headlines of a crumpled daily, trodden on the floor. Outside the wind was trying to force its way through the dimly lit station. Carter could see the flickering streetlight through the whirling snow storm. Except for a telegraph operator and the businessman, the station was empty. That was understandable- nobody but a fool would venture forth on a trip on such a miserable night. The head of the Valley Syndicate wondered what had possessed him to leave the security of his apartment to accept the invitation of Harry Burke to weekend at the mountain lodge. They had been fraternity brothers- were once intimately acquainted. Eight years had gone by since those carefree days, and the two had lost contact with each other. Harry had been insistent in his telephone invitation; J. P. had accepted out of curiosity rather than for friendship's sake. At eleven o'clock the full-throated blast of a diesel locomotive quickly faded out against the competition of the elements. Three minutes later the pounding express eased to a quiet stop on track three. Possibly half a dozen people hurried past Carter as he wound his way through stacks of baggage to the idling train. The conductor was nowhere in sight, and the lone passenger climbed up the steps and walked into the coach. For once he would I)ot have to waken any lounging sleeper- all seats were unoccupied. J. P. shrugged out of his overcoat which he threw across the back of a seat. Tossing his hat into the luggage rack, he eased down into the airfoam cushions. He notched the back of the chair to three fourths of the way, gazed through half-closed eyes at the shadowed outlines of the station. Silently and swiftly that building was gone; the window reflected only the bright lights of the interior. Carter pulled a time table from his pocket, located his schedule with some difficulty, and estimated the time of his arrival in the mountains. Normally the train should get there at one o'clock in the morning, but considering the hour behind schedule now, and the storm, the passenger decided that two-thirty would be the earliest time, possibly later. He folded the pamphlet and replaced it in his pocket. Carter caught a fleeting glimpse of the lights of a whistlestop as the train -26- highballed down the main track. He heard the hissing of air as brakes were applied on a turn, the rumble of the trucks over a bridge. He sensed the steady pull of the engine up a steep grade. The train stopped at a station at the top of the climb. Carter peered through the window and made out three figures on the platform. They passed from his range of vision, and he sighed as he felt the rolling of the coach. For a few seconds Carter was relaxed. Suddenly he sat up frigidly as he realized that the train was speeding backward. In the inner reaches of his mind, the publisher visualized the night's ha~ penings. Everything was running true to form-the phone call, the snow and wind, the deserted station, the empty coach, the halt at the top of the hill. He had seen it all before-a dream, that was what the entire thing seemed like. But how did it end? Carter could not recall any ending. He looked hard through the window, but could see nothing. He was aware of the speed of the train, felt the sway of the coach as it banked around a curve. When he heard the faint rattle of the trucks as the train moved onto the approach to- the bridge, Carter knew the answer to his question, but he could donothing now. The morning papers carried a short paragraph headlined: "Runaway train crashes through bridge." The few sentences following explained briefly: "The ten o'clock express crashed through a bridge over the North river last night. When engine trouble developed, the fast dieseliner stopped at King's Hill station where the crew detrained to investigate. While the railroad men were warming up in the station, the express started rolling down hill, gathering momentum so quickly that attempts to catch the runaway were futile. Fortunately no passengers were aboard." Moods LORNA WILLIAMS, '49 Let the lady weep, my lad, Let the lady storm! 'Tis a well established wont Peculiar to her form. Remember, lad, that Mother Nature, Wisest gal beneath the blue, Has her days beneath the weather, Has her rain and sunshine, too. I -27- I II1II r Grown-up Game LORNA WILLIAMS, '49 When I was small I used to play At baseball, in the lot all day, And 'round the rose bush slyly peek In coun tless games of hide and seek. But now my frame has grown too tall For hide and seek and games of ball; I play in other worlds instead, And romp, with thoughts, inside my head. An Antique Shop DORIS RAUN, '48 As I came around the corner a little gust of autumn wind blew a whirlwind of dust before me, and when the spiral unwound and was quiet once more I saw an old building which had not been visible before. It was ridiculously tiny and out of place in this noisy, modern section of the city. On the single, dirty window was written in peeling gilt letters "Antique Shoppe." The final "E" was almost a thing of the past. All that was left of it was a faint outline. The door; too, was lettered in gilt with some strangely foreign name and PROP. in large capitals after it. When I opened the door an exceedingly un-modern sounding bell, announcing a prospective customer, tinkled in the back of the shop. With that slight noise all the hurrying world was shut out, and I was caught in the snare of mystery that old things hold. Everything that I saw or touched had its own secret, its own aliveness. As my eyes became accustomed to the dim light after the glare of the autumn sun on the pavement" I saw the backs of the figureines that made up the window display. They were of varied sizes and shapes, but they were all, with one accord, staring straight ahead at the turbulent stream of traffic and pedestrians that could be seen only dimly through the window. In spite of their pale blue and gold porcelain finery they seemed a trifle wistful, poor, silly things. Turning away from the window, I looked down the long, narrow room that made up the rest of the shop. Down the center ran an im- - 28- pertinent little aisle, that looked as if it had pushed out of its path anything presumptuous enough to block the way. On either side of it were large sofas with escaping stuffings, and a few other nondescript pieces of aged furniture. There were an old grandfather's clock, and a high corner .cupboard that looked like Old Mother Hubbard's original piece, and three or four old bureau drawer sets. Two or three paths branched off from the main one and wormed their way into the farthest and most unexplored corners. Catching a gleam of white down one of these paths, I turned to investigate. There, at its conclusion, stood an old spinet with a stack of music on its back. The ivory keys were yellowed, and some had fallen off, leav ing black gaps. The keyboard looked like an ol~ man's smile. A needlepoint stool was pushed a little away from it as if someone had just risen to hide from my intrusion. On the music rack was a yellowed, dusty manuscript, o'n ly half-completed. Per-; haps it was the work of some undiscovered genius, or a score of one of the great master's that had never been published. It could have been a girl student's practice sheet, or a lover's song, or . . . But I was destined never to know the secret of the manuscript, for at that moment the man to whom the gilt letters on the door evidenly applied came to ask if there was something I wanted. I was going to tell him no, but he looked so forlorn and old that I bought the tiniest porcelain doll. As I walked out with my purchase I could see the figurines still staring out at the never-ending panorama, but they looked even more wistful than before. The Wall JEAN BLESSING, '47 Bound by inert, invisible walls Of time and blind, limiting matter, Inaccessible to Beauty, I stand with dumb lips and clumsy hands Dully inarticulate and uncreating. Unrelenting, Beauty pulls stretched Sinews of the soul; and though I long To rise responding to her, full-throated, Freely singing the exquisite lyric, I only struggle in uncomprehending pain Muffled in vast overwhelming silence . . In great blank gulfs of endless emptiness. -29 - The Only Way ALLEN CARTER BROWN, '50 Tony Van Glyke dropped silently onto the arm of the nearest chair. His brown eyes quickly re-read the telegram clutched in his long, trembling fingers. The wire floated toward the Oriental carpet as Tony raised his sensitive fingers to run them through his curly brown hair. "Damn," he said softly to himself. Tony had acquired a way of swearing which made the word sound no more vulgar than if he had said "Goodness." He picked up the wire and read it for the third time. He couldn't believe it. Unconsciously, he read it aloud. MR. TONY VAN GLYKE. LIND GREEN TOWERS. CHICAGO, ILL. TONY- UNITED OIL OFF 3 POINTS TODAY'S TRADING STOP MUST SELL TOMORROW UNLESS YOU SUPPLY Ih MILLION MORE MARGIN SAM Tony stepped to the liquor cabinet, selected the decanter of Hague and Hague, and poured himself a Scotch and soda. It was a litt le too strong, so he added more soda. One half a million dollars. Tony knew without consulting Sam Martin, his business manager in New York, that it was impossible to borrow that much on such short notice. The resources of Van Glyke Newspapers, Inc. had been mortgaged to the hilt to buy the oil stock in the first place. It was supposed t o hav e been a sure thing, an inv estment of three months and a 30 % pr ofit. Tony mixed anot her Scotch. He sank into a deep chair and placed a cigarette between his lips. He was cleaned out- broke - bankrupt. Tony wondered what he would do now. "No doubt," he mused, " the receivers of the newspapers will provide a cushy, charitable job for me." He flatly declared to himself that he would not accept. "No," he decided, "I'll start over again. I'll struggle back to the top." He surveyed the room with satisfaction. It was finished in conserv ative, expensive George II. The deep stain of the furniture combined with the color of the Persian rug to produce an effect of beauty and good taste. Two El Grecos adorned either side of the massive fireplace . They were not prints of El Grecos, they were El Grecos. Tony congratulated himself on picking them up on his way to the south of France four seasons ago . He thoughtfully placed the glass to his lips, and then inhaled deeply on his cigar ette. As a result of t he liquor he had consumed, he felt the closeness of the - 30 - smoke-filled room and impulsively rushed into the hall and downstairs. The doorman nodded congenially, and merrily said, " Good morning, Mr. Van Glyke." Tony did not reply, but glanced at his watch instead. The doorman had said "Good morning." Tony's watch confirmed the greeting It was two. A bleak, cold wind found its way through Tony's suitcoat. The night was a blue-grey with the moon' beaming faithfully through a light mist. Usually the jingle of coins in his pocket brought him an undefinable peace of mind, but on this particular morning the sound produced an opposite effect. Tony could not help reminding himself that those jingling coins constituted his entire capital. He tortured himself, as he walked briskly down Lake Shore Drive, with conjectures on what the dismal future could possibly bring. Tony was no longer in high spirits. The mist and the barren, ugly streets of early-morning Chicago were indeed conducive to dismal thoughts. Tony stubbed his toe on a rock in the middle of the sidewalk and cursed with eloquence. He continued to walk past the darkened shops and offices. "If I could only · stop thinking," he said to himself. He couldn't. He had lost the inclination to attempt to build another fortune. The atmosphere was no ally to ambition. Tony soon found himself at the hotel entrance. He had no idea of the route he had taken, but he had returned nevertheless. He decided that he wouldn't go up to his apartment just yet. He wanted to walk and think some more. "Have to think." But, being badly in need of both external and internal warmth, he changed his mind and went up to the suite. He mixed a drink before slouching in the window seat. Languidly hanging an arm over his knee, he sipped his Scotch while gazing out of the window. The city yawned and awakened beneath him. The occasional pedestrian became a milling throng; the lonely automobile a mechanical snake. Tony sat in the window for a long time, his head throbbing with the question that demanded an answer: "What shall I do? What shall I do?" He knew that he would never give up all that he now possessed and accept some remote editorship. He would never start over again- the road had been too bumpy. Tony realized, though, that he had to acquire an income of some sort in order to live. He dropped his head into his hands and sobbed softly. "I guess I'm just a weak sister after all. Haven't the guts to start over, but don't know what else to do. What shall I do? WHAT SHALL I DO?" And then, as he watched the crowd below, Tony answered his own question. There was obviously, he reasoned, only one thing to do. He swung his legs over the window sill and crawled onto the parapet. He stood erect, muttered "To Hell with it," and jumped. - 31 -  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Manuscript: Volume 09, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Kiosk Perspectives Subject The topic of the resource Student Publications Description An account of the resource Manuscript contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bale, Hugh: Author Brown, Allen: Author Williams, Lorna: Author Raun, Doris: Author Sherk, Cecily: Author Bollinger, Ralph: Author Halvorsen, David: Author Wolle, Carolyn: Author Feller, Vesta: Author Blessing, Jean: Author Weaver, Grace: Author Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1947 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-12-01 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Wolle, Carolyn: Chairman Raun, Doris: Editor Feller, Vesta: Co-Editor Brown, Allen Carter: Business Manager Bale, Hugh: Composition Manager Williams, Lorna: Assistant Composition Manager Burgess, Roger: Consultant Board Weaver, Grace: Consultant Board Blessing, Jean: Consultant Board Shirk, Cecily: Consultant Board Kingsbury, Mary Ellen: Consultant Board Halvorsen, David: Consultant Board Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical 35 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger Kiosk Manuscript Perspectives student publications http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/a91382c013defb76da87ff4876ab5f2c.pdf c4d103b59975c035c6e6dcbcca8e71cd Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Kiosk: Volume 31, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Kiosk contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ponder, Marcie Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2014-1-23 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-12-18 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-18 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF 7.25 MB 74 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Kiosk-Vol31-No01_KDC_1972_01-01_01.pdf PDF Text Text �-MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE KIOSK Volume XXXI Spring, 1972 �KIOSK Published by the students of Morningside College Sioux City, Iowa Volume XXXI Spring, 1972 �CONTRIBUTORS FRANK c. BANYS, JR. 5 Night of the Pig Short Story TERRY WRIGHT 13 LINDA KANGAL 19 Birth Rite Short Story J. 26 A Poem CHANDLER ROUGH Before The Window, Sunshade, The Wind on Tuesday Night Poems LYN MUNHALL 27 Flowerheads Seemed To Beckon Me Out of Myself Critical Essay T. R. DILLARD 35 McCaully Lake A Poem ROCHELLE STEFANSON 38 Like A Prism _ .Fiction __ KAREN ISBELL 47 Hitleryouth Diary Artwork by Linda Bittman, Jennifer Coates, Dianne Mumm and Marla Uwen �EDITOR: T. R. DILLARD ASSISTANT EDITOR: JEFFREY STREEBY FACULTY ADVISORS : D. H. STEFANSON ELINOR SHAPIRO FRANK BRENEISEN �FRANK C. BANYS, JR. NIGHT OF THE PIG Some men dream of being a king and never become one. I always wanted a beard. Doodle Staus Doodle Staus hated his first girl friend. He didn't mind hiding in cemeteries at night and looking for old farm houses in the country, but Doodle couldn't tolerate any girl who didn't appreciate his sense of humor. He ended his relationship with Molly late one night on a beach when she told Doodle that her sister had busted a te):lflis racket over her head, and Doodle didn't stop laughing until she threw a beer bottle at his ear and knocked him into the lake. When Doodle woke up he saw Molly crying in a car with his best friend. Doodle called to her. He smiled as she came over, stood silently beside him and kicked him in the other ear. Doodle never told his parents about what happened that night. He loved Molly too much for that. It was late the next day before Doodle managed to get home. His best friend had taken Doodle's car and Molly home. It was easier explaining the ears than the car. Doodle's parents listened to his story and said that their son had done no wrong. Doodle lost his car forrwo weeks. When Doodle regained his hearing and his car, he decided to join a combo and get a new girl friend. He had played in a saxophone quartet in junior high school and later he had carried amplifiers for the kids who played in the lot behind his house. Doodle's father liked to 5 �listen to their music while he was painting the house and wanted Doodle to join the combo. But Doodle just talked about the group he used to play with. It was a great life for Doodle Staus. Everyone knew that he wanted to organize a new group, but no one that Doodle talked to (and Doodle was very careful about whom he talked to) wanted to join a combo. It was really great when no one else wanted to be in a rock combo. If someone did ask about joining, Doodle started talking about the group that he used to play with and how great it was, but he didn't like the guys. Everyone was so impressed by Doodle's old group that no one wanted to be embarrassed by joining a combo led by someone as famous and talented as Doodle Staus. None of the girls would go out with Doodle; they thought he was queer because he laughed all of the time. Doodle was nearly destroyed by his cousin Sandy who was a little odd and wanted to impress the girls by being in a combo. Sandy was the first person Doodle saw when he got his car back after his former best friend had taken Molly home. Sandy was also the only person who would ride around with Doodle and go to the drive-in to get hamburgers and hustle the girls. The trouble came when Sandy heard that Doodle wanted to form a new combo. Sandy had carried amplifiers for a combo and knew every song in "How to Learn to Play the Guitar in Thirty Minutes" and was very proud that he knew a kid who could play two hundred chords without looking them up and who wanted to be in a combo. Sandy also made every kid he knew join the combo. It was a great group. It lasted two weeks and never had a playing gig. Doodle played Marty's bass. He had never played a bass guitar before but everyone said that he learned real quick and no one minded paying for the strings that he busted - and Marty made them pay for because Doodle had a big car and none of them could play any better than Doodle, which pleased him tremendously. Doodle never said anything while he was playing except "How do you play this?" and once in a while he talked to the girls who came over to Bryce's house to watch them. The group wasn't organized. They didn't need two rhythm guitarists. Patrick could play real well, but Sandy had a car and they didn't want to say anything to him. No one sang, but once in a while the trumpet player, who told everyone that he could play the organ even though no one believed him, would try to sing. He made funny faces and wasn't too bad at "Hey, little girl, can I carry your 6 �• balloon?" but he didn't know the rest of the words and no one knew the chords ~ they didn't play that one. Marty, who owned the bass guitar that Doodle played, was the lead guitarist which meant that he only played three or four bars during a whole song because the group had two rhythm guitarists and no one likes a lead guitarist who starts faking it. Eventually Marty bought a . folk guitar and quit the group. He sat at home, staring out the window, :strumming his folk guitar, writing adds to the paper trying to sell the guitar so he could buy a car. Marty was the first one to quit the group. Of course everyone hated Marty, but no one paid any attention to what Stanley did except for Doodle who had to play bass lines on his saxophone when Marty took his bass home and wouldn't talk to him, which wrecked the group because no one knew how to tune the guitars to the saxophone and Doodle didn't like transposing every line. No one could hear him anyway so it didn't matter. When Sandy blew the radiator on his '61 Plymouth while driving up a hill in the cemetery at Jackson with four kids on the hood the group no longer had two rhythm guitarists; they kicked Sandy out, which didn't hurt any feelings, except Sandy'S, who went over to Marty's house and looked at Marty's new guitar a lot. No one wanted to tell Sandy that he couldn't play in the group anymore so they just quit telling him where they practiced. Sandy came tp a couple of them anyway, but everyone threatened to hit him if he didn't leave so Sandy would go to the drive-in and get a hamburger and try to hustle the girls. Usually half of the group would be at the drive-in so there was always someone to talk to. When Sandy's car blew up, Doodle was the only one who had a car. When the group wanted to go out, everyone gave him a quarter (one kid owed him $3.75 but no one said anything about it) and the guys would go out looking for girls. It was hard to find seven girls in one car who wanted to go up to Jackson and look at a cemetery. One night they made two girls go with them. That was the night Sandy blew up the '61 Plymouth (with Doodle and Bryce and the two girls on the hood) while he was trying to get around the corner at the top of the hill in the cemetery at Jackson. Maybe that doesn't count since Sandy was the only guy kicked out of the group, but Sandy always said that he had a right to be in the group because he knew every song in "How to Learn to Play the Guitar in Thirty Minutes" and owned half the microphone which no one used except the trumpet player, and Doodle when 7 �he played the saxophone. One day Doodle found a song called "Melody for an Unknown Girl" ift a music book that someone had brought along. He played it on the saxophone and no one said anything; they just sat there and looked at him. It was the only song anyone in the group could do. It was beautiful. When Doodle's father heard what had happened to Sandy's car, he took Doodle's keys away. It didn't matter though, because by then everyone except Sandy and Marty had joined a new group. The new group wanted Doodle to carry amplifiers for them, but without a car there wasn't much he could do. Everyone quit the new group when Doodle got his car back and started going up to Jackson, except Marty and Sandy who rode around in Sandy's '61 Plymouth looking for girls. Marty sold his folk guitar to Sandy and bought a '57 Chevy that didn't have any tires and he sat at home looking at his car, reading the paper, and looking for a set of tires. Finally, Marty bought four tires from Sandy who sold his '61 Plymouth to Doodle's neighbor who no longer had a combo and wanted to ride around with the guys, but everyone knew he had bad breath and no one wanted to ride with him. Patrick, who played rhythm guitar, was the first to get a girl friend. She was ugly, but no one else had a girl so she was the sweetheart of their rose patch, which is why Patrick was conceited about the whole thing, and why Doodle hated him. One Sunday, Sandy and Patrick pushed Doodle in the river and jumped on him. They didn't tell anyone that Doodle was turning purple and making funny bubbles until Sandy's dad asked them why they were sitting in the water like that and where Doodle was and then made them come out. When Doodle quit choking and got on his feet he hit both of them in the mouth, but no one said anything about it, except Patrick and Sandy who wouldn't go riding with him anymore. Patrick, who didn't have a car, wanted Marty to go to the drive-in with him and his ugly girl. Marty couldn't find a girl so he asked Doodle to come along with his car and jumper cables to start the '57 Chevy because Marty couldn't afford a good battery and didn't want to go too far without someone along who had one. Besides, Doodle was the only one old enough to buy beer. Doodle, being honest and devoted to his father who told him never to start anyone else's car because "You're going to wreck the god-damn 8 �alternator and I ain't goin' to get a new one" and was six-four barefoot, refused, saying that everyone who wanted to go could get in one car. Besides, Doodle knew that the girl let Patrick take off her clothes, and he wanted to watch. Patrick didn't want to go in Doodle's car. He wanted to be alone with his girl friend in Stanley's '57 Chevy, and called Doodle a squirrel. Doodle, who was nobody's fool, hit Patrick in the mouth. Marty and Doodle found Sandy and went to the drive-in. The group seemed to be breaking up. Everyone hated Doodle, except when Marty wasn't around and his car wasn't working, and Doodle hated everyone except the girl who went to the drive-in with him and loved Doodle for hitting Patrick when he bothered them. Patrick told everyone that he knew karate and was going to break Doodle's arm, which didn't bother Doodle, whose former best friend was a Golden Gloves boxer and had taught Doodle everything he knew about boxing and threatened to have Doodle arrested if he didn't stop bothering Molly. No one knew where the trumpet player went to. Marty was always in his '57 Chevy at the drive-in hustling girls with Sandy, and Patrick wouldn't talk to any of them, especially Doodle, who said that he was going to kill Patrick. Bryce, the little drummer, was the only guy who liked Doodle. Karen loved Bryce and told everyone that she was his girl friend. Bryce was a stoic teenager. Even when Marty pushed Karen's mother into the cop and poured wine down her pants, Bryce didn't laugh. Of course Bryce was in love with Karen's mother and mad at Marty for being drunk and trying to take her clothes off. Everything was fine until Marty started leading Karen's mother down the stairs by her bra straps. Bryce left Karen (who was the group's new sweetheart and the object of anyone's affection) sitting on a warm six-pack and ran down the street, waving Karen's panties. Doodle never made fun of people if they enjoyed what they were doing. Coke Pennington and her boy friend took pictures with a Polaroid and Bow-Wow Bengford was caught behind Chicken Delight, which was stupid because no one would have said anything if she had stayed in the house with the Doberman; it's all a matter of taste. Jeff was Doodle's cousin. Bryce could never understand why, because they looked alike and would have been twins if Jeff hadn't been three inches taller and thirty pounds lighter. Doodle called Bryce's brother Cousin Brucie (which bothered Bryce because he didn't know any cousin 9 �named Brucie although he did have a brother named Bruce who was stupid and didn't care what anyone called him as long as it wasn't mean or nasty or offensive to his mother). Everyone was happy. Jeff got along quite well with Brucie and Bryce when they went riding with Doodle. Bryce and Brucie knew Jeff, which made Doodle feel better because Jeff never talked to strangers and very few people that he knew had ever heard him talk to anyone. Doodle heard Jeff talk to one stranger. That was the theatre manager who wouldn't let them in to see the dirty movies. Cousin Brucie was dumb. He was the only kid Doodle knew who flunked driver's education twice; but he could beat Doodle playing chess. Brucie always wanted Doodle to come over and play chess but Doodle didn't like losing and Brucie didn't have a car so he didn't have to play. Doodle liked to have Brucie along when they went to Jackson, though, because Brucie knew the twins who lived behind the church and would go riding with anyone as long as Cousin Brucie was in the car. He had a way with the twins, who were with Bryce and Doodle when Sandy's '61 Plymouth blew up; Brucie was in the back with Marty. One evening Doodle went over to a kid's house to get Bryce and Brucie. The new group was practicing in the basement and Bryce drummed. Brucie carried amplifiers. The kid who owned the house had carried amplifiers around for the old group until his dad gave him a five-hundred dollar Guild Double Starfire arch-top cut-away with twinanti-hum-magnetic pick-ups and Bigsby tailpiece for his birthday. He started the new group and wouldn't let Sandy or Marty join. The kid who owned the Guild guitar always called Doodle before a gig, though, because he remembered Doodle had a neat car and knew that the kid owed him $3.75 and needed the money. Bryce and Brucie left in Doodle's car. The kid who owned the Guild guitar went with them because Doodle knew that he had fifty cents. They found Marty and Sandy with the rest of the guys in Marty'S '57 Chevy, which had four bald tires on it. They sat at the drive-in eating hamburgers and wondering why there weren't any girls around on a nice night. Sandy had a bottle of wine, and started yelling at Doodle and calling everyone a pervert. The owner of the drive-in asked them all to leave; he wouldn't have been so mad if Marty hadn't run over a trash can and set it on fire. They parked behind the church and finished the hamburgers. Sandy w.as still upset about the trash can. He told Doodle that he could hustle 10 �• a girl quicker than Doodle could and Marty bet Doodle that he could get a girl to go riding around. The kid who had the Guild guitar and fifty cents left with Marty. Doodle kept the fifty cents. Doodle circled the block and went to the twins' house. They were out with their boyfiends so Doodle headed for Karen's house. Marty was leaving just as they got there. Marty didn't have any luck with Karen's mother who wanted to go out but her husband said no, and Karen wasn't going anywhere without her mother along, especially with Bryce, who was the only guy she didn't like because he kept her panties beneath his bed and showed them to all of his friends. Doodle went to Cousin Jeff's house because he had seven sisters, which was a surprise to Uncle Joe who said that no woman would ever get his money. Only the twins were home and Bryce thought that eightyear-olds might not count. Steve wanted to show up Sandy, even if Sandy was Doodle's cousin and not his, but Jeff was Doodle's cousin too, and Jeff didn't know Sandy that well. Jeff put on his sister's wig. Doodle thought that he could wear something more than aT-shirt but there wasn't time for that. Jeff was cute with a wig on, some might have said that he was beautiful, but no one did because they didn't want anyone to think that they were queer. They found Marty's car parked in front of the church, and pulled in front of it away from the street lights. When the others came running over Bryce yelled "wee got a girl!" Doodle left. Marty sprained his wrist trying to hold onto the door handle but Doodle lost him on a hard turn around a corner. He was yelling when they left so Doodle figured Marty wasn't hurt too bad. Doodle's car won by default when Marty couldn't get his started and everyone had to walk home. It wasn't late when they left Marty on the corner. Jeff wanted to go to Jackson and drive through the cemetery. Doodle went past the church and headed for Jackson after he bought fifty cents worth of gas. Doodle played race-car driver on the corners, spinning around on the banked graveL Everyone hid under the seats and hit him, but he just laughed. He knew the back road to Jackson. He felt every bump, every corner. He memorized every house, every long stretch that he could park on if he had a girl with him. It was a great road to Jackson. Bryce and Jeff sat in the back seat, putting on the wig and laughing at each other. Cousin Brucie sat in the front seat watching Doodle drive. No one cared about four nice guys driving down a country road, not even the pig Doodle killed. 11 �The pig was waltlng for them along the road. Doodle saw him first. Brucie never saw the pig, even when Doodle had pushed him into the ditch. Jeff and Bryce saw the pig come out onto the road and run toward the car. It was the pig's fault. If he hadn't stuck his face in front of the car, Doodle wouldn't have hit him like that. The car spun down the road for a long while before Doodle could stop. Doodle didn't want to go back but Jeff and Bryce thought that it would be neat to look at the pig and, anyway, they would be in more trouble if they just left him lying there. Brucie was asking why everyone was so excited and why Doodle looked so silly. Bryce and Jeff sat on the trunk and rode back to where the pig was rolling around in the ditch, making funny sounds and spinning his eyeballs. Bryce said that it was neat but Doodle wouldn't get out of the car until the pig was dead or went away. Jeff wanted to put the pig in the trunk and take him home but Doodle made them get in the car so he could leave before the farmer came along and shot all of them for killing his pig. They went down to Jackson, saw the cemetery, and came back on the same road. The pig was dead. Doodle never told his parents about what happened that night. He loved the pig too much for that. 12 �TERRY WRIGHT BEFORE THE WINDOW thinking back we havent had a word all day long have i waited for you before the window to see you coming my way and imagine what a simple wretch like me could be the way the words sound i could listen all day 13 �SUNSHADE growing on the lawn tree back to back cultivating a smile thinking a thought im doing nothing carving my name on my shoesole and wondering past a walk in the morning occasional greetings familiar faces 14 �THE WIND ON TUESDAY NIGHT the ice dances and crawls along the field in my window i sense the wind making conversation to my pencil as i scrawl out a poem that it reads aloud 15 �UNTITLED a sleepy lean on the crutch of recovery getting well again i guess my past is past and over and over at last i finally have known i dont need the high now just you eating away my mold old time fire happier rhymes you tell me so 16 �LINDA BITIMAN �LINDA BrITMAN �LINDA KANGAL BIRTH RITE At the hospital the pains seem to have stopped. I stand looking at the double-barreled doors. Maybe this is not the time, maybe it will wait till Rob gets home, but he said to go on no matter what, especially if he is not here. The hospital doors open with a sucking noise, hitting against the suitcase. I stand in the lobby holding the coat together where it won't button in front, looking at a statue saint with plastic flowers stuck in its feet. A janitor turns to stare. Dim lights pin prick the pool around his mop and my shoes track the wet linoleum. The elevator jolts into place, doors slicing the air with light. I can feel the weight between my legs. A blood red carpet pushes me up with the flashing floor numbers. The sudden stop pulls me against doors that tear open into a gray hall and splice shut behind me. The nurse is talking into a phone clamped against her neck. The ward caves back to each side of the glass light booth where she is sitting. Her fingernails move, perfectly shaped and polished, across the page. She clicks the receiver into place and the pen, uninterrupted, neatly loops along the line. An intercom echoes down the hall. When she looks up her eyes are grey slate, staring through me, pressing me into the tile walls. Then .the eyes look down again and the pen, momentarily halted, 19 �continues under the gleaming oval nails. The baby seems to shrink inside me. Rob says they have to pay attention, I'm sure they would listen to him. Suddenly the pain surges against my legs, and biting my lower lip, I step to the front of the desk. Her hand, raised palm flat, stops me; the other continues to loop across the page in slow precise movements. The suitcase pulls my arm, my body wrenches itself from the burning pain, and the pen moves soundlessly forward. What if she never speaks to me? I can't think how to stop the writing. From the room behind the desk, laughter spurts into the silence and fades into the walls. The chart snaps shut and she looks up at me, "May I help you?" Maybe this isn't the maternity ward. She says it like she doesn't know what I'm here for. The tip of her thump clicks the pen: point up, point down. ''I'm going to have my baby. My husband is out of town." The bulb above her head flickers like it's going to burn out soon, flashing a second into slow motion. She sits there clicking her pen and asking questions, impatient for the answers. The pain is coming again, my eyes start to burn. From the next room a bottle cap clicks into place, and the murmuring stops. A fat nurse nudges the back of my knees with a wheelchair. I feel the hospital closing in on me. The nurses watch with efficient impatience while my burnt out mouth struggles with the words. The big nurse has her arms folded. The neat one behind the desk is clicking her pen, waiting. "Take her to labor four, she's four minutes apart." The hall is fuzzy now with the grey flannel pain creeping up between my legs. "My husband, Bob .." The small nurse's face floats under the lights, pen clicking insistently: "You don't have to bother calling him, I mean, I left word at his office." Silly, they don't have time to bother finding Rob, they must think I am stupid. I breathe letting the pain take over crawling up inch by inch, feeling myself fade back into the wheelchair. I am in a stall-sized white steel room with the heavy nurse undressing me, scraping the cloth against my skin. I watch her hang up the clothes, the underwear and slacks neatly hidden by the maternity tent top. A woman's moan drifts through the hall with the smell of alcohol, pulsated by the pumped tones of an ambulance somewhere below. A straight chair stands in the corner. Bob should sit there, or maybe pull it close to hold my hand. There are too many decisions to make alone. The pain creeps up hard and the chair stands empty: doubles, buckling, rolling away, and snapping back. 20 �I am in a stall watching my father deliver a calf. The smell of blood clings as the skin rips open; the skeletal calf's head is covered with mucus. Shrieking animal squeals seem to fall and lay with the heavy stench in the thick straw. The pain pounds at my stomach; and I come up gasping for air; smelling the pustuous blood, feeling liquid spreading between my legs. "Your water broke, calm down now honey." The small nurse is standing beside me, her hand coming out from under the sheet. She wraps the blood pressure band around my arm and pumps it tight. The room writhes in smell and scream; and she, smiling, pumps the rubber bulb murmuring about the rain. The sandpaper catch of the band rips my arm as her hand feels along my belly like a woman stopping for tomatoes. The pain shoots up my body and I remember they knock out the animal sometimes. She watches, her eyes darting from my heaving bulk to the watch strapped to the back of her wrist. The punctured tile ceiling floats down like a coffin, its iced neon tubes boxing me in. "Breathe deep now." She gazes out the window, one hand resting on me. The pain backs slowly down into my body and I hear her nylons rasp together as she leaves the room. Outside, cars slither past the hospital on the wet pavement. It seems strange, those cars passing this second, probably not even glancing up at the windows. Every Sunday Rob and I drive by, "This is where our baby is going to be born." And inside I am alone. The clock clicks a notch. Driving out there, they probably don't know what time it is. Here, seven o'clock is three minutes past the white hot pain climbing up the side of the bed, pushing across my belly. My own moaning caught somewhere, sounding far away beneath the large round white clock, like an eye so big it can not see the writhing below. Coming out I can't remember, short pants or deep gasps. Frantic, I alternate; that is important, they won't like my doing it wrong. I reach for the buzzer to ask, but they are in the hall now, talking hard, fast, with bored voices that rest in the back of their throats. People that know what to do, their fingertips boxing in each action. I drop the buzzer letting it clank against the bars of the bed. The clock clicks another three minutes, the second hand moving like it measures something bigger than just seconds. The window reflection frames the big nurse coming in with a razor and basin. Her large face is blank as she throws back the sheet. "Now the fun part, I'm going to prep you." I want to tell her the shade is up, ask if anyone can see in, but the 21 �razor claws cold and slow between my legs and her face bulges, ·intense. Her lips are pursed like she's shaving a face. "What do you want a boyar a girl?" "I don't care." And her working down there calm as a barber. The pain comes again, a burning molten pushing. The razor stops as I twist to grab the steel bars holding me inside the bed, thinking how the bars should be Rob and trying not to cry. All the baby blankets are pink but now I don't care. Layers of hot pain press in. It is Christmas, my cousin and I are lying on the floor, looking up the full skirts as they pass by. The tight garments girdle the doughy, garter-gripped flesh. One aunt has her period. The blood is staining in a red widening circle. She puts her foot down hard on my stomach, her red mouth wide as the red circle between her legs. Her face grows larger, redder as she presses hard; caught mid-laugh, I gaze into the deep pool of black-red blood that turns slowly into the clammy face of the big nurse with razor poised. The clawing starts again between my legs. The fat face smiles like at a small child or dog. "That was a good one, won't be long now." With each scrape she wipes the razor clean and dips It tOto the basin. The pain is coming fast like a cat going down a mountain and its hind going faster, clawing for a foothold. "Just breathe easy, honey. We have to get this finished." The flat face closes in, like when a camera gets too close, and the features distort. The nose bulges out, and the eyes double and swim in pillows of crow-footed fat. People stare like that, straight at your stomach, not even looking into your eyes, like you must have done something dirty. Bob says it is my imagination, anyway they don't start when I'm with him. The pain comes off slow now, mounted like a fighting cat clawing at my sides for a hold. The nurse's hand is coming out. "Cervix at five, keep breathing deep." Maybe Rob has called, but I don't want to ask. They talk over me like I'm unconscious. "She's at five, call the doctor again." The pain is bad now, clawing and scratching its way, hanging on, pushing like you can't ever shake it. Gripping like a mountain cat climbing a rock wall, digging in with sharp claws and you keep waiting for it to loose its grip, to fall off. And it keeps coming like it can pull stone apart and it doesn't matter anymore what is happening. The numbers 22 �blur on the clock staring above my struggling body like an eye preoccupied. I can feel the small nurse, her crepe sales gripping the floor. The alcohol drenched cotton stings cold on my arm, then the needle is pumping into my blood, and I wait for the skillet pain to ease with her hand in me. Her face not even following the hand but staring at the sheet as if it were not there. Her fingers probe higher into the white hot inside. I fight. And her face like she is squeezing blood from meat patties. Her voice cuts through sheets of pain. Breathe deep, it is important she know that I am trying. I can hear my voice, separate floating around the ceiling, echoing back at me Rob's name. The room is filled with a colorless smoke that snarls and twists, taking away my breath. And above it all is the cyclops eye notching a minute a second, and me twisting alone below with the smoke and the cat grip pain. Now the clock slips away and I move into a cold white-light corridor across a slippery wax smell, the pain battering fast. From all around great circles of colored light spill and mingle with the steel reflection in blinding pain that reaches me through my eyelids, and I not caring anymore who hears. The steel room shouts back the voices, magnifies the colored pain. They are pushing me now, making me climb on to the iron cold table. Moving myself into the leather bindings, pushing down the cold iron, my legs splayed and bound. Moving into it as if wanting it, and all the time thinking if I could just stop now, stop all the pain. Thrusting my body down towards the masked doctor and the white table of instruments, and pulling back with the pain. A mask covers my face, pushing a gas up where the breath should come out, a sweet gas that sticks like honey to the breathing. The pain cone-tips thrust from pin point swirling louder, surging redder, bursting in color then receding and coming again with the sound like a gauze holding my brain back from the knowing. Instructions fall behind gauze, distant but loud, caught in a whirlpool of noise color and the far off anger of life and fighting the gauze now not caring what is beyond. And somehow through the directions filtering the gauze, a vibrating, buzzing going louder. A screaming, threatening spiral of color and noise bursts into my vision like blinding fireworks seen through a gauze felt pad. Fighting the blade-red, blind-red, black-red; that sweet sucking pain is gone. Sodden and inert like a tired swimmer treading water, and the circles through the mirrored steel and the sweet swirling fog. 23 �A baby is crying. The cry eddies around me like a stream rippling a single rock. I hear the nurses. "What is it?" "I can't see." "A boy." The doCtor's voice now, "You have a nice boy here." And I am opening my eyes to the blinding glare. Single. Alone. "You've got another patient out here, doctor. Heinz." "I don't have any Heinz. What does she look like?" "Spe's dilated to three. What do you want to do with her? The baby has quit crying. Babies always cry. Something is wrong, they have forgotten the baby. I watch the needle go in and out. I hear the nurses mumbling behind the doctor. "Put her in labor, you say it's Heinz? " The nurses are quiet, if something is wrong they won't tell me, they will wait for Rob to know first. Suddenly my voice is asking loud about the baby, and the nurse is putting him down beside me, apologizing. tAnd the baby is looking through a mirror my own face there starting again on a baby and I alone and the needle is dim now glazed and the baby is alone and together we lie on the steel table. A gray silk dawn slips in and out of my consciousness like satin folded sheets. The cyclops eye ticks its numbers. It is all over. My body lies silent and numb, consciously still. The pillowcase crackles as I move my head toward the brown buzzer, warm and moist in my hand. I did it alone, the nurses come now when I ring the buzzer. Silently I watch the window-framed light creep around the building corner. I think back again of the blood-stained baby lying on me and look down the bed past my stomach that is gone. Rob has not come yet and the aloneness feels good. I push the buzzer again. A different nurse comes into the room, her uniform swinging fiercely with her stride." We're awake now I see. What did you have?" She begins kneading my stomach, pushing liquid pain out between the legs. Her short stubby frame barely reaches over the rails of the bed. "Sorry honey, I've got to do this." Her face is red and her corset side brushes steel against my breast. It isn't visiting hours, but when I ask she says she'll bring the baby out. She bustles out of the room, her shorr legs pumping. The shadows are pushing back into the corners now, the sun's early haze shines through the mist outside. I can see the baby, they have saved nothing to tell my 24 �husband, nothing I can't know first. Concentrating, I wiggle my toes. The sun goes and comes with the sleep slipping in and out of my consciousness. Warm waves of confidence come. Rob didn't want to leave, he was sure I couldn't handle it alone. Rolling over I face the sunlight and the window and the day my baby was born. Out in the hall someone is talking; slowly the sound comes through the sun waves like the shadow of a spiked pole. The short square nurse comes rushing in pulling the blinds till the sun is slatted with shadow. She says my husband is here; the baby will have to wait. And I hear Rob in the hall talking to the doctor. 25 �J. CHANDLER ROUGH Sifting through the ruins of a recent party; napkins under glasses filled with wine made watery from melted ice, covering up the rings on the table, filled ashtrays and empty cigarette packages crumpled and then tossed aside, the empty punchbowl looking meaningless. I came across cigarette butts thrown joylessly into old drinks to be extinguished by the ice and wine. I found one with your lipstick 10 a ring around the filter. I tried to relight it. 26 �/ LYN MUNHALL FLOWERHEADS SEEMED TO BECKON ME OUT OF MYSELF And I think of roses, roses White and red, in the wide six-hundred-foot greenhouses, And my father standing astride the cement benches, Lifting me high over the four·foot stems, the M1'S. Russels, and his own elaborate hybrids, And how those flowerheads seemed to flow toward me, to beckon me, only a child, out of myself. As Theodore Roethke observed his father's flowers in their struggle to put down roots and grow, he recognized in himself the same needs of his soul for growth. Just as a seed has to break through the ground, pushing upward for light and downward for strong roots to balance growth toward that light, so Roethke had to break loose from a self that was superficial, pushing painfully ahead to identify the light that was guiding him, after painfully delving inward to meet the soul of who he had been and is. Appearing throughout his poetry is the same theme of renewing his union with a soul that must keep growing and changing. With each new phase of his poetic career, Roethke added some new element to his concept of self and the soul's growth, but his whole theory has as its basis the analogies embedded in Roethke as a child, those between the 27 �growth of a flower and the growth of his soul. Evidences of his early analogies can be found in the sequence "The Lost Son," where Roethke draws on the imagery found in "Moss Gatherer," "Flower Dump," "Root Cellar," and various others to portray a charact~r who goes through a nightmarish trauma trying to find exactly who he is. The similarity of these poems lies in the title, "The Lost Son," in which "lost son" conveys both the idea of being lost to the familiar world and the idea of being lost to light, the sun. Just as a plant which Ceases to grow and is prematurely held on one level is lost to the natural · order of the world, so is the boy who suddenly discovers that his soul is not growing. In fact, he discovers that he does not even know his own soul, what it has been, is now, or in what direction it is or should be moving. The plants have lost their sunlight and he has lost the light that guides his soul. He has run away from someone or something, perhaps even the thought that he does not fit in with his old world. The mood of "The Lost Son's" first section, "The Flight," is pensive to the extreme of blocking out all but what he is thinking. The slam of an iron gate has no more of an effect than to lull him. His thoughts color everything until he sees even the leaves scorning him. "All the leaves stuck out their tongues." Having some self-control left, he forces his frail self forward. I shook the softening chalk of my bones, Saying, Snail, snail, glister me forward, Bird, soft-sigh me home. The two-fold appeal for help is significant to depict his knowledge of his own situation. He would prefer a gentle bird to wish himself back home but knows that the only way forward is through the dark, slow path of earth's lowly creatures. "Worm be with me. This is my hard time." He and the worm have something in common. The worm by nature crawls through the earth's roots, and he must crawl through the roots of what he has been before finding what he is or can be. Away from life as he superficially knew it, he finds himself in both a physical and mental condition of decay and rubbish. What was his soul a day earlier he now saw as debris and searched through it to find the salvages of his soul for tomorrow: Running lightly over spongy ground, 28 �.. , .. r Hunting along the river, Down among the rubbish, the bug-riddled foliage, By the muddy pond,.. edge, by the bog holes, By the shrunken lake, hunting in the heat of summer. The motif of decay found here is an echo of a similar image found in 'Flower Dump," in which Roethke sees "Cannas shiny as slag, / Slug-soft stems, / Whole beds of bloom pitched on a pile, / Carnations, verbenas, cosmos, / Molds, weeds, dead leaves." Even the idea of a transition between two worlds is strong in this poem, for the dirt around old roots clings to the same shape it had in the flower pot. Everything on the heap is limp except a single tulip that swaggers "Over the dying, the newly dead." The boy in "The Lost Son" is in some ways this tulip. He is between two worlds, clinging to the old yet realizing the cold, dark, forward path is the one that must be taken. Section two, "The Pit," relates the wildly diverse searchings of the boy's mind as he contemplates the long journey ahead. His thoughts dart from his "roots," to the glimmer of "light" that exists in him, to his yet "slimy existence." Already, he has progressed toward the light he seeks by abandoning the hope of answers coming mystically from nature. He aks himself, "Where do the roots go?" and his answer is very literal, "Look down under the leaves." He must look under his surface and hunt for the beginnings of his soul, weeding out the superficial and cultivating the seeds of his life. Under his superficiality he finds moss, symbolizing an outgrowth of his soul, anchored to his roots. He recognizes that the moss is good but wonders what quality of the moss renders it good. A similar pondering can be found in "Moss-Gathering," in which Roethke relates a story of his childhood, saying: And afterward (after gathering the moss) I always felt mean, jogging back over the logging road, As if I had broken the natural order of things in that swampland; Disturbed some rhythm, old and of vast importance, By pulling off flesh from the living planet; As if I had committed, against the whole scheme of life, a desecration. Also under the leaves the boy finds stones, which he sensed had been there too long. By asking the question: "Who stunned the dirt into noise?" the lost son tells us that he cannot comprehend the light that 29 �guides him to leave the moss and move the stones. He answers his question by way of another, "Ask the mole, he knows." The lost son knows in the same way that a mole does, sensing things as he searches and tunnels through the earth of his soul. Like a mole, he tunnels without the ability to see light yet like the roots of a plant, he strives to grow toward that sunlight. The next line, "I feel the slime of a wet nest," repeats the motif of decay. Nests are not empty, nor do they rot until the birds have flown away to another world. So it is for the lost son. His soul is separated from himself; it has flown away and he is left in the wet slime of what remains, left to his own interrogations and accusations. His questions are the only "feelers" he can put out to discover the path toward light, toward identity with his soul. This imagery of questions as "feelers" is similar to the imagery of "Root Cellar," which depicts flowers shut away from both light and the earth: Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch, Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark , Shoots dangled and drooped, Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates, Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakeJ. The questions of the boy are the "shoots dangled and drooped," of the plants. Both can be viewed as obscene for both of their situations are repelling to our concept of natural life. Life seen in such darkness is viewed as aborted because darkness is equated with evil rather than with the natural journey to light. Both the plants and the lost son are deprived not only of the light but also of the earth. Natural growth could not be continued by either of them, for in one case, the essentials of life were not available and in the other, they were hidden from sight. The plants sent out roots to anchor themselves for growth toward light, and shoots to determine where the light was, but to no avail. They rotted while yet alive. "Roots ripe as old bait, / Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich, / Leaf mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks." Roethke's lost son is experiencing the same rotting within himself, as mentioned previously, in the same effort to anchor himself. The roots of knowing his past soul are essential to grow toward the light of knowing his present soul. He is not giving up life, as the flowers are not, "Nothing would give up life: / Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath." As suggested by the term "silo-rich," his rotting mistaken concept of self will provide nourishment 30 �for the growth he is seeking. His questions do lead him away from his original darkness, but not toward any light he can recognize. Like the ". . . one tulip on top, / (with) swaggering head / Over the dying, the newly dead," the lost son is steadily dying to the world he has known yet he is not alive to the next. Caught between two worlds, he is, as the title of section three suggests, "The Gibber," a babbler bewailing his plight. Neither the sun, which is the light of knowing himself, nor the moon, the glimmer of light within those not knowing themselves, will accept him. "The sun was against me, / The moon would not have me." Not only does the darkness blind him to what is ahead, it blinds him to the progress he has made to reach his present point. Our clue that the lost son has progressed toward sunlight is found in the shapes which form in the darkness. They are only shapes, however, with no recognizable purpose. "What gliding shape / Beckoning through halls, / Stood poised on the stair, / Fell dreamily down?" He cannot depend upon anything, not even recognition of what stage of growth he is in. "Is this the storm's heart? The ground is unstilling itself. / . . . Is the seed leaving the old bed? These buds are live as birds." It would seem to him that the buds he sends out are alive and ready to take flight but , he is frustratingly unsure. Considering himself worse off than before he started the journey through darkness, he drowns himself in self-pity and angrily seeks to go back: Where, where are the tears of the world? Let the kisses resound, flat like a butcher's palm; Let the gestures freeze; our doom is already decided. All the windows are burning! What's left of my life? I want the old rage, the lash of primordial milk! All of his senses are burning with new awareness and with the frustration of being too slow to catch the other sensations that fly by. "These sweeps of light undo me. / . . . . . . . . / Kiss me, ashes, I'm falling through a dark swirl." The sun at last shines fully on the lost son and he returns to his father's greenhouse. The greenhouse is not only the place of his childhood but also a place of constant growth, and of his first musings of self. When he had first determined that his soul was not growing, he had felt compelled to leave the greenhouse. Now that he has seen the light of his soul, he is capable of growing to meet the light as a flower and can return there. Though the lost son now walks in the sunlight of self- 31 �identity, there are still cinders to walk through, hot ashes of his past self. The cinders are the old flower smells he once enjoyed, the sights that greeted his eyes in past days, and the memories of those days before he lost the sun. They will burn him like his senses were burned with yesterday's "new awarenesses." The sights and sounds of returning are painful because they are part of the roots of his soul, the part which demanded painful tunneling and groping. Knowing that his old world must be a part of the new, he struggles through the cinders, careful not to slip backward, accepting the old memories of pain and disatisfaction which reemerge, and reconciling them to his new identity. The link between growth of a soul and growth of a flower is more apparent in "The Return" than in any other section of "The Lost Son." Roethke reechoes the struggles for life in darkness found in "Root Cellar" in the lines, "The roses kept breathing in the dark. They had many mouths to breathe with," but there is an important distinction. The one of this section is reflective of his experiences rather than anguish-wrought. In fact, his reflections reveal that he has known all along what darkness is like and how the light comes. As a child he once stayed overnight in the greenhouse. He remembers, "There was always a single light / Swinging by the fire-pit, / Where the fireman pulled out roses." Looking back on his dark journey, he finds that there was also always a single light to be seen through the darkness then. The darkness was lifted in both the greenhouse and in the lost son as: The light in the morning came slowly over the white Snow. There were many kinds of cool Ai?'. Then came steam. Pipe-knock. Scurry of warm over small plant. The steam that shivered the plants into motion can be likened to the angry boiling of emotion in the lost son when he is frustratingly caught between the two worlds, able to catch only "sweeps of light . . . through a dark swirl." The child in the greenhouse must also have noticed similar sweeps of light as the dawn approached, glancing briefly from the plants which held his child's fascination while: A fine haze moved off the leaves; 32 �Frost melted on far panes; The rose, the chrysanthemum turned toward the light. Even the hushed forms , the bent yellowy weeds Moved in a slow up-sway. So too has a fine haze been removed from the lost son and his questions have melted the frost until he can see clearly the sunlight of his soul. Together with the rose, the chrysanthemum, and even "the hushed forms," he has turned toward this light, moving in "a slow up-sway." Roethke does not stop at this single level of self-recognition, however. The flowers rising toward the light in "The Return" become "The bones of weeds . . . swinging in the wind" in the concluding section of "The Lost Son," "It was beginning winter." Literally, this last section is obscure. With a background in Roethke's analogies of flowers and man, however, it is evident that he sees relations as significant between weeds and man as he does between flowers and man. Thus, this section adds considerably to portray Roethke's total view of man's ability to know his soul. To Roethke, despite a man's once standing in the light, he is always at a frozen, dead period of his life, a winter, never completely knowing his soul, because his soul is always changing. He is always at a time of "beginning winter, / An in between time, / The landspace still partly brown." He is ". . . the dry seed-crowns, / The beautiful surviving bones / Swinging in the wind." Of course, he is still able to see light, "The light moved slowly over the frozen field;' but if he depends upon the same beams to keep shining upon him, his soul will flyaway unnoticed: Light trcweled over the wide field; Stayed. The weeds stopped swinging. The mind moved, not alone, Through the clear air, in the silence. The need Theodore Roethke saw for a man to grow in the light of his soul is beautifully stated in the last lines of "It was beginning winter." He ponders the growing process, saying, "Was it ... stillness becoming alive, / Yet still?" and concludes that man can do nothing to keep his soul pinpointed but can only be aware that one morning it will be gone. As flowers basking in the sunlight, man is only aware of his growth when the light has slipped away. Then he must struggle for the right to grow again, sending "feelers" down into himself to establish the roots of what he was and upward to identify that faraway .light. Light is life for 33 �flowers and for man, always beautiful no matter what the struggle. It is: A lively understandable spirit (that) Once entertained you. It will come again. Be still. Wait. With such a philosophy of hope, it IS not surprising to read Roethke's words: And I think of roses, roses White and red, in the wide six-hundred-foot greenhouses, And my father standing astride the cement benches, Lifting me high over the four-foot stems, the Mrs. Russels, and his own elaborate hybrids, And how those flowerheads seemed to flow toward me, to beckon me, only a child, Ottt of myself. 34 �T. R. DILLARD Mc CAVLLY LAKE The moon follows 72 West thru the woods, lingers in the hollows of the trees where I am fishing, settles its light on the surface of the lake, the eyes of my rod, and my own, still hands pulled for a moment out of the stillness to recast my line. Across the lake in the mist of stars and mayflies with a sense of the moon, a raccoon washes, saintly in the shallows of the lake, turns to the woods, and still with the smell of holy water, lifts his head and looks to the moon. 35 �A trout leaps at mayflies and slaps the surface of the lake, I stand and undress and swim out to float face up to the stars. I blink, and stars, too, blink. And in the Milky Way and mayflies mating McCaully Lake breathes Eghtly on my genitals. McCaully Lake praises the moon, the raccoon cannot turn from his mistress as he comes from the woods and steps to the road and thrills to the nearer moon, I fasten the fly of my trousers, and push the hair from my forehead. The morning steals the stars in gray, the mayflies spread their wings to weep within the water, the trout lie still. I turn to the road, and leaving 36 �my shirt and shoes in a gunny sack with my broken rod (my only catch) walk back to the road where a racoon lies still wet from life in the morning light, his body open as the palms of a prayer yet reaching in the air. . I look away but see his hand collapse upon the shoulder. 37 �ROCHELLE STEFANSON In her room, she lived in a houseboat and studied design. Projection. Emily was thirty-one and not goal-inclined. Tiffany windowshades tinting the day. Cut glass and colored beads in movement's way. A curtain that played enchanting bell tune whenever I visited her. She was a prism, not a schoolteacher. Reciting poetry to children in front of a plum tree on a hill overlooking an icy blue bay. Long violent blue hair which reflected the night. Stars instead of blinking eyes and a crescent mood where she used to show smiles. Emily has gone away from life! 38 �"It is better never to have been born at all" was set alongside "The wages of sin are death." Which follows "Order, calm, and silence." Which was followed by "Gather ye rosebuds." from Death Kit by Susan Sontag • LIKE A PRISM Emily sketching doll furniture on the backs of Christmas card envelopes. A rocking chair to match wicker bassinet. Early American colonial era. A miniature roserug with the wool color-cued to the canvas. Handwoven, but simple, only took her two hours to do. Another hobbyshop kit. Last Sunday afternoon. "Pick up a few more hemlock cones on your way back from the dimestore, dear. Don't forget the sequins, Emily. I want to finish the tree ornaments for Susan's children before next Tuesday." Emily stretching on her salt-stained boots over a pair of red wool skating socks. A quick toss across the left shoulder, the brown and orange six foot scarf her mother knit for her birthday, also to serve as a Christmas gift since December 15th is so close to the 25th. 'Yes, I've some change left over from the church dollar," echoing above the sound of the back screendoor. Silent snow on the unshovelled walks. Her footprints the first and almost noon. The second Monday of ' vacation. Still two sets of compositions to grade over the holidays. The topic: the limits of setting in realism. Emily stopping at the crossway. No cars in sight. A tall larch with the cones clustered together, hanging like jungle-vines in Amazon country, but always out of hand-reach. 39 �If I only had a shell, or a goldfish, or some pretty thing, she had answered her father. ttBut 'You are the oldest. Your mother says responsibility is good for a girl. It makes one more independent." String beans, mashed potatoes, pork chops for dinner. Dishes to wash afterwards. Change Fred's diaper. Fred wants a bottle. Sttsan has gom; to Milly's house to practice her piano lessons. rrlVill you help your brother David with his subtraction problems? Why can't you understand? Pretend you had pennies, or apples, or bubble gum. Oh, Emily, I give up. You try." Homework in the fifth grade rather standard but time-consuming. Luck')! no need to study spelling. Natural talent. Inherited from father's side. rrYes, daddy." Listen to Fred's prayers. Already eight-thirty. The television is too loud. Is Spoon River in Illinois? Is the Land of Honey in Jerusalem? Next week's question for catechism class. Six absentees every Wednesday afternoon. Sister furious. ttlt's only drawing anyway. Art, art, art. That's all you ever do in school is color pictures. Don't you want to make your confirmation. I'm shocked." "Good Morning, Miss Carson." Small boy shoveling snow greets the teacher. Emily smiling for a brief moment. Mark is the new boy in the neighborhood. His father is taking over the hardware store on the corner of River Street. A happy boy, quick to make friends. Always reaches school two minutes after the bell. A sack lunch in his left hand, a picture book in his right. I try so hard. I've painted three pictures, daddy. I've read all the library books, wrote a poem, sent a letter to my pen-pal in Iran. Tomorrow I'm taking David and Fred ice skating after lunch. Saturday afternoons are always crowded though. Hardly any room left to make a figure eight on the ice. lJ7hy doesn't Susan ever help? rTll make half of the dinner tonight, Emily. Your mother's not feeling well again." The local paper behind glass in a red cage. Still half a dollar. JOURNAL headline: PRESIDENT CALLS FOR CEASE FIRE IN MOON WAR. Emily waiting for the tone before retrieving newspaper. Mother's morocco red scrapbook in the attic. Photos and front page 40 �clippings. GROCERY CLERK SHOT IN HOLD-UP. No school for three days. The wake. Half sad, half fun. Shouldn't laugh. Not respectful. Aunts, uncles, cousins twice removed. All strangers. No familiar faces. Mother stone-faced. No tears. Funeral like a wedding. Black pleated party skirt and white frilled blouse. Rain that day. Vinyl umbrella. Three weeks later, campaign for Presidency of Parents Without Partners organization. Rosie Carson nominated. Mother is active for the first time. Unanimous choice. So bright. Vermillion. Emily staring at a male cardinal perched on a naked bush. December not always a cold month. Like now, the wind not so whipping. Snow still light and fluffy like dandelion puff that sails through the air in hot summertime. No slush yet. Another snowman with two purple eye marbles; hornrimmed glasses, the windows punched out; long carrot nose prop. A dog will eat off the nose in the night. Emily staring at the rings and diamond brooches in Werona's window. Jewels sparkling like snowflakes on the kitchen pane, the sun reflecting through the latticework of each unique crystal. Not remembering her own holidays, other people's Christmases more visual. The living room in Susan's house on the hill outside the capital of the cowboy's favorite state. Winter in Wyoming. Fishnet covering the plastic stormproofed eyes facing out toward Union Pacific, sure to punctuate the evening dinner every six p.m. Orange burlap drapes hanging !-rom one bamboo rod. Mysteries and 10c thrillers along the walls. Brick bookends to hold them up. Country western records on the victrola sitting on the other side of fir tree. Traditional green with delicate bubble lights and large shiny ornaments the standard festive colors: maroon, deep blue, bright red, green, gold; silver tinsel hung like slanted icicles every which way. In the right corner s-everal unsized candles burning temperamentally, fern bedding under them dripped on by red wax. Susan's husband holding their three-year-old girl; a range dog sleeping at his feet. Behind him the elephant-hide purse Susan had bargained for at a bazaar when she was the gay maiden. The sound of the train 41 �whistling through night. Housebeam with greeting cards scotchtaped to it shudders with the piercing interruption. More conversation. Gifts under tree for Susan's child. Small package tied in light rose ribbon fllmost smothered by other overpowering gifts of seflsonal joy. Emily entering jewelry store. Four other people being served by twO clerks in white shirts and green polka dot ties. Unusual for salesmen in old-fashioned city. December special unguarded on counter nearest show-window. Revolving diamond like iridescent shamrock, arcs of five muted lights spinwhirling rays of sun on aluminum tree. Every Christmas, somebody's artificial tree matching the foil over triangle window of Mrs. Carson's front door. An engagement keepsake glistening in day's snowlight. "For some lucky angel. All She wants for Christmas is ... Give her a diamond snowflake." Christmas Eve, and one gift to open before the long sleep waiting for Santa's arrival. The choice - always Daddy's gift. A 3" x 5" box wrapped in white butcher paper fJnd one rosebow near the name. Emily. The special wish she had mentioned last summer when the science teacher gave her class a page to read one Wednesday night. t7he right-angle prism is the most commonly used prism. It is used when a deviation of -90 is desired. lV hile the relative positions of the top and bottom of the image will be the same, the right and left sides will be interchanged. The drtlWing at the left shows a right angle prism and how the image is reversed as to left and right." Turning the prism. Squinting. Corners of ceiling. Loops in the rug. Two magazine front covers impaned in window frames on the wall behind the books. Congregational Church across the street and downtown Main Street scene. Next to the tree: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet. A ballerina bending down to lace her toeshoes. Wide smile. Susan's smile. A scarf all the colors of the rainbow. Special wish. Daddy's gift. Prism gift makes Christmas Eve mflgical time. Emily lifting brilliant treasure off revolving setting in the window. Diamond ring slipping quickly onto baby finger of her left hand. Many customers in stores shopping for Christmas specials. Gold Indian cowbells 0 42 �jingle. Emily closing the door behind her. Half a block down, in the 5 and 10c store. Emily looking for sequins. Red, orange, yellow, green. Emily snapping shut her coinpurse. One shiny quarter splashed onto cashier's counter. Daddy kissing her clenched fist. "Now, dear, nobody will steal away your prism. Here, put it under the pillow." Emily imagining all the different shapes and combinations that her prism can make. Reflections. Refractions. Light. Night. To be an actress maybe, a child stat' like Shit'ley Temple. Daddy laughs when he sees her. Silly. Dancing clever steps like shuffle-ballchange. Singing "Good Ship, Lollipop." No, better to be dramatic. Tears. Emotion. Struggle. Feeling. Margaret O'Bt'ien. Bright lights and pretty clothes, and stardom dreams. Pay for mother's bills. Always the doctor comes in the night. Emily, her willowy body almost transparent in the sunlight, reflecting the icy street. Holding her hand up to see the crystal flake play tag with the bright sunlight. Sparkling ring mirrored in clean store-window. Emilly, admiring her special gift. Sunlight. Not stopping at the corner. Lights change. Amber then green. So fast. Sunlight. Rays of sun and sky splintering the mind. Emily, in the days when daddy's princess was alive. The red pick-up choking on its brakes. Sunlight. Out of state. Screams from passers-by. A whistle endlessly blowing. Too late. Sunlight. Brown and orange scarf splattered with glass. Bright red sequins stuck on patches of snow, and blue, yellow, green, orange. Almost like a prism ... 43 �DIANNE MUMM �MARLA ULVEN �JENNIFER COATES �KAREN ISBELL Hitleryouth is an excerpt from the Diary of Mrs. Isbell started at age eleven m WW II Germany. ED. NOTE: HITLERYOUTH , On the morning of August 11 we assembled at the railway station, with canvas lunchbags over our shoulders and suitcase in hand, waiting for Elizabeth, our Leader. Upon her arrival we passed thru the gate, had our train tickets punched and mounted the train. Had to transfer thrice. A few more girls joined us from Langensalza, Tennstedt and Essersheiligen. lnge Dietmar had also brought her concertina along and played a few songs. I was too lazy to drag mine out. Upon our arrival in Sonneberg, we were greeted by a bunch of Young Maidens of the Hitleryouth, equipped with handcarts for our baggage. After an hour's walk we reached our destination, the county hostel, located inmidst a dense evergreen forest. After taking leave from the local Young Maidens, we lined up in proper formation and entered the building in step. Naturally I chose an upper berth. Each of us had her own nightstand for shoeshine equipment, shoes and uniform. We were tired that night and soon fell asleep. FIRST DAY IN CAMP: Awakened by lnge's concertina, we assembled outside within ten minutes, dressed in our gym outfits. After a fifteen minute period of rigorous exercise including a jog thru the woods, we returned to the building hungry as bears. Soon, we were standing by the flag, cleaned up, our uniforms brushed and shoes shined to perfection. Elizabeth gave her morning address and closed it with a poem. The flag 47 �was raised while we were standing motionless with our hands raised. Then we sang a flag-song and were dismissed for breakfast. Mrs. Betz, our denmother, took good care of us and the meals were fabulous. In the afternoon, during our two hours off we took our drinking cups and roamed thru the forest taking advantage of the abundance of blueberries. Late in the afternoon we assembled in the dining hall of the hostel for "home-evening," singing songs under Elizabeth's guidance. Then she read us the story The Grey Prock, dealing with a humble unknown soldier sacrificing his life for his country with nothing to show for it but a bulletriddled grey frock. I had a hard time holding back my tears, but then Young Maidens have to practice self-control and hold back mawkish tears. After supper we hauled down the flag and soon had to hit the sack. Elizabeth sang a goodnight song to us. This time it was our turn to have her stay with us during the night, so we couldn't raise any racket before going to sleep. SECOND DAY : This morning it was my turn to take count of all present and to have them stand at attention while I reported to Elizabeth with my right hand raised, before we marched toward the flag. Then we sang the Hitleryouth hymn: / IIPorward! forward!" sounds the flourish of trumpets. UPorward! forward!" Youth knows no danger. Germany, you shall emerge in radiance, Even if we have to perish. UPorward! forward!" sounds the flourish of trumpets. UPorward! forward!" Youth knows no danger. Although our aim seems unattainable, Youth shall conquer it. Our flag is blowing in front of us Our flag signifies the new era. We shall march with Hitler thru night and thru need. . With the flag of youth for freedom and bread. Our flag is blo,wing ahead of us Our flag is the new time. Our flag shall guide us into eternity. Yea, our flag means more than death. Youth, Youth, we are future's soldiers. Y outh, Youth, bearers of coming deeds. Yea, by our fist shall fall Anything that resists us. 48 �• Although our aim seems unattainable, Yet, youth shall conquer it. Our flag is blowing in front of us. After the song - silence, except for the song of a skylark. Oh, but what a beautiful flag - free and proud - blowing its message to the treetops, which rustle in answer. The svastica centered in a white circle surrounded by flaming red against the azure sky - competing with the sun - it is one with the sun - the sign of life - the life force lifting us up. At times I wish I could die while holding the flag high - keeping it from being soiled by forces of eviL The flag will cleanse us all from elements of physical and mental derangement. We shall have to kill - not out of hatred, but out of necessity. Oh, but why can't I be a man and join the army as a man. Why can't I do like Eleanor Prohaska who sneaked into Frederick the Great's Army during the Seven-year War and remained undetected as a woman until she was wounded. By then she had done her duty anyway - like a man. Nowdays I wouldn't even pass thru the first physical without being found out. I want to hold that flag in battle - I don't want to submit to a man and bear children, unless it be a hero like Gisli out of the Icecandic Saga. Fate is necessity. Oh, but I'd rather perish as a man than live as a woman. No, I must not complain. A German Maiden doesn't complain or be weak. That morning we spent studying how to read maps - two kinds: the surveyor's map and the ordnance map. In the afternoon we were broken down into groups of five. Each group was handed an envelope and sent into a certain direction. After a half-hour walk we were to open the envelope. Our group was instructed to gather all sorts of flowers fmm the meadow where we happened to be and to draw anyone we liked. By six p.m. all of us had returned to the hostel. After supper each group reported about their respective instructions contained in the envelope. To bed at 9 p.m. We chatted for a long time. At about 11 p.m. we could hear airplanes. From the sound of their engines we knew that they were British. As we observed that the only other building in this area - another hostel filled with children evacuated from bomb-ridden Berlin, had done a very poor job of black-out, we felt a bit uneasy. But then we didn't think they could see us anyway, as the dense Thuringian forest was protecting us. Soon everything was quiet once more. THIRD DAY: Today is a special event, as we will walk down to Sonneberg to see the doll-museum. Never before had we seen such beautiful 49 �toys. The outstanding one was a carnival with a merry-go-round, concession stands, people and animals with lifelike features. The curator told us that the carnival was awarded first prize at the doll-exibition at Paris in 1910. She let the merry-go-round run for us. The whole carnival is worth 30000. - Marks - much too little for the tremendous labor and taste invested in it. Once an American wanted to buy it, but was refused, as it belongs to the Museum. One cannot buy anything from the Museum. FOURTH DAY: This morning we practiced songs, as we are invited to spend this afternoon with the Young Maidens of Sonneberg. Two of us had to study a book telling about the history of our hometown, Muehlhausen, in order to relate it to our hosts. Arrived at down-town Sonneberg; we were greeted cordially by their Young Maidens' Leader and led into their youth-building where a group of Young Maidens received us. They had fallen in line and stood at attention - wonderfully disciplined. At the beginning of the program Inge and I played some march-music on our concertinas. Some Young Maidens from Sonneberg talked about their hometown and then presented the fairy-tale "King Thrushbeard." Then they sang songs and taught us "On a clear springmorning". Eve Tuchsher told the story of Muehlhausen, and Renata Gropp described the "Kirmes," a local fall-festival with evergreen trees put up in streets adorned with bright paper-chains and painted eggshells and costumed children dancing around them and later having coffee and cake at tables set up under the trees; at night the grownups drink beer, eat coldcuts and make merry. She also told about our well or spring festivals taking place each June, where school children all dressed in white, with girls wearing wreaths of fresh roses on their heads and boys holding bouquets, occupy the circular steps around the well which supplies the town with fresh water, singing songs of thanksgiving and throwing flowers into the water. FIFTH DAY: This was the day of our trip to the fortress of Coburg. As we march thru Sonneberg in step, our songs reverberate from the walls and roofs of the narrow, steep-gabled houses. On the train we muse and wonder whether Coburg will be an even more glorious experience than the doll-museum. Arrived at Coburg; we are no longer in Thuringia but Bavaria. Our first tour will take us co the Fortress - an ancient stately edifice, visible from downtown Coburg. How impressive must it look from close-up. The first thing we contemplate upon reaching the top of the hill is a huge well. It is about twenty meters deep and during the middle-ages served principally for the execution of those sentenced 50 �, to death who were thrown down into it. Afterwards we buy our tickets and enter the Dukes' building which contains beautiful ancient halls decorated with portraits of famous men and women. Some of the rooms are still occupied by Duke Ernst August. Then we look at the collection of artifacts. There are old armours of iron formerly worn by warriors, pistols, rifles, daggers, swords, bajonettes, cannons and cannon balls of stone. These items date back to the 12th thru 18th centuries. Still impressed by all the gorgeous things we have seen, we enter an inn, where the sandwiches we have brought along taste excellent. We even can order a boullion, and to our greatest surprise there are peaches available. After the meal we get permission to roam around for two hours on our own which we use for some more sight-seeing and purchasing gifts for our relatives. That night we sink into our bunks very tired and very happy. S·JXTH DAY: Today, we did not have to get up until nine o'clock, as it is Sunday. It was my turn to quote a slogan, as the flag was being raised: "In these days, we shall joyously forfeit idle rest, And busy ourselves in good spirits, asking for work, Wherever there's work to be done not become discouraged, But carry our blocks to the building site." Two more slogans were said by others. I was very proud of having been bestowed the honor to quote one. The day was wonderful, and even the food was delicious. By the way, it had been unbelievably good all along: meat for every noon meal, and on Saturday night even potato salad and wieners. Our sandwiches weren't buttered very often, but whenever so, it was spread on thickly. On Saturday night we had three slices of bread, and cocoa. SEVENTH DAY: In the morning we visited the doll factory in Sonneberg-the only one remaining for the time being, as all the others have been converted into manufacturing plants for items direly needed in our war effort. We observed the assembly of dolls limb by limb, and also the manufacturing of stuffed animals. I bought a Teddybear and named him Browny. As it was our last day in camp, we were granted a few hours off. Although it was against orders, Heirode and I yielded to the temptation of visiting an ice-cream parlor. It was late in the afternoon, when we marched back to our hostel, and, as the setting sun was bathing our faces in a copper-glow, we started to sing, and strangely enough without 51 �preliminary prompting, in harmony, with a certain quality of melancholy softness in our voices - feeling very close to one another: IrAs the setting sun was sending forth his last rays, A small regiment of Hitler marched into the small town. Sadly echoed their songs thru the small, quiet village, For they were carrying to his grave one of their loyal comrades'" I have always liked this song. It reminds me of the way things must have been during our Leader's emergence, when his follower5 had to protect his and their lives in daily battle against the Reds and reactionaries. They won and with their battle-cry "Germany awaken!" led our nation, which had been wallowing in the shame of senseless and unjust defeat, to the pinnacle of glory and pride - one nation under the Leader, whose crown shall never again be stolen by strangers. This is our last night in the hostel. Each group presents a skit. Before retiring we pack our suitcases, as we will have to arise rather early in the morning. At bedtime, Elizabeth tells us a deliciously spooky story, after which we quickly fall asleep. EIGHTH DAY: Departure. Up at six o'clock-then permission to take a stroll thru the forest for half an hour, after which we assemble in single file in front of the kitchen door to receive food for the trip home. We take leave from our denmother. As there is only one handcart available, more than half of us carry our own suitcases. Our journey back to Muehlhausen lasts eight hours, ?s we have to hit the bpmb shelter thrice. Arrived at Muehlhausen; I took the streetcar home after shaking hands with Elizabeth. I shall never forget those days at leadercandidates camp, and each time I remember the dream-like town of Sonneberg, I hum the song they taught us: "On a dear Springmorning ..." MONDAY, 31 AUGUST 1942: Oh, how long ago, since I last wrote into this book, and how much has happened since! It is barely ,four weeks ago that I returned to my wigwam from a long journey. I spent a few weeks in Bavaria. First, I spent six days in Munich and then three weeks in a sailing school at Lake Starnberg. I have seen, experienced, and learnt much. Upon my return home, I received a major blow: Our beloved German and Drama Instructor, Dr. Dieckman has been transferred to a school in Erfurt. Oh, what a genius she was. While she was far from pretty in the usual sense, she had eyes which could sparkle with enthusiasm or shoot thunderbolts in anger. She is also our music teacher 52 �- full of music, art, literature, history, and dramatic ability. One day - it seemed a day like any other - she began to teach us enunciation. "a - e - i - 0 - u - a - 0 - u - eu - ei - au - For Heaven's sake, arch your tongues with their tips against the tips of your lower teeth, you stupid oafs. Now, get with it, or you'll never learn it. Schmidt, louder, louder, that's the spirit." Within three months the whole class spoke pure and beautiful stage-German. Even our English pronunciation profited some. I became enthused. I wonder whether I'll ever speak English well enough to become a spy for Germany and go to England. But, back to "Dixie," as we called Dr. Dieckman. First we read "Katte" with her - a drama based on a true event in Frederick the Great's life. As a young lad he became fed up with the spartan Pruss ian life and his Father's tyrannic and strict rule and decided to flee the country together with his friend Katte. They were caught and both sentenced to death. Frederick was pardoned, but had to watch thru his open cell window as Katte, his friend, was being beheaded. It is a very exciting drama. From there we went on to Martin Luserke's "The King and the Three Golden Strands of Hair," a play based on Grimm's fairy tale of the same title. Next to the narrator of day and the narrator of night, I, as the King, had the largest role. The first presentation was such a smashing success that we had to play it four more times. Dixie already made plans for next year. She would have become our class-teacher and we would have toured Germany and perhaps even the liberated countries as stage actors. So what, if our other grades went down. What do I care about math, if I play Mephisto. I like to play bad people. They are more fun to play. At least I and other people know that in real life I am not that bad, while one knows of hero-actors that they aren't as good in real life. But now our Dixie is gone. Everything seems empty and deserted. I don't like to live at home any longer. Something is amiss. I would like to go far, far away, I don't know where, possibly to a different country, yea, a different continent. But, of course, Dad and Mom don't or don't want to understand. They think I want to forsake them and that I don't love them anymore. But that's sheer nonsense. The trainride to Munich lasted thirteen hours. Ingrid picked me up. At dinner at the Kaiser Hotel I noticed that hardly anybody was without makeup, that is, lipstick and eyebrow-pencil, notwithstanding the fact that a German woman isn't supposed to paint herself, but is to preserve her natural looks. But I must admit that it rather impressed me, and for the duration of my stay in Bavaria, I used makeup too. 53 �When I ordered cocoa, the waitress stared at me in consternation and the rest of the people at the table giggled "There is a war going on, remember," remarked Ingrid. "Boy, one can tell you haven't eaten in restaurants much lately!" During the six days I stayed in Munich I saw the "Platz," a comic theater with hilarious shows, where they even tell political jokes, but I am sure even our Leader would laugh at them; the "Last Adventure," a stage drama in the "Residenz" Theater; a variety show in the German Theater, where one of the features was a woman who had nothing on but a veil where you could see thru. Herbert, Ingrid's fiancee, had raised a big fuss about it beforehand, but I didn't find it very exciting. Then I visited the German art exhibit, the English Garden, the Chinese tower, the Nymphenburg Castle, the Botanical Garden, the Animal Park at Hellabrunn, the Brown House where the National Socialistic Party used to have their first meetings, the Hall of Commanders-in-Chief, where many of Hitler's followers were gunned down in 1923, the Hall of Fame of the Fallen Heroes, all of the latter three buildings on King's square, the fantastic Italian ice-cream parlor" the night-club "Simplissimus," where they let me in, because I looked much, much older than thirteen with makeup on, the Chinese restaurant with the horrible yellow-faced types. There was a lady in the backroom. She was white and had a baby carriage along. In it I saw a cute baby with yellow skin but large black eyes without the mongolian crease. They said she is married to a Chinese. Poor little baby - having to grow up as a bastard - what a racial shame! I stayed with Ingrid in her furnished room on the third floor of a rental apartment building which was old and smelled of cabbage and poor unwashed people. I met quite a few of Ingrid's fellow students in the chemical department of the Technical University of Munich. One was Jimmy Penard, who was born in Java and had a Dutch father and French mother. Another one, Hans, had his leg in a cast, because something blew up during one of his experiments in the lab. Then there was Alfred of GermanAmerican parents who had sent him over here just before the war broke out. He is a redhead, speaks German with a soft foreign accent, is very friendly and surely doesn't look like a spy for American imperialist powers. He has to report to the police every week, but other than that they leave him alone and let him continue his studies. He said to me in Ingrid's presence that I am prettier than she is, but afterwards she told me that this was just one of his usual weird ideas. So, I doubt whether it's true. 54 �On a Sunday Ingrid and I rode to Tutzing at Lake Starnberg and reported to the Sailing School which was presided by Hein, an old gruff seabear. As he eyed me critically and entered my birth-date with a serious expression in his eyes, I learnt that I was the youngest sailing student ever. None of the rest was any younger than seventeen, and ages varied between that and 45. Next day we went right down to business. What a beautiful spOrt! At first we sailed with Hein on the yacht "Frauke" and then in a much smaller type of sailboat called a people's boat. At first I was a bit scared, especially since 'Our navigator kept teasing us by painting in the most horrible colors the process of capsizing. But on the next day I was hardly afraid anymore. Then at least I knew the ifs and hows of capsizing, and that there really is nothing to it. Each day I became more and more familiar with the sensation of sitting in a rolling and pitching boat and having water splash about your ears. The weather was gorgeous, especially regarding wind-conditions. We had very few slacks. Ingrid and Herbert attended only one course, then left. I remained for another f'Ortnight. I had a friend, a Dutch girl. She was short and quite plump, had flaxen hair and blue eyes and spoke fluent German, though with a slight Dutch accent. Her name is Truus von Kempen, and she cannot go back home for the time being, because there is a subversive, treacherous group of underground people, who will grab her and shear her hair off for having a German soldier for her boyfriend. She must really love him to undergo all those risks. I hope he loves her as much. She and I bathed almost every morning and night in the lake. What a boundless feeling to be able to swim far, far Out, without being hindered by ropes, fences, or stakes. In the morning, when the water is unruffled, it seems a bottomless upsidedown version of the sky, and one has the sensation of being suspended in midair while swimming. I had a secret boyfriend. By secret I mean that neither he nor anybody else knew that he was my friend. We talked and kidded, but I never let on how much I liked him. So I really don't know whether or not I was his friend too. I hope so! Oh, Hugo, at the sight and thought of you, my soul climbed up into seventh heaven, and your eyes are light blue and deep as the clear water 'Of a lak€. I probably shall never see you again. One event I'll never forget. On a beautiful sunny day, Herbert, Ingrid and I sailed toward Starnberg. The first part of our trip was sufficiently windy, and we were just about to tack toward shore when suddenly the wind died down as if cut off. With much effort we succeeded in landing the boat, drank 55 �coffee in the restaurant "Hans Gruss." Our return trip, however, proved a disaster. We had to row the whole way. The sun was setting, and the sky presented a unique and breath-taking picture. Above us, the sky was dark blue, while in the west it was blood-red, as the moon hung suspended in the sky in the Southeast - the moods of night and day fused into one. We reached the sailing school at 12: 30 a.m. a moonlit rowing party. Although everybody was dead-tired, Ingrid, Herbert and another student sneaked into the garden of a governmentsponsored children's camp and relieved the bushes of about three glass jars full of boysenberries, which they shared with me. After Herbert and Ingrid had left to go back to Munich, I learnt how to sail an olympic jolly-boat - a tiny sailboat without a foresail and therefore easily managed by one person, but also easy to capsize. So, Old Hein made us, the next youngest student, seventeen-year-old Otto and me, wear a life-belt - ridiculous. We sailed off smoothly and proceeded to cross the lake. As our work was done for the time being, we had time to talk some. He told me that he was an orphan of well-to-do parents and that his guardian was sending him to a very strict and joyless boarding school. He didn't seem to me like the type who needed a strict boarding school, as he was a good buddy - well behaved, reserved and efficient in managing the boat. We landed the boat safely on the other side of the lake, had a soft drink in a small restaurant, which tasted like hard candy dissolved in water, then sailed back to the school. We also learnt how to tie sailors knots - a whole gob of them. As is always the case with me, I had an easy time learning the complicated knots and a heck of a time grasping the easy ones. I and everybody else thought 1'd never manage the square knot - after I knew all the other ones - but at last the coin dropped. Then one Sunday the rest of the students accompanied me to the train, and I had a hard time keeping my tears back, as I was leaving for home. FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 1942: Hurrah, fall vacations will start on October 3, and a group of girls of our class will go to the City of Weymar, where we'll meet Dixie (Dr. Dieckmann) and go to the' theater. We wonder what they'll play. This year I also will have a birthday party, and as soon as we have peace, I'll have the wildest party ever. When will there be peace? Only God and, perhaps, the Leader know. The main thing is to win the war, and win we shall. Everybody knows that, even the enemy. WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23,1942: What in the world am I to 56 �.. do, if Mother takes everything ill. Most of the time it's because of some mere trifle. If she only knew how deeply her reproaches cut into my heart each time. "So, this is today's youth." I used to laugh at this national slogan of the grownups. Now it drives me to the brink of despair. What have we done to them for talking so ugly about us. When they were young, they were, perhaps, worse. But, of course, they won't give us credit for anything and begrudge us our organizations and attitude, because sometimes we harbor presumptuous thoughts, which bowl over their antiquated and cumbersome way of life. And that bit about religion and its conventions! I do believe in you, Lord, in your power and justice, but in you only, and not in something they've tried to ram down our throats for two thousand years. Why do you make that so hard on me? THURSDAY, OCTOBER 8,1942: Our precious days in Weymar are over. Upon our arrival on Saturday night, we went to the National Theater and saw Wagner's "Lohengrin." This epic opera held all of us spellbound. It was so beautiful. Never will I forget Lohengrin and his Elsa of Brabant. Saturday night we got ready to go to a different show. We saw "Diamonds from Vienna" - a witty comedy. We had dinner in the "Elephant-Cellar." Afterwards we walked to the GoethePark - an immaculately manicured park with wide paths. In the center of it, surrounded by a huge flowergarden and embedded among trees, stands the pavilion of Goethe. Next day we were allowed to view the theater facilities. After an hour we left - stunned by all the mechanics and props and costumes we got to see. Then we visited the Frederick Schiller House. There wasn't much to see, as all valuables have been stored in a bomb shelter, and the Goethe House is closed entirely. In the evening we went to the stage-theater one more time. They presented some shallow cornball operetta - a far cry from Lohengrin. We were disappointed. On the next day we took leave from Dr. Dieckmann grateful and back in school. Nothing attracts me there any longer. Our German lessons are dry and flat and without sparkle. Oh, I almost forgot, we have started to study chemistry in school. I am absolutely spellbound by it. I think my heredity ' is showing. At an rate, I am fascinated by it. I think I'll become a nuclear scientist, except the teacher says there is no such thing yet. They are able to smash atoms on an experimental basis, but unable as yet to rebuild them. I am beginning to read science fiction like mad. DECEMBER 1942: Our Sixth Army is holding out at Stalingrad. 57 �We shall not retreat. Last year my parents turned in their entire skiing equipment and fur-lined coats to help our boys in Russia. People were beautiful and sacrificed all they could. As a result, there is a huge surplus of skis this year and is sold to the civilian population for a song. I bought a pair. They are good skis and painted white. I like to ski thru the forest by Muehlhausen. There is a hilly clearing in the middle of the forest called the "Katalaunic Fields," where many of us practice. Something strange happened the other day. As I came out of the forest and was about to ski out into the road to go home, I saw a group of people approaching along the road. I waited to let them pass. They looked so strange. They were guarded by soldiers and looked like ghosts. They couldn't have been prisoners of war or ordinary DP's (displaced persons brought to Germany from liberated countries to contribute their share in the war effort). They wore neither uniforms nor dresses, but long white gowns with hoods over their heads. Prisoners of war and laborers from other countries talk usually, and the women quite often giggle, but these just drudged along as if each of them were carrying something heavy. Their heads were bowed, their faces looked stony and motionless and not really pale white but yellowishly sallow. I tried to catch a glimpse of their downcast eyes. Somehow I expected or even hoped to see anger or hatred in them, but what little I could see was a lack of even a reflection, like lights gone out. As I could see the backs of the first of them, I saw a huge thick black cross painted across each gown. The white gowns looked dirty against the snow. I felt uncomfortable. Why wasn't there any meanness or hatred in their eyes, and why were they so completely silent. They seemed as if chained together, only there weren't any chains. And the guards didn't look severe or proud and erect but almost apologetic and completely and utterly apart from them. The whole group looked as if laden with a curse - a curse - a curse. Suddenly it occurred to me who they were. Only, I don't know whether they were men or women, because of the gowns. And those thick huge black crosses - like a symbol of branding. They must work at the factory in the middle of the forest. They looked quite different from what I had thought they would look like. JANUARY 1943: I am quite busy now, even after school, as I am in charge of thirty Young Maidens now. We meet twice a week, study for singing rallies, have drill sessions in the large yard of the Youth Home, once in a while I speak on a certain political topic handed down to me from my super.iors. Frequently we visit local field hospitals, 58 �take gifts to the wounded soldiers, and sing and play accordion. We collect herbs. We walk around town pulling handcarts to collect trash paper and scrap-metal to be remade into usable items. Muehlhausen is being filled up with evacuees from industrial cities in the Rhineland, Berlin, and Northern Germany, as the air-gangsters not only destroy industrial plants, but also and foremost, residential areas. They are trying to undermine us from within, and also to poison our minds with their radio-broadcasts containing vicious propagandistic lies. It is forbidden under the threat of the death penalty to tune in to foreign broadcasts, and rightfully so, as a weak mind could easily succumb to their verbal poison. I do listen though, because my mind cannot be poisoned. It is interesting to listen to the two different kinds: BBC London with its station identification drum beat is fabulously clever in its lies, and you really have to have tremendous faith in your Leader and your country not to be shaken. Moscow is so terribly crude, that if I were some underground Communist traitor, I would turn into a German patriot upon listening to their crud. That's how transparent their lies are. And their language: "Down with that Hitler-dog. Eradicate him." Boy, those Bolsheviks 6tre sub-human. Our news reporters are absolutely right. FEBRUARY 1943: Yesterday I had some disappointment. I said to Elizabeth, our district leader: "Elizabeth, I have a wonderful girl in my group, who would make a wonderful group-leader of 15 maidens. Her name is Dorli Koppel." "Wonderful," said Elizabeth. "Let's ask her if she would do it, as she's a little young." "Elizabeth," I said, "there is one hitch. She's got a quarter of Jewish blood in her. I hope it makes no difference." "My dear girl, it sure does. She's absolutely out." I didn't give up right away "Yes, but we learnt in racial sciences that they are considered legitimate German citizens and are even allowed to marry Germans." "Oh, Karen, that's different. But as far as being qualified for leadership, it's a strict no." I felt rather stupid, but she must be right. A veil of mourning hangs over Germany. Stalingrad has fallen, the Sixth Army is destroyed. When they announced it over the radio, Mother cried and Father didn't say a word. I clench my fists. The Germanic race has been in tight spots before. Germany will make it. It cannot be that right is conquered by wrong. Stalingrad has merely been a test by Providence. Herman The Cherusker heat the Romans in the Forest of Teutoburg under nearly desprate circumstances. We shall halt the red flood. A few days later Dr. Goebbels declares Total War, which will mean more privations and sacrifices, but we'll gladly 59 �have guns instead of butter if that's what's needed for our victory. We have to get up nights more frequently to descend into the bombshelter. Sometimes Dad and I climb up onto the flat roof of our very high brewery building, and with fieldglasses we can see the flashes of antiaircraft 50 miles West of us in the City of Kassel. On their way to Berlin, the American four-engine bomber-planes fly over Muehlhausen. We can distinguish their deep, sonorous drone from the sounds of smaller planes very easily. Frequently, during the daytime, on clear days, I can detect them with my eyes, flying very, very high, often merely by the reflection of the sun from their metallic bodies. And if one doesn't think about the rest, it is a very beautiful and thrilling picture. 60 ��JENNIFER COATES �was raised while we were standing motionless with our hands raised. Then we sang a flag-song and were dismissed for breakfast. Mrs. Betz, our denmother, took good care of us and the meals were fabulous. In the afternoon, during our two hours off we took our drinking cups and roamed thru the forest taking advantage of the abundance of blueberries. Late in the afternoon we assembled in the dining hall of the hostel for "home-evening," singing songs under Elizabeth's guidance. Then she read us the story The Grey Prock, dealing with a humble unknown soldier sacrificing his life for his country with nothing to show for it but a bulletriddled grey frock. I had a hard time holding back my tears, but then Young Maidens have to practice self-control and hold back mawkish tears. After supper we hauled down the flag and soon had to hit the sack. Elizabeth sang a goodnight song to us. This time it was our turn to have her stay with us during the night, so we couldn't raise any racket before going to sleep. SECOND DAY: This morning it was my turn to take count of all present and to have them stand at attention while I reported to Elizabeth with my right hand raised, before we marched toward the flag. Then we sang the Hitleryouth hymn: / IIPorward! forward!" sounds the flourish of trumpets. "Porward! forward!" Youth knows no danger. Germany, you shall emerge in radiance, Even if we have to perish. IIPorward! forward!" sounds the flourish of trumpets. IIP01'ward! forward!" Youth knows no danger. Although our aim seems unattainable, Youth shall conquer it. Our flag is blowing in front of us Our flag signifies the new era. We shall march with Hitler thru night and thru need. . With the flag of youth for freedom and bread. Our flag is blo,wing ahead of us Our flag is the new time. Our flag shall guide us into eternity. Yea, our flag means more than death. Youth, Youth, we are future's soldiers. Youth, Youth, bearers of coming deeds. Yea, by our fist shall fall Anything that resists us. 48 �toys. The outstanding one was a carnival with a merry-go-round, concession stands, people and animals with lifelike features. The curator told us that the carnival was awarded first prize at the doll-exibition at Paris in 1910. She let the merry-go-round run for us. The whole carnival is worth 30000. - Marks - much too little for the tremendous labor and taste invested in it. Once an American wanted to buy it, but was refused, as it belongs to the Museum. One cannot buy anything from the Museum. FOURTH DAY: This morning we practiced songs, as we are invited to spend this afternoon with the Young Maidens of Sonneberg. Two of us had to study a book telling about the history of our hometown, Muehlhausen, in order to relate it to our hosts. Arrived at down-town Sonneberg; we were greeted cordially by their Young Maidens' Leader and led into their youth-building where a group of Young Maidens received us. They had fallen in line and stood at attention - wonderfully disciplined. At the beginning of the program Inge and I played some march-music on our concertinas. Some Young Maidens from Sonneberg talked about their hometown and then presented the fairy-tale "King Thrushbeard." Then they sang songs and taught us "On a clear springmorning". Eve Tuchsher told the story of Muehlhausen, and Renata Gropp described the "Kirmes," a local fall-festival with evergreen trees put up in streets adorned with bright paper-chains and painted eggshells and costumed children dancing around them and later having coffee and cake at tables set up under the trees; at night the grownups drink beer, eat coldcuts and make merry. She also told about our well or spring festivals taking place each June, where school children all dressed in white, with girls wearing wreaths of fresh roses on their heads and boys holding bouquets, occupy the circular steps around the well which supplies the town with fresh water, singing songs of thanksgiving and throwing flowers into the water. FIFTH DAY: This was the day of our trip to the fortress of Coburg. As we march thru Sonneberg in step, our songs reverberate from the walls and roofs of the narrow, steep-gabled houses. On the train we muse and wonder whether Coburg will be an even more glorious experience than the doll-museum. Arrived at Coburg; we are no longer in Thuringia but Bavaria. Our first tour will take us co the Fortress - an ancient stately edifice, visible from downtown Coburg. How impressive must it look from close-up. The first thing we contemplate upon reaching the top of the hill is a huge well. It is about twenty meters deep and during the middle-ages served principally for the execution of those sentenced 50 �preliminary prompting, in harmony, with a certain quality of melancholy softness in our voices - feeling very close to one another: /rAs the setting sun was sending forth his last rays, A small regiment of Hitler marched into the small town. Sadly echoed their songs thru the small, quiet village, For they were carrying to his grave one of their loyal comrades." I have always liked this song. It reminds me of the way things must have been during our Leader's emergence, when his followers had to protect his and their lives in daily battle against the Reds and reactionaries. They won and with their battle-cry "Germany awaken!" led our nation, which had been wallowing in the shame of senseless and unjust defeat, to the pinnacle of glory and pride - one nation under the Leader, whose crown shall never again be stolen by strangers. This is our last night in the hostel. Each group presents a skit. Before retiring we pack our suitcases, as we will have to arise rather early in the morning. At bedtime, Elizabeth tells us a deliciously spooky story, after which we quickly fall asleep. EIGHTH DAY: Departure. Up at six o'clock-then permission to take a stroll thru the forest for half an hour, after which we assemble in single file in front of the kitchen door to receive food for the trip home. We take leave from our denmother. As there is only one handcart available, more than half of us carry our own suitcases. Our journey back to Muehlhausen lasts eight hours, ?s we have to hit the bpmb shelter thrice. Arrived at Muehlhausen; I took the streetcar home after shaking hands with Elizabeth. I shall never forget those days at leadercandidates camp, and each time I remember the dream-like town of Sonneberg, I hum the song they taught us: "On a clear Springmorning ..." MONDAY, 31 AUGUST 1942: Oh, how long ago, since I last wrote into this book, and how much has happened since! It is barely ,four weeks ago that I returned to my wigwam from a long journey. I spent a few weeks in Bavaria. First, I spent six days in Munich and then three weeks in a sailing school at Lake Starnberg. I have seen, experienced, and learnt much. Upon my return home, I received a major blow: Our beloved German and Drama Instructor, Dr. Dieckman has been transferred to a school in Erfurt. Oh, what a genius she was. While she was far from pretty in the usual sense, she had eyes which could sparkle with enthusiasm or shoot thunderbolts in anger. She is also our music teachel 52 �When I ordered cocoa, the waitress stared at me in consternation and the rest of the people at the table giggled "There is a war going on, remember," remarked Ingrid. "Boy, one can tell you haven't eaten in restaurants much lately! " During the six days I stayed in Munich I saw the "Platz," a comic theater with hilarious shows, where they even tell political jokes, but I am sure even our Leader would laugh at them; the "Last Adventure," a stage drama in the "Residenz" Theater; a variety show in the German Theater, where one of the features was a woman who had nothing on but a veil where you could see thru. Herbert, Ingrid's fiancee, had raised a big fuss about it beforehand, but I didn't find it very exciting. Then I visited the German art exhibit, the English Garden, the Chinese tower, the Nymphenburg Castle, the Botanical Garden, the Animal Park at Hellabrunn, the Brown House where the National Socialistic Party used to have their first meetings, the Hall of Commanders-in-Chief, where many of Hitler's followers were gunned down in 1923, the Hall of Fame of the Fallen Heroes, all of the latter three buildings on King's square, the fantastic Italian ice-cream parlor" the night-club "Simplissimus," where they let me in, because I looked much, much older than thirteen with makeup on, the Chinese restaurant with the horrible yellow-faced types. There was a lady in the backroom. She was white and had a baby carriage along. In it I saw a cute baby with yellow skin but large black eyes without the mongolian crease. They said she is married to a Chinese. Poor little baby - having to grow up as a bastard - what a racial shame! I stayed with Ingrid in her furnished room on the third floor of a rental apartment building which was old and smelled of cabbage and poor unwashed people. I met quite a few of Ingrid's fellow students in the chemical department of the Technical University of Munich. One was Jimmy Penard, who was born in Java and had a Dutch father and French mother. Another one, Hans, had his leg in a cast, because something blew up during one of his experiments in the lab. Then there was Alfred of GermanAmerican parents who had sent him over here just before the war broke out. He is a redhead, speaks German with a soft foreign accent, is very friendly and surely doesn't look like a spy for American imperialist powers. He has to report to the police every week, but other than that they leave him alone and let him continue his studies. He said to me in Ingrid's presence that I am prettier than she is, but afterwards she told me that this was just one of his usual weird ideas. So, I doubt whether it's true. 54 �coffee in the restaurant "Hans Gruss." Our return trip, however, proved a disaster. We had to row the whole way. The sun was setting, and the sky presented a unique and breath-taking picture. Above us, the sky was dark blue, while in the west it was blood-red, as the moon hung suspended in the sky in the Southeast - the moods of night and day fused into one. We reached the sailing school at 12: 30 a.m. a moonlit rowing party. Although everybody was dead-tired, Ingrid, Herbert and another student sneaked into the garden of a governmentsponsored children's camp and relieved the bushes of about three glass jars full of boysenberries, which they shared with me. After Herbert and Ingrid had left to go back to Munich, I learnt how to sail an olympic jolly-boat - a tiny sailboat without a foresail and therefore easily managed by one person, but also easy to capsize. So, Old Hein made us, the next youngest student, seventeen-year-old Otto and me, wear a life-belt - ridiculous. We sailed off smoothly and proceeded to cross the lake. As our work was done for the time being, we had time to talk some. He told me that he was an orphan of well-to-do parents and that his guardian was sending him to a very strict and joyless boarding school. He didn't seem to me like the type who needed a strict boarding school, as he was a good buddy - well behaved, reserved and efficient in managing the boat. We landed the boat safely on the other side of the lake, had a soft drink in a small restaurant, which tasted like hard candy dissolved in water, then sailed back to the school. We also learnt how to tie sailors knots - a whole gob of them. As is always the case with me, I had an easy time learning the complicated knots and a heck of a time grasping the easy ones. I and everybody else thought I'd never manage the square knot - after I knew all the other ones - but at last the coin dropped. Then one Sunday the rest of the students accompanied me to the train, and I had a hard time keeping my tears back, as I was leaving for home. FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 1942: Hurrah, fall vacations will start on October 3, and a group of girls of our class will go to the City of Weymar, where we'll meet Dixie (Dr. Dieckmann) and go to the theater. We wonder what they'll play. This year I also will have a birthday party, and as soon as we have peace, I'll have the wildest party ever. When will there be peace? Only God and, perhaps, the Leader know. The main thing is to win the war, and win we shall. Everybody knows that, even the enemy. WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23,1942 : What in the world am I to 56 �We shall not retreat. Last year my parents turned in their entire skiing equipment and fur-lined coats to help our boys in Russia. People were beautiful and sacrificed all they could. As a result, there is a huge surplus of skis this year and is sold to the civilian population for a song. I bought a pair. They are good skis and painted white. I like to ski thru the forest by Muehlhausen. There is a hilly clearing in the middle of the forest called the "Katalaunic Fields," where many of us practice. Something strange happened the other day. As I came out of the forest and was about to ski out into the road to go home, I saw a group of people approaching along the road. I waited to let them pass. They looked so strange. They were guarded by soldiers and looked like ghosts. They couldn't have been prisoners of war or ordinary DP's (displaced persons brought to Germany from liberated countries to contribute their share in the war effort). They wore neither uniforms nor dresses, but long white gowns with hoods over their heads. Prisoners of war and laborers from other countries talk usually, and the women quite often giggle, but these just drudged along as if each of them were carrying something heavy. Their heads were bowed, their faces looked stony and motionless and not really pale white but yellowishly sallow. I tried to catch a glimpse of their downcast eyes. Somehow I expected or even hoped to see anger or hatred in them, but what little I could see was a lack of even a reflection, like lights gone out. As I could see the backs of the first of them, I saw a huge thick black cross painted across each gown. The white gowns looked dirty against the snow. I felt uncomfortable. Why wasn't there any meanness or hatred in their eyes, and why were they so completely silent. They seemed as if chained together, only there weren't any chains. And the guards didn't look severe or proud and erect but almost apologetic and completely and utterly apart from them. The whole group looked as if laden with a curse - a curse - a curse. Suddenly it occurred to me who they were. Only, I don't know whether they were men or women, because of the gowns. And those thick huge black crosses - like a symbol of branding. They must work at the factory in the middle of the forest. They looked quite different from what I had thought they would look like. JANUARY 1943: I am quite busy now, even after school, as I am in charge of thirty Young Maidens now. We meet twice a week, study for singing rallies, have drill sessions in the large yard of the Youth Home, once in a while I speak on a certain political topic handed down to me from my superiors. Frequently we visit local field hospitals, 58 �have guns instead of butter if that's what's needed for our victory. We have to get up nights more frequently to descend into the bombshelter. Sometimes Dad and I climb up onto the flat roof of our very high brewery building, and with fieldglasses we can see the flashes of antiaircraft 50 miles West of us in the City of Kassel. On their way to Berlin, the American four-engine bomber-planes fly over Muehlhausen. We can distinguish their deep, sonorous drone from the sounds of smaller planes very easily. Frequently, during the daytime, on clear days, I can detect them with my eyes, flying very, very high, often merely by the reflection of the sun from their metallic bodies. And if one doesn't think about the rest, it is a very beautiful and thrilling picture. 60 �~ I ���MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE KIOSK Volume XXXI Spring, 1972 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College. Through its several titles—Manuscript, Perspectives, and Kiosk—the magazine has a long history of celebrating creative writing and art on campus. It began publication in 1938 under the title of Manuscript before changing its name to Perspectives in 1953. Then in 1971 it took another name that it is known by currently: Kiosk. It is still published annually by the Morningside College English Department. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1938- Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Morningside College Library Morningside College English Department Ponder, Marcie: Digital Creator Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical PDF Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Title A name given to the resource Kiosk Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource "The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children," (The Kiosk, 2003). Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. -MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE KIOSK Volume XXXI Spring, 1972 KIOSK Published by the students of Morningside College Sioux City, Iowa Volume XXXI Spring, 1972 CONTRIBUTORS FRANK c. BANYS, JR. 5 Night of the Pig Short Story TERRY WRIGHT 13 LINDA KANGAL 19 Birth Rite Short Story J. 26 A Poem CHANDLER ROUGH Before The Window, Sunshade, The Wind on Tuesday Night Poems LYN MUNHALL 27 Flowerheads Seemed To Beckon Me Out of Myself Critical Essay T. R. DILLARD 35 McCaully Lake A Poem ROCHELLE STEFANSON 38 Like A Prism _ .Fiction __ KAREN ISBELL 47 Hitleryouth Diary Artwork by Linda Bittman, Jennifer Coates, Dianne Mumm and Marla Uwen EDITOR: T. R. DILLARD ASSISTANT EDITOR: JEFFREY STREEBY FACULTY ADVISORS : D. H. STEFANSON ELINOR SHAPIRO FRANK BRENEISEN FRANK C. BANYS, JR. NIGHT OF THE PIG Some men dream of being a king and never become one. I always wanted a beard. Doodle Staus Doodle Staus hated his first girl friend. He didn't mind hiding in cemeteries at night and looking for old farm houses in the country, but Doodle couldn't tolerate any girl who didn't appreciate his sense of humor. He ended his relationship with Molly late one night on a beach when she told Doodle that her sister had busted a te):lflis racket over her head, and Doodle didn't stop laughing until she threw a beer bottle at his ear and knocked him into the lake. When Doodle woke up he saw Molly crying in a car with his best friend. Doodle called to her. He smiled as she came over, stood silently beside him and kicked him in the other ear. Doodle never told his parents about what happened that night. He loved Molly too much for that. It was late the next day before Doodle managed to get home. His best friend had taken Doodle's car and Molly home. It was easier explaining the ears than the car. Doodle's parents listened to his story and said that their son had done no wrong. Doodle lost his car forrwo weeks. When Doodle regained his hearing and his car, he decided to join a combo and get a new girl friend. He had played in a saxophone quartet in junior high school and later he had carried amplifiers for the kids who played in the lot behind his house. Doodle's father liked to 5 listen to their music while he was painting the house and wanted Doodle to join the combo. But Doodle just talked about the group he used to play with. It was a great life for Doodle Staus. Everyone knew that he wanted to organize a new group, but no one that Doodle talked to (and Doodle was very careful about whom he talked to) wanted to join a combo. It was really great when no one else wanted to be in a rock combo. If someone did ask about joining, Doodle started talking about the group that he used to play with and how great it was, but he didn't like the guys. Everyone was so impressed by Doodle's old group that no one wanted to be embarrassed by joining a combo led by someone as famous and talented as Doodle Staus. None of the girls would go out with Doodle; they thought he was queer because he laughed all of the time. Doodle was nearly destroyed by his cousin Sandy who was a little odd and wanted to impress the girls by being in a combo. Sandy was the first person Doodle saw when he got his car back after his former best friend had taken Molly home. Sandy was also the only person who would ride around with Doodle and go to the drive-in to get hamburgers and hustle the girls. The trouble came when Sandy heard that Doodle wanted to form a new combo. Sandy had carried amplifiers for a combo and knew every song in "How to Learn to Play the Guitar in Thirty Minutes" and was very proud that he knew a kid who could play two hundred chords without looking them up and who wanted to be in a combo. Sandy also made every kid he knew join the combo. It was a great group. It lasted two weeks and never had a playing gig. Doodle played Marty's bass. He had never played a bass guitar before but everyone said that he learned real quick and no one minded paying for the strings that he busted - and Marty made them pay for because Doodle had a big car and none of them could play any better than Doodle, which pleased him tremendously. Doodle never said anything while he was playing except "How do you play this?" and once in a while he talked to the girls who came over to Bryce's house to watch them. The group wasn't organized. They didn't need two rhythm guitarists. Patrick could play real well, but Sandy had a car and they didn't want to say anything to him. No one sang, but once in a while the trumpet player, who told everyone that he could play the organ even though no one believed him, would try to sing. He made funny faces and wasn't too bad at "Hey, little girl, can I carry your 6 • balloon?" but he didn't know the rest of the words and no one knew the chords ~ they didn't play that one. Marty, who owned the bass guitar that Doodle played, was the lead guitarist which meant that he only played three or four bars during a whole song because the group had two rhythm guitarists and no one likes a lead guitarist who starts faking it. Eventually Marty bought a . folk guitar and quit the group. He sat at home, staring out the window, :strumming his folk guitar, writing adds to the paper trying to sell the guitar so he could buy a car. Marty was the first one to quit the group. Of course everyone hated Marty, but no one paid any attention to what Stanley did except for Doodle who had to play bass lines on his saxophone when Marty took his bass home and wouldn't talk to him, which wrecked the group because no one knew how to tune the guitars to the saxophone and Doodle didn't like transposing every line. No one could hear him anyway so it didn't matter. When Sandy blew the radiator on his '61 Plymouth while driving up a hill in the cemetery at Jackson with four kids on the hood the group no longer had two rhythm guitarists; they kicked Sandy out, which didn't hurt any feelings, except Sandy'S, who went over to Marty's house and looked at Marty's new guitar a lot. No one wanted to tell Sandy that he couldn't play in the group anymore so they just quit telling him where they practiced. Sandy came tp a couple of them anyway, but everyone threatened to hit him if he didn't leave so Sandy would go to the drive-in and get a hamburger and try to hustle the girls. Usually half of the group would be at the drive-in so there was always someone to talk to. When Sandy's car blew up, Doodle was the only one who had a car. When the group wanted to go out, everyone gave him a quarter (one kid owed him $3.75 but no one said anything about it) and the guys would go out looking for girls. It was hard to find seven girls in one car who wanted to go up to Jackson and look at a cemetery. One night they made two girls go with them. That was the night Sandy blew up the '61 Plymouth (with Doodle and Bryce and the two girls on the hood) while he was trying to get around the corner at the top of the hill in the cemetery at Jackson. Maybe that doesn't count since Sandy was the only guy kicked out of the group, but Sandy always said that he had a right to be in the group because he knew every song in "How to Learn to Play the Guitar in Thirty Minutes" and owned half the microphone which no one used except the trumpet player, and Doodle when 7 he played the saxophone. One day Doodle found a song called "Melody for an Unknown Girl" ift a music book that someone had brought along. He played it on the saxophone and no one said anything; they just sat there and looked at him. It was the only song anyone in the group could do. It was beautiful. When Doodle's father heard what had happened to Sandy's car, he took Doodle's keys away. It didn't matter though, because by then everyone except Sandy and Marty had joined a new group. The new group wanted Doodle to carry amplifiers for them, but without a car there wasn't much he could do. Everyone quit the new group when Doodle got his car back and started going up to Jackson, except Marty and Sandy who rode around in Sandy's '61 Plymouth looking for girls. Marty sold his folk guitar to Sandy and bought a '57 Chevy that didn't have any tires and he sat at home looking at his car, reading the paper, and looking for a set of tires. Finally, Marty bought four tires from Sandy who sold his '61 Plymouth to Doodle's neighbor who no longer had a combo and wanted to ride around with the guys, but everyone knew he had bad breath and no one wanted to ride with him. Patrick, who played rhythm guitar, was the first to get a girl friend. She was ugly, but no one else had a girl so she was the sweetheart of their rose patch, which is why Patrick was conceited about the whole thing, and why Doodle hated him. One Sunday, Sandy and Patrick pushed Doodle in the river and jumped on him. They didn't tell anyone that Doodle was turning purple and making funny bubbles until Sandy's dad asked them why they were sitting in the water like that and where Doodle was and then made them come out. When Doodle quit choking and got on his feet he hit both of them in the mouth, but no one said anything about it, except Patrick and Sandy who wouldn't go riding with him anymore. Patrick, who didn't have a car, wanted Marty to go to the drive-in with him and his ugly girl. Marty couldn't find a girl so he asked Doodle to come along with his car and jumper cables to start the '57 Chevy because Marty couldn't afford a good battery and didn't want to go too far without someone along who had one. Besides, Doodle was the only one old enough to buy beer. Doodle, being honest and devoted to his father who told him never to start anyone else's car because "You're going to wreck the god-damn 8 alternator and I ain't goin' to get a new one" and was six-four barefoot, refused, saying that everyone who wanted to go could get in one car. Besides, Doodle knew that the girl let Patrick take off her clothes, and he wanted to watch. Patrick didn't want to go in Doodle's car. He wanted to be alone with his girl friend in Stanley's '57 Chevy, and called Doodle a squirrel. Doodle, who was nobody's fool, hit Patrick in the mouth. Marty and Doodle found Sandy and went to the drive-in. The group seemed to be breaking up. Everyone hated Doodle, except when Marty wasn't around and his car wasn't working, and Doodle hated everyone except the girl who went to the drive-in with him and loved Doodle for hitting Patrick when he bothered them. Patrick told everyone that he knew karate and was going to break Doodle's arm, which didn't bother Doodle, whose former best friend was a Golden Gloves boxer and had taught Doodle everything he knew about boxing and threatened to have Doodle arrested if he didn't stop bothering Molly. No one knew where the trumpet player went to. Marty was always in his '57 Chevy at the drive-in hustling girls with Sandy, and Patrick wouldn't talk to any of them, especially Doodle, who said that he was going to kill Patrick. Bryce, the little drummer, was the only guy who liked Doodle. Karen loved Bryce and told everyone that she was his girl friend. Bryce was a stoic teenager. Even when Marty pushed Karen's mother into the cop and poured wine down her pants, Bryce didn't laugh. Of course Bryce was in love with Karen's mother and mad at Marty for being drunk and trying to take her clothes off. Everything was fine until Marty started leading Karen's mother down the stairs by her bra straps. Bryce left Karen (who was the group's new sweetheart and the object of anyone's affection) sitting on a warm six-pack and ran down the street, waving Karen's panties. Doodle never made fun of people if they enjoyed what they were doing. Coke Pennington and her boy friend took pictures with a Polaroid and Bow-Wow Bengford was caught behind Chicken Delight, which was stupid because no one would have said anything if she had stayed in the house with the Doberman; it's all a matter of taste. Jeff was Doodle's cousin. Bryce could never understand why, because they looked alike and would have been twins if Jeff hadn't been three inches taller and thirty pounds lighter. Doodle called Bryce's brother Cousin Brucie (which bothered Bryce because he didn't know any cousin 9 named Brucie although he did have a brother named Bruce who was stupid and didn't care what anyone called him as long as it wasn't mean or nasty or offensive to his mother). Everyone was happy. Jeff got along quite well with Brucie and Bryce when they went riding with Doodle. Bryce and Brucie knew Jeff, which made Doodle feel better because Jeff never talked to strangers and very few people that he knew had ever heard him talk to anyone. Doodle heard Jeff talk to one stranger. That was the theatre manager who wouldn't let them in to see the dirty movies. Cousin Brucie was dumb. He was the only kid Doodle knew who flunked driver's education twice; but he could beat Doodle playing chess. Brucie always wanted Doodle to come over and play chess but Doodle didn't like losing and Brucie didn't have a car so he didn't have to play. Doodle liked to have Brucie along when they went to Jackson, though, because Brucie knew the twins who lived behind the church and would go riding with anyone as long as Cousin Brucie was in the car. He had a way with the twins, who were with Bryce and Doodle when Sandy's '61 Plymouth blew up; Brucie was in the back with Marty. One evening Doodle went over to a kid's house to get Bryce and Brucie. The new group was practicing in the basement and Bryce drummed. Brucie carried amplifiers. The kid who owned the house had carried amplifiers around for the old group until his dad gave him a five-hundred dollar Guild Double Starfire arch-top cut-away with twinanti-hum-magnetic pick-ups and Bigsby tailpiece for his birthday. He started the new group and wouldn't let Sandy or Marty join. The kid who owned the Guild guitar always called Doodle before a gig, though, because he remembered Doodle had a neat car and knew that the kid owed him $3.75 and needed the money. Bryce and Brucie left in Doodle's car. The kid who owned the Guild guitar went with them because Doodle knew that he had fifty cents. They found Marty and Sandy with the rest of the guys in Marty'S '57 Chevy, which had four bald tires on it. They sat at the drive-in eating hamburgers and wondering why there weren't any girls around on a nice night. Sandy had a bottle of wine, and started yelling at Doodle and calling everyone a pervert. The owner of the drive-in asked them all to leave; he wouldn't have been so mad if Marty hadn't run over a trash can and set it on fire. They parked behind the church and finished the hamburgers. Sandy w.as still upset about the trash can. He told Doodle that he could hustle 10 • a girl quicker than Doodle could and Marty bet Doodle that he could get a girl to go riding around. The kid who had the Guild guitar and fifty cents left with Marty. Doodle kept the fifty cents. Doodle circled the block and went to the twins' house. They were out with their boyfiends so Doodle headed for Karen's house. Marty was leaving just as they got there. Marty didn't have any luck with Karen's mother who wanted to go out but her husband said no, and Karen wasn't going anywhere without her mother along, especially with Bryce, who was the only guy she didn't like because he kept her panties beneath his bed and showed them to all of his friends. Doodle went to Cousin Jeff's house because he had seven sisters, which was a surprise to Uncle Joe who said that no woman would ever get his money. Only the twins were home and Bryce thought that eightyear-olds might not count. Steve wanted to show up Sandy, even if Sandy was Doodle's cousin and not his, but Jeff was Doodle's cousin too, and Jeff didn't know Sandy that well. Jeff put on his sister's wig. Doodle thought that he could wear something more than aT-shirt but there wasn't time for that. Jeff was cute with a wig on, some might have said that he was beautiful, but no one did because they didn't want anyone to think that they were queer. They found Marty's car parked in front of the church, and pulled in front of it away from the street lights. When the others came running over Bryce yelled "wee got a girl!" Doodle left. Marty sprained his wrist trying to hold onto the door handle but Doodle lost him on a hard turn around a corner. He was yelling when they left so Doodle figured Marty wasn't hurt too bad. Doodle's car won by default when Marty couldn't get his started and everyone had to walk home. It wasn't late when they left Marty on the corner. Jeff wanted to go to Jackson and drive through the cemetery. Doodle went past the church and headed for Jackson after he bought fifty cents worth of gas. Doodle played race-car driver on the corners, spinning around on the banked graveL Everyone hid under the seats and hit him, but he just laughed. He knew the back road to Jackson. He felt every bump, every corner. He memorized every house, every long stretch that he could park on if he had a girl with him. It was a great road to Jackson. Bryce and Jeff sat in the back seat, putting on the wig and laughing at each other. Cousin Brucie sat in the front seat watching Doodle drive. No one cared about four nice guys driving down a country road, not even the pig Doodle killed. 11 The pig was waltlng for them along the road. Doodle saw him first. Brucie never saw the pig, even when Doodle had pushed him into the ditch. Jeff and Bryce saw the pig come out onto the road and run toward the car. It was the pig's fault. If he hadn't stuck his face in front of the car, Doodle wouldn't have hit him like that. The car spun down the road for a long while before Doodle could stop. Doodle didn't want to go back but Jeff and Bryce thought that it would be neat to look at the pig and, anyway, they would be in more trouble if they just left him lying there. Brucie was asking why everyone was so excited and why Doodle looked so silly. Bryce and Jeff sat on the trunk and rode back to where the pig was rolling around in the ditch, making funny sounds and spinning his eyeballs. Bryce said that it was neat but Doodle wouldn't get out of the car until the pig was dead or went away. Jeff wanted to put the pig in the trunk and take him home but Doodle made them get in the car so he could leave before the farmer came along and shot all of them for killing his pig. They went down to Jackson, saw the cemetery, and came back on the same road. The pig was dead. Doodle never told his parents about what happened that night. He loved the pig too much for that. 12 TERRY WRIGHT BEFORE THE WINDOW thinking back we havent had a word all day long have i waited for you before the window to see you coming my way and imagine what a simple wretch like me could be the way the words sound i could listen all day 13 SUNSHADE growing on the lawn tree back to back cultivating a smile thinking a thought im doing nothing carving my name on my shoesole and wondering past a walk in the morning occasional greetings familiar faces 14 THE WIND ON TUESDAY NIGHT the ice dances and crawls along the field in my window i sense the wind making conversation to my pencil as i scrawl out a poem that it reads aloud 15 UNTITLED a sleepy lean on the crutch of recovery getting well again i guess my past is past and over and over at last i finally have known i dont need the high now just you eating away my mold old time fire happier rhymes you tell me so 16 LINDA BITIMAN LINDA BrITMAN LINDA KANGAL BIRTH RITE At the hospital the pains seem to have stopped. I stand looking at the double-barreled doors. Maybe this is not the time, maybe it will wait till Rob gets home, but he said to go on no matter what, especially if he is not here. The hospital doors open with a sucking noise, hitting against the suitcase. I stand in the lobby holding the coat together where it won't button in front, looking at a statue saint with plastic flowers stuck in its feet. A janitor turns to stare. Dim lights pin prick the pool around his mop and my shoes track the wet linoleum. The elevator jolts into place, doors slicing the air with light. I can feel the weight between my legs. A blood red carpet pushes me up with the flashing floor numbers. The sudden stop pulls me against doors that tear open into a gray hall and splice shut behind me. The nurse is talking into a phone clamped against her neck. The ward caves back to each side of the glass light booth where she is sitting. Her fingernails move, perfectly shaped and polished, across the page. She clicks the receiver into place and the pen, uninterrupted, neatly loops along the line. An intercom echoes down the hall. When she looks up her eyes are grey slate, staring through me, pressing me into the tile walls. Then .the eyes look down again and the pen, momentarily halted, 19 continues under the gleaming oval nails. The baby seems to shrink inside me. Rob says they have to pay attention, I'm sure they would listen to him. Suddenly the pain surges against my legs, and biting my lower lip, I step to the front of the desk. Her hand, raised palm flat, stops me; the other continues to loop across the page in slow precise movements. The suitcase pulls my arm, my body wrenches itself from the burning pain, and the pen moves soundlessly forward. What if she never speaks to me? I can't think how to stop the writing. From the room behind the desk, laughter spurts into the silence and fades into the walls. The chart snaps shut and she looks up at me, "May I help you?" Maybe this isn't the maternity ward. She says it like she doesn't know what I'm here for. The tip of her thump clicks the pen: point up, point down. ''I'm going to have my baby. My husband is out of town." The bulb above her head flickers like it's going to burn out soon, flashing a second into slow motion. She sits there clicking her pen and asking questions, impatient for the answers. The pain is coming again, my eyes start to burn. From the next room a bottle cap clicks into place, and the murmuring stops. A fat nurse nudges the back of my knees with a wheelchair. I feel the hospital closing in on me. The nurses watch with efficient impatience while my burnt out mouth struggles with the words. The big nurse has her arms folded. The neat one behind the desk is clicking her pen, waiting. "Take her to labor four, she's four minutes apart." The hall is fuzzy now with the grey flannel pain creeping up between my legs. "My husband, Bob .." The small nurse's face floats under the lights, pen clicking insistently: "You don't have to bother calling him, I mean, I left word at his office." Silly, they don't have time to bother finding Rob, they must think I am stupid. I breathe letting the pain take over crawling up inch by inch, feeling myself fade back into the wheelchair. I am in a stall-sized white steel room with the heavy nurse undressing me, scraping the cloth against my skin. I watch her hang up the clothes, the underwear and slacks neatly hidden by the maternity tent top. A woman's moan drifts through the hall with the smell of alcohol, pulsated by the pumped tones of an ambulance somewhere below. A straight chair stands in the corner. Bob should sit there, or maybe pull it close to hold my hand. There are too many decisions to make alone. The pain creeps up hard and the chair stands empty: doubles, buckling, rolling away, and snapping back. 20 I am in a stall watching my father deliver a calf. The smell of blood clings as the skin rips open; the skeletal calf's head is covered with mucus. Shrieking animal squeals seem to fall and lay with the heavy stench in the thick straw. The pain pounds at my stomach; and I come up gasping for air; smelling the pustuous blood, feeling liquid spreading between my legs. "Your water broke, calm down now honey." The small nurse is standing beside me, her hand coming out from under the sheet. She wraps the blood pressure band around my arm and pumps it tight. The room writhes in smell and scream; and she, smiling, pumps the rubber bulb murmuring about the rain. The sandpaper catch of the band rips my arm as her hand feels along my belly like a woman stopping for tomatoes. The pain shoots up my body and I remember they knock out the animal sometimes. She watches, her eyes darting from my heaving bulk to the watch strapped to the back of her wrist. The punctured tile ceiling floats down like a coffin, its iced neon tubes boxing me in. "Breathe deep now." She gazes out the window, one hand resting on me. The pain backs slowly down into my body and I hear her nylons rasp together as she leaves the room. Outside, cars slither past the hospital on the wet pavement. It seems strange, those cars passing this second, probably not even glancing up at the windows. Every Sunday Rob and I drive by, "This is where our baby is going to be born." And inside I am alone. The clock clicks a notch. Driving out there, they probably don't know what time it is. Here, seven o'clock is three minutes past the white hot pain climbing up the side of the bed, pushing across my belly. My own moaning caught somewhere, sounding far away beneath the large round white clock, like an eye so big it can not see the writhing below. Coming out I can't remember, short pants or deep gasps. Frantic, I alternate; that is important, they won't like my doing it wrong. I reach for the buzzer to ask, but they are in the hall now, talking hard, fast, with bored voices that rest in the back of their throats. People that know what to do, their fingertips boxing in each action. I drop the buzzer letting it clank against the bars of the bed. The clock clicks another three minutes, the second hand moving like it measures something bigger than just seconds. The window reflection frames the big nurse coming in with a razor and basin. Her large face is blank as she throws back the sheet. "Now the fun part, I'm going to prep you." I want to tell her the shade is up, ask if anyone can see in, but the 21 razor claws cold and slow between my legs and her face bulges, ·intense. Her lips are pursed like she's shaving a face. "What do you want a boyar a girl?" "I don't care." And her working down there calm as a barber. The pain comes again, a burning molten pushing. The razor stops as I twist to grab the steel bars holding me inside the bed, thinking how the bars should be Rob and trying not to cry. All the baby blankets are pink but now I don't care. Layers of hot pain press in. It is Christmas, my cousin and I are lying on the floor, looking up the full skirts as they pass by. The tight garments girdle the doughy, garter-gripped flesh. One aunt has her period. The blood is staining in a red widening circle. She puts her foot down hard on my stomach, her red mouth wide as the red circle between her legs. Her face grows larger, redder as she presses hard; caught mid-laugh, I gaze into the deep pool of black-red blood that turns slowly into the clammy face of the big nurse with razor poised. The clawing starts again between my legs. The fat face smiles like at a small child or dog. "That was a good one, won't be long now." With each scrape she wipes the razor clean and dips It tOto the basin. The pain is coming fast like a cat going down a mountain and its hind going faster, clawing for a foothold. "Just breathe easy, honey. We have to get this finished." The flat face closes in, like when a camera gets too close, and the features distort. The nose bulges out, and the eyes double and swim in pillows of crow-footed fat. People stare like that, straight at your stomach, not even looking into your eyes, like you must have done something dirty. Bob says it is my imagination, anyway they don't start when I'm with him. The pain comes off slow now, mounted like a fighting cat clawing at my sides for a hold. The nurse's hand is coming out. "Cervix at five, keep breathing deep." Maybe Rob has called, but I don't want to ask. They talk over me like I'm unconscious. "She's at five, call the doctor again." The pain is bad now, clawing and scratching its way, hanging on, pushing like you can't ever shake it. Gripping like a mountain cat climbing a rock wall, digging in with sharp claws and you keep waiting for it to loose its grip, to fall off. And it keeps coming like it can pull stone apart and it doesn't matter anymore what is happening. The numbers 22 blur on the clock staring above my struggling body like an eye preoccupied. I can feel the small nurse, her crepe sales gripping the floor. The alcohol drenched cotton stings cold on my arm, then the needle is pumping into my blood, and I wait for the skillet pain to ease with her hand in me. Her face not even following the hand but staring at the sheet as if it were not there. Her fingers probe higher into the white hot inside. I fight. And her face like she is squeezing blood from meat patties. Her voice cuts through sheets of pain. Breathe deep, it is important she know that I am trying. I can hear my voice, separate floating around the ceiling, echoing back at me Rob's name. The room is filled with a colorless smoke that snarls and twists, taking away my breath. And above it all is the cyclops eye notching a minute a second, and me twisting alone below with the smoke and the cat grip pain. Now the clock slips away and I move into a cold white-light corridor across a slippery wax smell, the pain battering fast. From all around great circles of colored light spill and mingle with the steel reflection in blinding pain that reaches me through my eyelids, and I not caring anymore who hears. The steel room shouts back the voices, magnifies the colored pain. They are pushing me now, making me climb on to the iron cold table. Moving myself into the leather bindings, pushing down the cold iron, my legs splayed and bound. Moving into it as if wanting it, and all the time thinking if I could just stop now, stop all the pain. Thrusting my body down towards the masked doctor and the white table of instruments, and pulling back with the pain. A mask covers my face, pushing a gas up where the breath should come out, a sweet gas that sticks like honey to the breathing. The pain cone-tips thrust from pin point swirling louder, surging redder, bursting in color then receding and coming again with the sound like a gauze holding my brain back from the knowing. Instructions fall behind gauze, distant but loud, caught in a whirlpool of noise color and the far off anger of life and fighting the gauze now not caring what is beyond. And somehow through the directions filtering the gauze, a vibrating, buzzing going louder. A screaming, threatening spiral of color and noise bursts into my vision like blinding fireworks seen through a gauze felt pad. Fighting the blade-red, blind-red, black-red; that sweet sucking pain is gone. Sodden and inert like a tired swimmer treading water, and the circles through the mirrored steel and the sweet swirling fog. 23 A baby is crying. The cry eddies around me like a stream rippling a single rock. I hear the nurses. "What is it?" "I can't see." "A boy." The doCtor's voice now, "You have a nice boy here." And I am opening my eyes to the blinding glare. Single. Alone. "You've got another patient out here, doctor. Heinz." "I don't have any Heinz. What does she look like?" "Spe's dilated to three. What do you want to do with her? The baby has quit crying. Babies always cry. Something is wrong, they have forgotten the baby. I watch the needle go in and out. I hear the nurses mumbling behind the doctor. "Put her in labor, you say it's Heinz? " The nurses are quiet, if something is wrong they won't tell me, they will wait for Rob to know first. Suddenly my voice is asking loud about the baby, and the nurse is putting him down beside me, apologizing. tAnd the baby is looking through a mirror my own face there starting again on a baby and I alone and the needle is dim now glazed and the baby is alone and together we lie on the steel table. A gray silk dawn slips in and out of my consciousness like satin folded sheets. The cyclops eye ticks its numbers. It is all over. My body lies silent and numb, consciously still. The pillowcase crackles as I move my head toward the brown buzzer, warm and moist in my hand. I did it alone, the nurses come now when I ring the buzzer. Silently I watch the window-framed light creep around the building corner. I think back again of the blood-stained baby lying on me and look down the bed past my stomach that is gone. Rob has not come yet and the aloneness feels good. I push the buzzer again. A different nurse comes into the room, her uniform swinging fiercely with her stride." We're awake now I see. What did you have?" She begins kneading my stomach, pushing liquid pain out between the legs. Her short stubby frame barely reaches over the rails of the bed. "Sorry honey, I've got to do this." Her face is red and her corset side brushes steel against my breast. It isn't visiting hours, but when I ask she says she'll bring the baby out. She bustles out of the room, her shorr legs pumping. The shadows are pushing back into the corners now, the sun's early haze shines through the mist outside. I can see the baby, they have saved nothing to tell my 24 husband, nothing I can't know first. Concentrating, I wiggle my toes. The sun goes and comes with the sleep slipping in and out of my consciousness. Warm waves of confidence come. Rob didn't want to leave, he was sure I couldn't handle it alone. Rolling over I face the sunlight and the window and the day my baby was born. Out in the hall someone is talking; slowly the sound comes through the sun waves like the shadow of a spiked pole. The short square nurse comes rushing in pulling the blinds till the sun is slatted with shadow. She says my husband is here; the baby will have to wait. And I hear Rob in the hall talking to the doctor. 25 J. CHANDLER ROUGH Sifting through the ruins of a recent party; napkins under glasses filled with wine made watery from melted ice, covering up the rings on the table, filled ashtrays and empty cigarette packages crumpled and then tossed aside, the empty punchbowl looking meaningless. I came across cigarette butts thrown joylessly into old drinks to be extinguished by the ice and wine. I found one with your lipstick 10 a ring around the filter. I tried to relight it. 26 / LYN MUNHALL FLOWERHEADS SEEMED TO BECKON ME OUT OF MYSELF And I think of roses, roses White and red, in the wide six-hundred-foot greenhouses, And my father standing astride the cement benches, Lifting me high over the four·foot stems, the M1'S. Russels, and his own elaborate hybrids, And how those flowerheads seemed to flow toward me, to beckon me, only a child, out of myself. As Theodore Roethke observed his father's flowers in their struggle to put down roots and grow, he recognized in himself the same needs of his soul for growth. Just as a seed has to break through the ground, pushing upward for light and downward for strong roots to balance growth toward that light, so Roethke had to break loose from a self that was superficial, pushing painfully ahead to identify the light that was guiding him, after painfully delving inward to meet the soul of who he had been and is. Appearing throughout his poetry is the same theme of renewing his union with a soul that must keep growing and changing. With each new phase of his poetic career, Roethke added some new element to his concept of self and the soul's growth, but his whole theory has as its basis the analogies embedded in Roethke as a child, those between the 27 growth of a flower and the growth of his soul. Evidences of his early analogies can be found in the sequence "The Lost Son," where Roethke draws on the imagery found in "Moss Gatherer," "Flower Dump," "Root Cellar," and various others to portray a charact~r who goes through a nightmarish trauma trying to find exactly who he is. The similarity of these poems lies in the title, "The Lost Son," in which "lost son" conveys both the idea of being lost to the familiar world and the idea of being lost to light, the sun. Just as a plant which Ceases to grow and is prematurely held on one level is lost to the natural · order of the world, so is the boy who suddenly discovers that his soul is not growing. In fact, he discovers that he does not even know his own soul, what it has been, is now, or in what direction it is or should be moving. The plants have lost their sunlight and he has lost the light that guides his soul. He has run away from someone or something, perhaps even the thought that he does not fit in with his old world. The mood of "The Lost Son's" first section, "The Flight," is pensive to the extreme of blocking out all but what he is thinking. The slam of an iron gate has no more of an effect than to lull him. His thoughts color everything until he sees even the leaves scorning him. "All the leaves stuck out their tongues." Having some self-control left, he forces his frail self forward. I shook the softening chalk of my bones, Saying, Snail, snail, glister me forward, Bird, soft-sigh me home. The two-fold appeal for help is significant to depict his knowledge of his own situation. He would prefer a gentle bird to wish himself back home but knows that the only way forward is through the dark, slow path of earth's lowly creatures. "Worm be with me. This is my hard time." He and the worm have something in common. The worm by nature crawls through the earth's roots, and he must crawl through the roots of what he has been before finding what he is or can be. Away from life as he superficially knew it, he finds himself in both a physical and mental condition of decay and rubbish. What was his soul a day earlier he now saw as debris and searched through it to find the salvages of his soul for tomorrow: Running lightly over spongy ground, 28 .. , .. r Hunting along the river, Down among the rubbish, the bug-riddled foliage, By the muddy pond,.. edge, by the bog holes, By the shrunken lake, hunting in the heat of summer. The motif of decay found here is an echo of a similar image found in 'Flower Dump," in which Roethke sees "Cannas shiny as slag, / Slug-soft stems, / Whole beds of bloom pitched on a pile, / Carnations, verbenas, cosmos, / Molds, weeds, dead leaves." Even the idea of a transition between two worlds is strong in this poem, for the dirt around old roots clings to the same shape it had in the flower pot. Everything on the heap is limp except a single tulip that swaggers "Over the dying, the newly dead." The boy in "The Lost Son" is in some ways this tulip. He is between two worlds, clinging to the old yet realizing the cold, dark, forward path is the one that must be taken. Section two, "The Pit," relates the wildly diverse searchings of the boy's mind as he contemplates the long journey ahead. His thoughts dart from his "roots," to the glimmer of "light" that exists in him, to his yet "slimy existence." Already, he has progressed toward the light he seeks by abandoning the hope of answers coming mystically from nature. He aks himself, "Where do the roots go?" and his answer is very literal, "Look down under the leaves." He must look under his surface and hunt for the beginnings of his soul, weeding out the superficial and cultivating the seeds of his life. Under his superficiality he finds moss, symbolizing an outgrowth of his soul, anchored to his roots. He recognizes that the moss is good but wonders what quality of the moss renders it good. A similar pondering can be found in "Moss-Gathering," in which Roethke relates a story of his childhood, saying: And afterward (after gathering the moss) I always felt mean, jogging back over the logging road, As if I had broken the natural order of things in that swampland; Disturbed some rhythm, old and of vast importance, By pulling off flesh from the living planet; As if I had committed, against the whole scheme of life, a desecration. Also under the leaves the boy finds stones, which he sensed had been there too long. By asking the question: "Who stunned the dirt into noise?" the lost son tells us that he cannot comprehend the light that 29 guides him to leave the moss and move the stones. He answers his question by way of another, "Ask the mole, he knows." The lost son knows in the same way that a mole does, sensing things as he searches and tunnels through the earth of his soul. Like a mole, he tunnels without the ability to see light yet like the roots of a plant, he strives to grow toward that sunlight. The next line, "I feel the slime of a wet nest," repeats the motif of decay. Nests are not empty, nor do they rot until the birds have flown away to another world. So it is for the lost son. His soul is separated from himself; it has flown away and he is left in the wet slime of what remains, left to his own interrogations and accusations. His questions are the only "feelers" he can put out to discover the path toward light, toward identity with his soul. This imagery of questions as "feelers" is similar to the imagery of "Root Cellar," which depicts flowers shut away from both light and the earth: Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch, Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark , Shoots dangled and drooped, Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates, Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakeJ. The questions of the boy are the "shoots dangled and drooped," of the plants. Both can be viewed as obscene for both of their situations are repelling to our concept of natural life. Life seen in such darkness is viewed as aborted because darkness is equated with evil rather than with the natural journey to light. Both the plants and the lost son are deprived not only of the light but also of the earth. Natural growth could not be continued by either of them, for in one case, the essentials of life were not available and in the other, they were hidden from sight. The plants sent out roots to anchor themselves for growth toward light, and shoots to determine where the light was, but to no avail. They rotted while yet alive. "Roots ripe as old bait, / Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich, / Leaf mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks." Roethke's lost son is experiencing the same rotting within himself, as mentioned previously, in the same effort to anchor himself. The roots of knowing his past soul are essential to grow toward the light of knowing his present soul. He is not giving up life, as the flowers are not, "Nothing would give up life: / Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath." As suggested by the term "silo-rich," his rotting mistaken concept of self will provide nourishment 30 for the growth he is seeking. His questions do lead him away from his original darkness, but not toward any light he can recognize. Like the ". . . one tulip on top, / (with) swaggering head / Over the dying, the newly dead," the lost son is steadily dying to the world he has known yet he is not alive to the next. Caught between two worlds, he is, as the title of section three suggests, "The Gibber," a babbler bewailing his plight. Neither the sun, which is the light of knowing himself, nor the moon, the glimmer of light within those not knowing themselves, will accept him. "The sun was against me, / The moon would not have me." Not only does the darkness blind him to what is ahead, it blinds him to the progress he has made to reach his present point. Our clue that the lost son has progressed toward sunlight is found in the shapes which form in the darkness. They are only shapes, however, with no recognizable purpose. "What gliding shape / Beckoning through halls, / Stood poised on the stair, / Fell dreamily down?" He cannot depend upon anything, not even recognition of what stage of growth he is in. "Is this the storm's heart? The ground is unstilling itself. / . . . Is the seed leaving the old bed? These buds are live as birds." It would seem to him that the buds he sends out are alive and ready to take flight but , he is frustratingly unsure. Considering himself worse off than before he started the journey through darkness, he drowns himself in self-pity and angrily seeks to go back: Where, where are the tears of the world? Let the kisses resound, flat like a butcher's palm; Let the gestures freeze; our doom is already decided. All the windows are burning! What's left of my life? I want the old rage, the lash of primordial milk! All of his senses are burning with new awareness and with the frustration of being too slow to catch the other sensations that fly by. "These sweeps of light undo me. / . . . . . . . . / Kiss me, ashes, I'm falling through a dark swirl." The sun at last shines fully on the lost son and he returns to his father's greenhouse. The greenhouse is not only the place of his childhood but also a place of constant growth, and of his first musings of self. When he had first determined that his soul was not growing, he had felt compelled to leave the greenhouse. Now that he has seen the light of his soul, he is capable of growing to meet the light as a flower and can return there. Though the lost son now walks in the sunlight of self- 31 identity, there are still cinders to walk through, hot ashes of his past self. The cinders are the old flower smells he once enjoyed, the sights that greeted his eyes in past days, and the memories of those days before he lost the sun. They will burn him like his senses were burned with yesterday's "new awarenesses." The sights and sounds of returning are painful because they are part of the roots of his soul, the part which demanded painful tunneling and groping. Knowing that his old world must be a part of the new, he struggles through the cinders, careful not to slip backward, accepting the old memories of pain and disatisfaction which reemerge, and reconciling them to his new identity. The link between growth of a soul and growth of a flower is more apparent in "The Return" than in any other section of "The Lost Son." Roethke reechoes the struggles for life in darkness found in "Root Cellar" in the lines, "The roses kept breathing in the dark. They had many mouths to breathe with," but there is an important distinction. The one of this section is reflective of his experiences rather than anguish-wrought. In fact, his reflections reveal that he has known all along what darkness is like and how the light comes. As a child he once stayed overnight in the greenhouse. He remembers, "There was always a single light / Swinging by the fire-pit, / Where the fireman pulled out roses." Looking back on his dark journey, he finds that there was also always a single light to be seen through the darkness then. The darkness was lifted in both the greenhouse and in the lost son as: The light in the morning came slowly over the white Snow. There were many kinds of cool Ai?'. Then came steam. Pipe-knock. Scurry of warm over small plant. The steam that shivered the plants into motion can be likened to the angry boiling of emotion in the lost son when he is frustratingly caught between the two worlds, able to catch only "sweeps of light . . . through a dark swirl." The child in the greenhouse must also have noticed similar sweeps of light as the dawn approached, glancing briefly from the plants which held his child's fascination while: A fine haze moved off the leaves; 32 Frost melted on far panes; The rose, the chrysanthemum turned toward the light. Even the hushed forms , the bent yellowy weeds Moved in a slow up-sway. So too has a fine haze been removed from the lost son and his questions have melted the frost until he can see clearly the sunlight of his soul. Together with the rose, the chrysanthemum, and even "the hushed forms," he has turned toward this light, moving in "a slow up-sway." Roethke does not stop at this single level of self-recognition, however. The flowers rising toward the light in "The Return" become "The bones of weeds . . . swinging in the wind" in the concluding section of "The Lost Son," "It was beginning winter." Literally, this last section is obscure. With a background in Roethke's analogies of flowers and man, however, it is evident that he sees relations as significant between weeds and man as he does between flowers and man. Thus, this section adds considerably to portray Roethke's total view of man's ability to know his soul. To Roethke, despite a man's once standing in the light, he is always at a frozen, dead period of his life, a winter, never completely knowing his soul, because his soul is always changing. He is always at a time of "beginning winter, / An in between time, / The landspace still partly brown." He is ". . . the dry seed-crowns, / The beautiful surviving bones / Swinging in the wind." Of course, he is still able to see light, "The light moved slowly over the frozen field;' but if he depends upon the same beams to keep shining upon him, his soul will flyaway unnoticed: Light trcweled over the wide field; Stayed. The weeds stopped swinging. The mind moved, not alone, Through the clear air, in the silence. The need Theodore Roethke saw for a man to grow in the light of his soul is beautifully stated in the last lines of "It was beginning winter." He ponders the growing process, saying, "Was it ... stillness becoming alive, / Yet still?" and concludes that man can do nothing to keep his soul pinpointed but can only be aware that one morning it will be gone. As flowers basking in the sunlight, man is only aware of his growth when the light has slipped away. Then he must struggle for the right to grow again, sending "feelers" down into himself to establish the roots of what he was and upward to identify that faraway .light. Light is life for 33 flowers and for man, always beautiful no matter what the struggle. It is: A lively understandable spirit (that) Once entertained you. It will come again. Be still. Wait. With such a philosophy of hope, it IS not surprising to read Roethke's words: And I think of roses, roses White and red, in the wide six-hundred-foot greenhouses, And my father standing astride the cement benches, Lifting me high over the four-foot stems, the Mrs. Russels, and his own elaborate hybrids, And how those flowerheads seemed to flow toward me, to beckon me, only a child, Ottt of myself. 34 T. R. DILLARD Mc CAVLLY LAKE The moon follows 72 West thru the woods, lingers in the hollows of the trees where I am fishing, settles its light on the surface of the lake, the eyes of my rod, and my own, still hands pulled for a moment out of the stillness to recast my line. Across the lake in the mist of stars and mayflies with a sense of the moon, a raccoon washes, saintly in the shallows of the lake, turns to the woods, and still with the smell of holy water, lifts his head and looks to the moon. 35 A trout leaps at mayflies and slaps the surface of the lake, I stand and undress and swim out to float face up to the stars. I blink, and stars, too, blink. And in the Milky Way and mayflies mating McCaully Lake breathes Eghtly on my genitals. McCaully Lake praises the moon, the raccoon cannot turn from his mistress as he comes from the woods and steps to the road and thrills to the nearer moon, I fasten the fly of my trousers, and push the hair from my forehead. The morning steals the stars in gray, the mayflies spread their wings to weep within the water, the trout lie still. I turn to the road, and leaving 36 my shirt and shoes in a gunny sack with my broken rod (my only catch) walk back to the road where a racoon lies still wet from life in the morning light, his body open as the palms of a prayer yet reaching in the air. . I look away but see his hand collapse upon the shoulder. 37 ROCHELLE STEFANSON In her room, she lived in a houseboat and studied design. Projection. Emily was thirty-one and not goal-inclined. Tiffany windowshades tinting the day. Cut glass and colored beads in movement's way. A curtain that played enchanting bell tune whenever I visited her. She was a prism, not a schoolteacher. Reciting poetry to children in front of a plum tree on a hill overlooking an icy blue bay. Long violent blue hair which reflected the night. Stars instead of blinking eyes and a crescent mood where she used to show smiles. Emily has gone away from life! 38 "It is better never to have been born at all" was set alongside "The wages of sin are death." Which follows "Order, calm, and silence." Which was followed by "Gather ye rosebuds." from Death Kit by Susan Sontag • LIKE A PRISM Emily sketching doll furniture on the backs of Christmas card envelopes. A rocking chair to match wicker bassinet. Early American colonial era. A miniature roserug with the wool color-cued to the canvas. Handwoven, but simple, only took her two hours to do. Another hobbyshop kit. Last Sunday afternoon. "Pick up a few more hemlock cones on your way back from the dimestore, dear. Don't forget the sequins, Emily. I want to finish the tree ornaments for Susan's children before next Tuesday." Emily stretching on her salt-stained boots over a pair of red wool skating socks. A quick toss across the left shoulder, the brown and orange six foot scarf her mother knit for her birthday, also to serve as a Christmas gift since December 15th is so close to the 25th. 'Yes, I've some change left over from the church dollar," echoing above the sound of the back screendoor. Silent snow on the unshovelled walks. Her footprints the first and almost noon. The second Monday of ' vacation. Still two sets of compositions to grade over the holidays. The topic: the limits of setting in realism. Emily stopping at the crossway. No cars in sight. A tall larch with the cones clustered together, hanging like jungle-vines in Amazon country, but always out of hand-reach. 39 If I only had a shell, or a goldfish, or some pretty thing, she had answered her father. ttBut 'You are the oldest. Your mother says responsibility is good for a girl. It makes one more independent." String beans, mashed potatoes, pork chops for dinner. Dishes to wash afterwards. Change Fred's diaper. Fred wants a bottle. Sttsan has gom; to Milly's house to practice her piano lessons. rrlVill you help your brother David with his subtraction problems? Why can't you understand? Pretend you had pennies, or apples, or bubble gum. Oh, Emily, I give up. You try." Homework in the fifth grade rather standard but time-consuming. Luck')! no need to study spelling. Natural talent. Inherited from father's side. rrYes, daddy." Listen to Fred's prayers. Already eight-thirty. The television is too loud. Is Spoon River in Illinois? Is the Land of Honey in Jerusalem? Next week's question for catechism class. Six absentees every Wednesday afternoon. Sister furious. ttlt's only drawing anyway. Art, art, art. That's all you ever do in school is color pictures. Don't you want to make your confirmation. I'm shocked." "Good Morning, Miss Carson." Small boy shoveling snow greets the teacher. Emily smiling for a brief moment. Mark is the new boy in the neighborhood. His father is taking over the hardware store on the corner of River Street. A happy boy, quick to make friends. Always reaches school two minutes after the bell. A sack lunch in his left hand, a picture book in his right. I try so hard. I've painted three pictures, daddy. I've read all the library books, wrote a poem, sent a letter to my pen-pal in Iran. Tomorrow I'm taking David and Fred ice skating after lunch. Saturday afternoons are always crowded though. Hardly any room left to make a figure eight on the ice. lJ7hy doesn't Susan ever help? rTll make half of the dinner tonight, Emily. Your mother's not feeling well again." The local paper behind glass in a red cage. Still half a dollar. JOURNAL headline: PRESIDENT CALLS FOR CEASE FIRE IN MOON WAR. Emily waiting for the tone before retrieving newspaper. Mother's morocco red scrapbook in the attic. Photos and front page 40 clippings. GROCERY CLERK SHOT IN HOLD-UP. No school for three days. The wake. Half sad, half fun. Shouldn't laugh. Not respectful. Aunts, uncles, cousins twice removed. All strangers. No familiar faces. Mother stone-faced. No tears. Funeral like a wedding. Black pleated party skirt and white frilled blouse. Rain that day. Vinyl umbrella. Three weeks later, campaign for Presidency of Parents Without Partners organization. Rosie Carson nominated. Mother is active for the first time. Unanimous choice. So bright. Vermillion. Emily staring at a male cardinal perched on a naked bush. December not always a cold month. Like now, the wind not so whipping. Snow still light and fluffy like dandelion puff that sails through the air in hot summertime. No slush yet. Another snowman with two purple eye marbles; hornrimmed glasses, the windows punched out; long carrot nose prop. A dog will eat off the nose in the night. Emily staring at the rings and diamond brooches in Werona's window. Jewels sparkling like snowflakes on the kitchen pane, the sun reflecting through the latticework of each unique crystal. Not remembering her own holidays, other people's Christmases more visual. The living room in Susan's house on the hill outside the capital of the cowboy's favorite state. Winter in Wyoming. Fishnet covering the plastic stormproofed eyes facing out toward Union Pacific, sure to punctuate the evening dinner every six p.m. Orange burlap drapes hanging !-rom one bamboo rod. Mysteries and 10c thrillers along the walls. Brick bookends to hold them up. Country western records on the victrola sitting on the other side of fir tree. Traditional green with delicate bubble lights and large shiny ornaments the standard festive colors: maroon, deep blue, bright red, green, gold; silver tinsel hung like slanted icicles every which way. In the right corner s-everal unsized candles burning temperamentally, fern bedding under them dripped on by red wax. Susan's husband holding their three-year-old girl; a range dog sleeping at his feet. Behind him the elephant-hide purse Susan had bargained for at a bazaar when she was the gay maiden. The sound of the train 41 whistling through night. Housebeam with greeting cards scotchtaped to it shudders with the piercing interruption. More conversation. Gifts under tree for Susan's child. Small package tied in light rose ribbon fllmost smothered by other overpowering gifts of seflsonal joy. Emily entering jewelry store. Four other people being served by twO clerks in white shirts and green polka dot ties. Unusual for salesmen in old-fashioned city. December special unguarded on counter nearest show-window. Revolving diamond like iridescent shamrock, arcs of five muted lights spinwhirling rays of sun on aluminum tree. Every Christmas, somebody's artificial tree matching the foil over triangle window of Mrs. Carson's front door. An engagement keepsake glistening in day's snowlight. "For some lucky angel. All She wants for Christmas is ... Give her a diamond snowflake." Christmas Eve, and one gift to open before the long sleep waiting for Santa's arrival. The choice - always Daddy's gift. A 3" x 5" box wrapped in white butcher paper fJnd one rosebow near the name. Emily. The special wish she had mentioned last summer when the science teacher gave her class a page to read one Wednesday night. t7he right-angle prism is the most commonly used prism. It is used when a deviation of -90 is desired. lV hile the relative positions of the top and bottom of the image will be the same, the right and left sides will be interchanged. The drtlWing at the left shows a right angle prism and how the image is reversed as to left and right." Turning the prism. Squinting. Corners of ceiling. Loops in the rug. Two magazine front covers impaned in window frames on the wall behind the books. Congregational Church across the street and downtown Main Street scene. Next to the tree: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet. A ballerina bending down to lace her toeshoes. Wide smile. Susan's smile. A scarf all the colors of the rainbow. Special wish. Daddy's gift. Prism gift makes Christmas Eve mflgical time. Emily lifting brilliant treasure off revolving setting in the window. Diamond ring slipping quickly onto baby finger of her left hand. Many customers in stores shopping for Christmas specials. Gold Indian cowbells 0 42 jingle. Emily closing the door behind her. Half a block down, in the 5 and 10c store. Emily looking for sequins. Red, orange, yellow, green. Emily snapping shut her coinpurse. One shiny quarter splashed onto cashier's counter. Daddy kissing her clenched fist. "Now, dear, nobody will steal away your prism. Here, put it under the pillow." Emily imagining all the different shapes and combinations that her prism can make. Reflections. Refractions. Light. Night. To be an actress maybe, a child stat' like Shit'ley Temple. Daddy laughs when he sees her. Silly. Dancing clever steps like shuffle-ballchange. Singing "Good Ship, Lollipop." No, better to be dramatic. Tears. Emotion. Struggle. Feeling. Margaret O'Bt'ien. Bright lights and pretty clothes, and stardom dreams. Pay for mother's bills. Always the doctor comes in the night. Emily, her willowy body almost transparent in the sunlight, reflecting the icy street. Holding her hand up to see the crystal flake play tag with the bright sunlight. Sparkling ring mirrored in clean store-window. Emilly, admiring her special gift. Sunlight. Not stopping at the corner. Lights change. Amber then green. So fast. Sunlight. Rays of sun and sky splintering the mind. Emily, in the days when daddy's princess was alive. The red pick-up choking on its brakes. Sunlight. Out of state. Screams from passers-by. A whistle endlessly blowing. Too late. Sunlight. Brown and orange scarf splattered with glass. Bright red sequins stuck on patches of snow, and blue, yellow, green, orange. Almost like a prism ... 43 DIANNE MUMM MARLA ULVEN JENNIFER COATES KAREN ISBELL Hitleryouth is an excerpt from the Diary of Mrs. Isbell started at age eleven m WW II Germany. ED. NOTE: HITLERYOUTH , On the morning of August 11 we assembled at the railway station, with canvas lunchbags over our shoulders and suitcase in hand, waiting for Elizabeth, our Leader. Upon her arrival we passed thru the gate, had our train tickets punched and mounted the train. Had to transfer thrice. A few more girls joined us from Langensalza, Tennstedt and Essersheiligen. lnge Dietmar had also brought her concertina along and played a few songs. I was too lazy to drag mine out. Upon our arrival in Sonneberg, we were greeted by a bunch of Young Maidens of the Hitleryouth, equipped with handcarts for our baggage. After an hour's walk we reached our destination, the county hostel, located inmidst a dense evergreen forest. After taking leave from the local Young Maidens, we lined up in proper formation and entered the building in step. Naturally I chose an upper berth. Each of us had her own nightstand for shoeshine equipment, shoes and uniform. We were tired that night and soon fell asleep. FIRST DAY IN CAMP: Awakened by lnge's concertina, we assembled outside within ten minutes, dressed in our gym outfits. After a fifteen minute period of rigorous exercise including a jog thru the woods, we returned to the building hungry as bears. Soon, we were standing by the flag, cleaned up, our uniforms brushed and shoes shined to perfection. Elizabeth gave her morning address and closed it with a poem. The flag 47 was raised while we were standing motionless with our hands raised. Then we sang a flag-song and were dismissed for breakfast. Mrs. Betz, our denmother, took good care of us and the meals were fabulous. In the afternoon, during our two hours off we took our drinking cups and roamed thru the forest taking advantage of the abundance of blueberries. Late in the afternoon we assembled in the dining hall of the hostel for "home-evening," singing songs under Elizabeth's guidance. Then she read us the story The Grey Prock, dealing with a humble unknown soldier sacrificing his life for his country with nothing to show for it but a bulletriddled grey frock. I had a hard time holding back my tears, but then Young Maidens have to practice self-control and hold back mawkish tears. After supper we hauled down the flag and soon had to hit the sack. Elizabeth sang a goodnight song to us. This time it was our turn to have her stay with us during the night, so we couldn't raise any racket before going to sleep. SECOND DAY : This morning it was my turn to take count of all present and to have them stand at attention while I reported to Elizabeth with my right hand raised, before we marched toward the flag. Then we sang the Hitleryouth hymn: / IIPorward! forward!" sounds the flourish of trumpets. UPorward! forward!" Youth knows no danger. Germany, you shall emerge in radiance, Even if we have to perish. UPorward! forward!" sounds the flourish of trumpets. UPorward! forward!" Youth knows no danger. Although our aim seems unattainable, Youth shall conquer it. Our flag is blowing in front of us Our flag signifies the new era. We shall march with Hitler thru night and thru need. . With the flag of youth for freedom and bread. Our flag is blo,wing ahead of us Our flag is the new time. Our flag shall guide us into eternity. Yea, our flag means more than death. Youth, Youth, we are future's soldiers. Y outh, Youth, bearers of coming deeds. Yea, by our fist shall fall Anything that resists us. 48 • Although our aim seems unattainable, Yet, youth shall conquer it. Our flag is blowing in front of us. After the song - silence, except for the song of a skylark. Oh, but what a beautiful flag - free and proud - blowing its message to the treetops, which rustle in answer. The svastica centered in a white circle surrounded by flaming red against the azure sky - competing with the sun - it is one with the sun - the sign of life - the life force lifting us up. At times I wish I could die while holding the flag high - keeping it from being soiled by forces of eviL The flag will cleanse us all from elements of physical and mental derangement. We shall have to kill - not out of hatred, but out of necessity. Oh, but why can't I be a man and join the army as a man. Why can't I do like Eleanor Prohaska who sneaked into Frederick the Great's Army during the Seven-year War and remained undetected as a woman until she was wounded. By then she had done her duty anyway - like a man. Nowdays I wouldn't even pass thru the first physical without being found out. I want to hold that flag in battle - I don't want to submit to a man and bear children, unless it be a hero like Gisli out of the Icecandic Saga. Fate is necessity. Oh, but I'd rather perish as a man than live as a woman. No, I must not complain. A German Maiden doesn't complain or be weak. That morning we spent studying how to read maps - two kinds: the surveyor's map and the ordnance map. In the afternoon we were broken down into groups of five. Each group was handed an envelope and sent into a certain direction. After a half-hour walk we were to open the envelope. Our group was instructed to gather all sorts of flowers fmm the meadow where we happened to be and to draw anyone we liked. By six p.m. all of us had returned to the hostel. After supper each group reported about their respective instructions contained in the envelope. To bed at 9 p.m. We chatted for a long time. At about 11 p.m. we could hear airplanes. From the sound of their engines we knew that they were British. As we observed that the only other building in this area - another hostel filled with children evacuated from bomb-ridden Berlin, had done a very poor job of black-out, we felt a bit uneasy. But then we didn't think they could see us anyway, as the dense Thuringian forest was protecting us. Soon everything was quiet once more. THIRD DAY: Today is a special event, as we will walk down to Sonneberg to see the doll-museum. Never before had we seen such beautiful 49 toys. The outstanding one was a carnival with a merry-go-round, concession stands, people and animals with lifelike features. The curator told us that the carnival was awarded first prize at the doll-exibition at Paris in 1910. She let the merry-go-round run for us. The whole carnival is worth 30000. - Marks - much too little for the tremendous labor and taste invested in it. Once an American wanted to buy it, but was refused, as it belongs to the Museum. One cannot buy anything from the Museum. FOURTH DAY: This morning we practiced songs, as we are invited to spend this afternoon with the Young Maidens of Sonneberg. Two of us had to study a book telling about the history of our hometown, Muehlhausen, in order to relate it to our hosts. Arrived at down-town Sonneberg; we were greeted cordially by their Young Maidens' Leader and led into their youth-building where a group of Young Maidens received us. They had fallen in line and stood at attention - wonderfully disciplined. At the beginning of the program Inge and I played some march-music on our concertinas. Some Young Maidens from Sonneberg talked about their hometown and then presented the fairy-tale "King Thrushbeard." Then they sang songs and taught us "On a clear springmorning". Eve Tuchsher told the story of Muehlhausen, and Renata Gropp described the "Kirmes," a local fall-festival with evergreen trees put up in streets adorned with bright paper-chains and painted eggshells and costumed children dancing around them and later having coffee and cake at tables set up under the trees; at night the grownups drink beer, eat coldcuts and make merry. She also told about our well or spring festivals taking place each June, where school children all dressed in white, with girls wearing wreaths of fresh roses on their heads and boys holding bouquets, occupy the circular steps around the well which supplies the town with fresh water, singing songs of thanksgiving and throwing flowers into the water. FIFTH DAY: This was the day of our trip to the fortress of Coburg. As we march thru Sonneberg in step, our songs reverberate from the walls and roofs of the narrow, steep-gabled houses. On the train we muse and wonder whether Coburg will be an even more glorious experience than the doll-museum. Arrived at Coburg; we are no longer in Thuringia but Bavaria. Our first tour will take us co the Fortress - an ancient stately edifice, visible from downtown Coburg. How impressive must it look from close-up. The first thing we contemplate upon reaching the top of the hill is a huge well. It is about twenty meters deep and during the middle-ages served principally for the execution of those sentenced 50 , to death who were thrown down into it. Afterwards we buy our tickets and enter the Dukes' building which contains beautiful ancient halls decorated with portraits of famous men and women. Some of the rooms are still occupied by Duke Ernst August. Then we look at the collection of artifacts. There are old armours of iron formerly worn by warriors, pistols, rifles, daggers, swords, bajonettes, cannons and cannon balls of stone. These items date back to the 12th thru 18th centuries. Still impressed by all the gorgeous things we have seen, we enter an inn, where the sandwiches we have brought along taste excellent. We even can order a boullion, and to our greatest surprise there are peaches available. After the meal we get permission to roam around for two hours on our own which we use for some more sight-seeing and purchasing gifts for our relatives. That night we sink into our bunks very tired and very happy. S·JXTH DAY: Today, we did not have to get up until nine o'clock, as it is Sunday. It was my turn to quote a slogan, as the flag was being raised: "In these days, we shall joyously forfeit idle rest, And busy ourselves in good spirits, asking for work, Wherever there's work to be done not become discouraged, But carry our blocks to the building site." Two more slogans were said by others. I was very proud of having been bestowed the honor to quote one. The day was wonderful, and even the food was delicious. By the way, it had been unbelievably good all along: meat for every noon meal, and on Saturday night even potato salad and wieners. Our sandwiches weren't buttered very often, but whenever so, it was spread on thickly. On Saturday night we had three slices of bread, and cocoa. SEVENTH DAY: In the morning we visited the doll factory in Sonneberg-the only one remaining for the time being, as all the others have been converted into manufacturing plants for items direly needed in our war effort. We observed the assembly of dolls limb by limb, and also the manufacturing of stuffed animals. I bought a Teddybear and named him Browny. As it was our last day in camp, we were granted a few hours off. Although it was against orders, Heirode and I yielded to the temptation of visiting an ice-cream parlor. It was late in the afternoon, when we marched back to our hostel, and, as the setting sun was bathing our faces in a copper-glow, we started to sing, and strangely enough without 51 preliminary prompting, in harmony, with a certain quality of melancholy softness in our voices - feeling very close to one another: IrAs the setting sun was sending forth his last rays, A small regiment of Hitler marched into the small town. Sadly echoed their songs thru the small, quiet village, For they were carrying to his grave one of their loyal comrades'" I have always liked this song. It reminds me of the way things must have been during our Leader's emergence, when his follower5 had to protect his and their lives in daily battle against the Reds and reactionaries. They won and with their battle-cry "Germany awaken!" led our nation, which had been wallowing in the shame of senseless and unjust defeat, to the pinnacle of glory and pride - one nation under the Leader, whose crown shall never again be stolen by strangers. This is our last night in the hostel. Each group presents a skit. Before retiring we pack our suitcases, as we will have to arise rather early in the morning. At bedtime, Elizabeth tells us a deliciously spooky story, after which we quickly fall asleep. EIGHTH DAY: Departure. Up at six o'clock-then permission to take a stroll thru the forest for half an hour, after which we assemble in single file in front of the kitchen door to receive food for the trip home. We take leave from our denmother. As there is only one handcart available, more than half of us carry our own suitcases. Our journey back to Muehlhausen lasts eight hours, ?s we have to hit the bpmb shelter thrice. Arrived at Muehlhausen; I took the streetcar home after shaking hands with Elizabeth. I shall never forget those days at leadercandidates camp, and each time I remember the dream-like town of Sonneberg, I hum the song they taught us: "On a dear Springmorning ..." MONDAY, 31 AUGUST 1942: Oh, how long ago, since I last wrote into this book, and how much has happened since! It is barely ,four weeks ago that I returned to my wigwam from a long journey. I spent a few weeks in Bavaria. First, I spent six days in Munich and then three weeks in a sailing school at Lake Starnberg. I have seen, experienced, and learnt much. Upon my return home, I received a major blow: Our beloved German and Drama Instructor, Dr. Dieckman has been transferred to a school in Erfurt. Oh, what a genius she was. While she was far from pretty in the usual sense, she had eyes which could sparkle with enthusiasm or shoot thunderbolts in anger. She is also our music teacher 52 - full of music, art, literature, history, and dramatic ability. One day - it seemed a day like any other - she began to teach us enunciation. "a - e - i - 0 - u - a - 0 - u - eu - ei - au - For Heaven's sake, arch your tongues with their tips against the tips of your lower teeth, you stupid oafs. Now, get with it, or you'll never learn it. Schmidt, louder, louder, that's the spirit." Within three months the whole class spoke pure and beautiful stage-German. Even our English pronunciation profited some. I became enthused. I wonder whether I'll ever speak English well enough to become a spy for Germany and go to England. But, back to "Dixie," as we called Dr. Dieckman. First we read "Katte" with her - a drama based on a true event in Frederick the Great's life. As a young lad he became fed up with the spartan Pruss ian life and his Father's tyrannic and strict rule and decided to flee the country together with his friend Katte. They were caught and both sentenced to death. Frederick was pardoned, but had to watch thru his open cell window as Katte, his friend, was being beheaded. It is a very exciting drama. From there we went on to Martin Luserke's "The King and the Three Golden Strands of Hair," a play based on Grimm's fairy tale of the same title. Next to the narrator of day and the narrator of night, I, as the King, had the largest role. The first presentation was such a smashing success that we had to play it four more times. Dixie already made plans for next year. She would have become our class-teacher and we would have toured Germany and perhaps even the liberated countries as stage actors. So what, if our other grades went down. What do I care about math, if I play Mephisto. I like to play bad people. They are more fun to play. At least I and other people know that in real life I am not that bad, while one knows of hero-actors that they aren't as good in real life. But now our Dixie is gone. Everything seems empty and deserted. I don't like to live at home any longer. Something is amiss. I would like to go far, far away, I don't know where, possibly to a different country, yea, a different continent. But, of course, Dad and Mom don't or don't want to understand. They think I want to forsake them and that I don't love them anymore. But that's sheer nonsense. The trainride to Munich lasted thirteen hours. Ingrid picked me up. At dinner at the Kaiser Hotel I noticed that hardly anybody was without makeup, that is, lipstick and eyebrow-pencil, notwithstanding the fact that a German woman isn't supposed to paint herself, but is to preserve her natural looks. But I must admit that it rather impressed me, and for the duration of my stay in Bavaria, I used makeup too. 53 When I ordered cocoa, the waitress stared at me in consternation and the rest of the people at the table giggled "There is a war going on, remember," remarked Ingrid. "Boy, one can tell you haven't eaten in restaurants much lately!" During the six days I stayed in Munich I saw the "Platz," a comic theater with hilarious shows, where they even tell political jokes, but I am sure even our Leader would laugh at them; the "Last Adventure," a stage drama in the "Residenz" Theater; a variety show in the German Theater, where one of the features was a woman who had nothing on but a veil where you could see thru. Herbert, Ingrid's fiancee, had raised a big fuss about it beforehand, but I didn't find it very exciting. Then I visited the German art exhibit, the English Garden, the Chinese tower, the Nymphenburg Castle, the Botanical Garden, the Animal Park at Hellabrunn, the Brown House where the National Socialistic Party used to have their first meetings, the Hall of Commanders-in-Chief, where many of Hitler's followers were gunned down in 1923, the Hall of Fame of the Fallen Heroes, all of the latter three buildings on King's square, the fantastic Italian ice-cream parlor" the night-club "Simplissimus," where they let me in, because I looked much, much older than thirteen with makeup on, the Chinese restaurant with the horrible yellow-faced types. There was a lady in the backroom. She was white and had a baby carriage along. In it I saw a cute baby with yellow skin but large black eyes without the mongolian crease. They said she is married to a Chinese. Poor little baby - having to grow up as a bastard - what a racial shame! I stayed with Ingrid in her furnished room on the third floor of a rental apartment building which was old and smelled of cabbage and poor unwashed people. I met quite a few of Ingrid's fellow students in the chemical department of the Technical University of Munich. One was Jimmy Penard, who was born in Java and had a Dutch father and French mother. Another one, Hans, had his leg in a cast, because something blew up during one of his experiments in the lab. Then there was Alfred of GermanAmerican parents who had sent him over here just before the war broke out. He is a redhead, speaks German with a soft foreign accent, is very friendly and surely doesn't look like a spy for American imperialist powers. He has to report to the police every week, but other than that they leave him alone and let him continue his studies. He said to me in Ingrid's presence that I am prettier than she is, but afterwards she told me that this was just one of his usual weird ideas. So, I doubt whether it's true. 54 On a Sunday Ingrid and I rode to Tutzing at Lake Starnberg and reported to the Sailing School which was presided by Hein, an old gruff seabear. As he eyed me critically and entered my birth-date with a serious expression in his eyes, I learnt that I was the youngest sailing student ever. None of the rest was any younger than seventeen, and ages varied between that and 45. Next day we went right down to business. What a beautiful spOrt! At first we sailed with Hein on the yacht "Frauke" and then in a much smaller type of sailboat called a people's boat. At first I was a bit scared, especially since 'Our navigator kept teasing us by painting in the most horrible colors the process of capsizing. But on the next day I was hardly afraid anymore. Then at least I knew the ifs and hows of capsizing, and that there really is nothing to it. Each day I became more and more familiar with the sensation of sitting in a rolling and pitching boat and having water splash about your ears. The weather was gorgeous, especially regarding wind-conditions. We had very few slacks. Ingrid and Herbert attended only one course, then left. I remained for another f'Ortnight. I had a friend, a Dutch girl. She was short and quite plump, had flaxen hair and blue eyes and spoke fluent German, though with a slight Dutch accent. Her name is Truus von Kempen, and she cannot go back home for the time being, because there is a subversive, treacherous group of underground people, who will grab her and shear her hair off for having a German soldier for her boyfriend. She must really love him to undergo all those risks. I hope he loves her as much. She and I bathed almost every morning and night in the lake. What a boundless feeling to be able to swim far, far Out, without being hindered by ropes, fences, or stakes. In the morning, when the water is unruffled, it seems a bottomless upsidedown version of the sky, and one has the sensation of being suspended in midair while swimming. I had a secret boyfriend. By secret I mean that neither he nor anybody else knew that he was my friend. We talked and kidded, but I never let on how much I liked him. So I really don't know whether or not I was his friend too. I hope so! Oh, Hugo, at the sight and thought of you, my soul climbed up into seventh heaven, and your eyes are light blue and deep as the clear water 'Of a lak€. I probably shall never see you again. One event I'll never forget. On a beautiful sunny day, Herbert, Ingrid and I sailed toward Starnberg. The first part of our trip was sufficiently windy, and we were just about to tack toward shore when suddenly the wind died down as if cut off. With much effort we succeeded in landing the boat, drank 55 coffee in the restaurant "Hans Gruss." Our return trip, however, proved a disaster. We had to row the whole way. The sun was setting, and the sky presented a unique and breath-taking picture. Above us, the sky was dark blue, while in the west it was blood-red, as the moon hung suspended in the sky in the Southeast - the moods of night and day fused into one. We reached the sailing school at 12: 30 a.m. a moonlit rowing party. Although everybody was dead-tired, Ingrid, Herbert and another student sneaked into the garden of a governmentsponsored children's camp and relieved the bushes of about three glass jars full of boysenberries, which they shared with me. After Herbert and Ingrid had left to go back to Munich, I learnt how to sail an olympic jolly-boat - a tiny sailboat without a foresail and therefore easily managed by one person, but also easy to capsize. So, Old Hein made us, the next youngest student, seventeen-year-old Otto and me, wear a life-belt - ridiculous. We sailed off smoothly and proceeded to cross the lake. As our work was done for the time being, we had time to talk some. He told me that he was an orphan of well-to-do parents and that his guardian was sending him to a very strict and joyless boarding school. He didn't seem to me like the type who needed a strict boarding school, as he was a good buddy - well behaved, reserved and efficient in managing the boat. We landed the boat safely on the other side of the lake, had a soft drink in a small restaurant, which tasted like hard candy dissolved in water, then sailed back to the school. We also learnt how to tie sailors knots - a whole gob of them. As is always the case with me, I had an easy time learning the complicated knots and a heck of a time grasping the easy ones. I and everybody else thought 1'd never manage the square knot - after I knew all the other ones - but at last the coin dropped. Then one Sunday the rest of the students accompanied me to the train, and I had a hard time keeping my tears back, as I was leaving for home. FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 1942: Hurrah, fall vacations will start on October 3, and a group of girls of our class will go to the City of Weymar, where we'll meet Dixie (Dr. Dieckmann) and go to the' theater. We wonder what they'll play. This year I also will have a birthday party, and as soon as we have peace, I'll have the wildest party ever. When will there be peace? Only God and, perhaps, the Leader know. The main thing is to win the war, and win we shall. Everybody knows that, even the enemy. WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23,1942: What in the world am I to 56 .. do, if Mother takes everything ill. Most of the time it's because of some mere trifle. If she only knew how deeply her reproaches cut into my heart each time. "So, this is today's youth." I used to laugh at this national slogan of the grownups. Now it drives me to the brink of despair. What have we done to them for talking so ugly about us. When they were young, they were, perhaps, worse. But, of course, they won't give us credit for anything and begrudge us our organizations and attitude, because sometimes we harbor presumptuous thoughts, which bowl over their antiquated and cumbersome way of life. And that bit about religion and its conventions! I do believe in you, Lord, in your power and justice, but in you only, and not in something they've tried to ram down our throats for two thousand years. Why do you make that so hard on me? THURSDAY, OCTOBER 8,1942: Our precious days in Weymar are over. Upon our arrival on Saturday night, we went to the National Theater and saw Wagner's "Lohengrin." This epic opera held all of us spellbound. It was so beautiful. Never will I forget Lohengrin and his Elsa of Brabant. Saturday night we got ready to go to a different show. We saw "Diamonds from Vienna" - a witty comedy. We had dinner in the "Elephant-Cellar." Afterwards we walked to the GoethePark - an immaculately manicured park with wide paths. In the center of it, surrounded by a huge flowergarden and embedded among trees, stands the pavilion of Goethe. Next day we were allowed to view the theater facilities. After an hour we left - stunned by all the mechanics and props and costumes we got to see. Then we visited the Frederick Schiller House. There wasn't much to see, as all valuables have been stored in a bomb shelter, and the Goethe House is closed entirely. In the evening we went to the stage-theater one more time. They presented some shallow cornball operetta - a far cry from Lohengrin. We were disappointed. On the next day we took leave from Dr. Dieckmann grateful and back in school. Nothing attracts me there any longer. Our German lessons are dry and flat and without sparkle. Oh, I almost forgot, we have started to study chemistry in school. I am absolutely spellbound by it. I think my heredity ' is showing. At an rate, I am fascinated by it. I think I'll become a nuclear scientist, except the teacher says there is no such thing yet. They are able to smash atoms on an experimental basis, but unable as yet to rebuild them. I am beginning to read science fiction like mad. DECEMBER 1942: Our Sixth Army is holding out at Stalingrad. 57 We shall not retreat. Last year my parents turned in their entire skiing equipment and fur-lined coats to help our boys in Russia. People were beautiful and sacrificed all they could. As a result, there is a huge surplus of skis this year and is sold to the civilian population for a song. I bought a pair. They are good skis and painted white. I like to ski thru the forest by Muehlhausen. There is a hilly clearing in the middle of the forest called the "Katalaunic Fields," where many of us practice. Something strange happened the other day. As I came out of the forest and was about to ski out into the road to go home, I saw a group of people approaching along the road. I waited to let them pass. They looked so strange. They were guarded by soldiers and looked like ghosts. They couldn't have been prisoners of war or ordinary DP's (displaced persons brought to Germany from liberated countries to contribute their share in the war effort). They wore neither uniforms nor dresses, but long white gowns with hoods over their heads. Prisoners of war and laborers from other countries talk usually, and the women quite often giggle, but these just drudged along as if each of them were carrying something heavy. Their heads were bowed, their faces looked stony and motionless and not really pale white but yellowishly sallow. I tried to catch a glimpse of their downcast eyes. Somehow I expected or even hoped to see anger or hatred in them, but what little I could see was a lack of even a reflection, like lights gone out. As I could see the backs of the first of them, I saw a huge thick black cross painted across each gown. The white gowns looked dirty against the snow. I felt uncomfortable. Why wasn't there any meanness or hatred in their eyes, and why were they so completely silent. They seemed as if chained together, only there weren't any chains. And the guards didn't look severe or proud and erect but almost apologetic and completely and utterly apart from them. The whole group looked as if laden with a curse - a curse - a curse. Suddenly it occurred to me who they were. Only, I don't know whether they were men or women, because of the gowns. And those thick huge black crosses - like a symbol of branding. They must work at the factory in the middle of the forest. They looked quite different from what I had thought they would look like. JANUARY 1943: I am quite busy now, even after school, as I am in charge of thirty Young Maidens now. We meet twice a week, study for singing rallies, have drill sessions in the large yard of the Youth Home, once in a while I speak on a certain political topic handed down to me from my super.iors. Frequently we visit local field hospitals, 58 take gifts to the wounded soldiers, and sing and play accordion. We collect herbs. We walk around town pulling handcarts to collect trash paper and scrap-metal to be remade into usable items. Muehlhausen is being filled up with evacuees from industrial cities in the Rhineland, Berlin, and Northern Germany, as the air-gangsters not only destroy industrial plants, but also and foremost, residential areas. They are trying to undermine us from within, and also to poison our minds with their radio-broadcasts containing vicious propagandistic lies. It is forbidden under the threat of the death penalty to tune in to foreign broadcasts, and rightfully so, as a weak mind could easily succumb to their verbal poison. I do listen though, because my mind cannot be poisoned. It is interesting to listen to the two different kinds: BBC London with its station identification drum beat is fabulously clever in its lies, and you really have to have tremendous faith in your Leader and your country not to be shaken. Moscow is so terribly crude, that if I were some underground Communist traitor, I would turn into a German patriot upon listening to their crud. That's how transparent their lies are. And their language: "Down with that Hitler-dog. Eradicate him." Boy, those Bolsheviks 6tre sub-human. Our news reporters are absolutely right. FEBRUARY 1943: Yesterday I had some disappointment. I said to Elizabeth, our district leader: "Elizabeth, I have a wonderful girl in my group, who would make a wonderful group-leader of 15 maidens. Her name is Dorli Koppel." "Wonderful," said Elizabeth. "Let's ask her if she would do it, as she's a little young." "Elizabeth," I said, "there is one hitch. She's got a quarter of Jewish blood in her. I hope it makes no difference." "My dear girl, it sure does. She's absolutely out." I didn't give up right away "Yes, but we learnt in racial sciences that they are considered legitimate German citizens and are even allowed to marry Germans." "Oh, Karen, that's different. But as far as being qualified for leadership, it's a strict no." I felt rather stupid, but she must be right. A veil of mourning hangs over Germany. Stalingrad has fallen, the Sixth Army is destroyed. When they announced it over the radio, Mother cried and Father didn't say a word. I clench my fists. The Germanic race has been in tight spots before. Germany will make it. It cannot be that right is conquered by wrong. Stalingrad has merely been a test by Providence. Herman The Cherusker heat the Romans in the Forest of Teutoburg under nearly desprate circumstances. We shall halt the red flood. A few days later Dr. Goebbels declares Total War, which will mean more privations and sacrifices, but we'll gladly 59 have guns instead of butter if that's what's needed for our victory. We have to get up nights more frequently to descend into the bombshelter. Sometimes Dad and I climb up onto the flat roof of our very high brewery building, and with fieldglasses we can see the flashes of antiaircraft 50 miles West of us in the City of Kassel. On their way to Berlin, the American four-engine bomber-planes fly over Muehlhausen. We can distinguish their deep, sonorous drone from the sounds of smaller planes very easily. Frequently, during the daytime, on clear days, I can detect them with my eyes, flying very, very high, often merely by the reflection of the sun from their metallic bodies. And if one doesn't think about the rest, it is a very beautiful and thrilling picture. 60 JENNIFER COATES was raised while we were standing motionless with our hands raised. Then we sang a flag-song and were dismissed for breakfast. Mrs. Betz, our denmother, took good care of us and the meals were fabulous. In the afternoon, during our two hours off we took our drinking cups and roamed thru the forest taking advantage of the abundance of blueberries. Late in the afternoon we assembled in the dining hall of the hostel for "home-evening," singing songs under Elizabeth's guidance. Then she read us the story The Grey Prock, dealing with a humble unknown soldier sacrificing his life for his country with nothing to show for it but a bulletriddled grey frock. I had a hard time holding back my tears, but then Young Maidens have to practice self-control and hold back mawkish tears. After supper we hauled down the flag and soon had to hit the sack. Elizabeth sang a goodnight song to us. This time it was our turn to have her stay with us during the night, so we couldn't raise any racket before going to sleep. SECOND DAY: This morning it was my turn to take count of all present and to have them stand at attention while I reported to Elizabeth with my right hand raised, before we marched toward the flag. Then we sang the Hitleryouth hymn: / IIPorward! forward!" sounds the flourish of trumpets. "Porward! forward!" Youth knows no danger. Germany, you shall emerge in radiance, Even if we have to perish. IIPorward! forward!" sounds the flourish of trumpets. IIP01'ward! forward!" Youth knows no danger. Although our aim seems unattainable, Youth shall conquer it. Our flag is blowing in front of us Our flag signifies the new era. We shall march with Hitler thru night and thru need. . With the flag of youth for freedom and bread. Our flag is blo,wing ahead of us Our flag is the new time. Our flag shall guide us into eternity. Yea, our flag means more than death. Youth, Youth, we are future's soldiers. Youth, Youth, bearers of coming deeds. Yea, by our fist shall fall Anything that resists us. 48 toys. The outstanding one was a carnival with a merry-go-round, concession stands, people and animals with lifelike features. The curator told us that the carnival was awarded first prize at the doll-exibition at Paris in 1910. She let the merry-go-round run for us. The whole carnival is worth 30000. - Marks - much too little for the tremendous labor and taste invested in it. Once an American wanted to buy it, but was refused, as it belongs to the Museum. One cannot buy anything from the Museum. FOURTH DAY: This morning we practiced songs, as we are invited to spend this afternoon with the Young Maidens of Sonneberg. Two of us had to study a book telling about the history of our hometown, Muehlhausen, in order to relate it to our hosts. Arrived at down-town Sonneberg; we were greeted cordially by their Young Maidens' Leader and led into their youth-building where a group of Young Maidens received us. They had fallen in line and stood at attention - wonderfully disciplined. At the beginning of the program Inge and I played some march-music on our concertinas. Some Young Maidens from Sonneberg talked about their hometown and then presented the fairy-tale "King Thrushbeard." Then they sang songs and taught us "On a clear springmorning". Eve Tuchsher told the story of Muehlhausen, and Renata Gropp described the "Kirmes," a local fall-festival with evergreen trees put up in streets adorned with bright paper-chains and painted eggshells and costumed children dancing around them and later having coffee and cake at tables set up under the trees; at night the grownups drink beer, eat coldcuts and make merry. She also told about our well or spring festivals taking place each June, where school children all dressed in white, with girls wearing wreaths of fresh roses on their heads and boys holding bouquets, occupy the circular steps around the well which supplies the town with fresh water, singing songs of thanksgiving and throwing flowers into the water. FIFTH DAY: This was the day of our trip to the fortress of Coburg. As we march thru Sonneberg in step, our songs reverberate from the walls and roofs of the narrow, steep-gabled houses. On the train we muse and wonder whether Coburg will be an even more glorious experience than the doll-museum. Arrived at Coburg; we are no longer in Thuringia but Bavaria. Our first tour will take us co the Fortress - an ancient stately edifice, visible from downtown Coburg. How impressive must it look from close-up. The first thing we contemplate upon reaching the top of the hill is a huge well. It is about twenty meters deep and during the middle-ages served principally for the execution of those sentenced 50 preliminary prompting, in harmony, with a certain quality of melancholy softness in our voices - feeling very close to one another: /rAs the setting sun was sending forth his last rays, A small regiment of Hitler marched into the small town. Sadly echoed their songs thru the small, quiet village, For they were carrying to his grave one of their loyal comrades." I have always liked this song. It reminds me of the way things must have been during our Leader's emergence, when his followers had to protect his and their lives in daily battle against the Reds and reactionaries. They won and with their battle-cry "Germany awaken!" led our nation, which had been wallowing in the shame of senseless and unjust defeat, to the pinnacle of glory and pride - one nation under the Leader, whose crown shall never again be stolen by strangers. This is our last night in the hostel. Each group presents a skit. Before retiring we pack our suitcases, as we will have to arise rather early in the morning. At bedtime, Elizabeth tells us a deliciously spooky story, after which we quickly fall asleep. EIGHTH DAY: Departure. Up at six o'clock-then permission to take a stroll thru the forest for half an hour, after which we assemble in single file in front of the kitchen door to receive food for the trip home. We take leave from our denmother. As there is only one handcart available, more than half of us carry our own suitcases. Our journey back to Muehlhausen lasts eight hours, ?s we have to hit the bpmb shelter thrice. Arrived at Muehlhausen; I took the streetcar home after shaking hands with Elizabeth. I shall never forget those days at leadercandidates camp, and each time I remember the dream-like town of Sonneberg, I hum the song they taught us: "On a clear Springmorning ..." MONDAY, 31 AUGUST 1942: Oh, how long ago, since I last wrote into this book, and how much has happened since! It is barely ,four weeks ago that I returned to my wigwam from a long journey. I spent a few weeks in Bavaria. First, I spent six days in Munich and then three weeks in a sailing school at Lake Starnberg. I have seen, experienced, and learnt much. Upon my return home, I received a major blow: Our beloved German and Drama Instructor, Dr. Dieckman has been transferred to a school in Erfurt. Oh, what a genius she was. While she was far from pretty in the usual sense, she had eyes which could sparkle with enthusiasm or shoot thunderbolts in anger. She is also our music teachel 52 When I ordered cocoa, the waitress stared at me in consternation and the rest of the people at the table giggled "There is a war going on, remember," remarked Ingrid. "Boy, one can tell you haven't eaten in restaurants much lately! " During the six days I stayed in Munich I saw the "Platz," a comic theater with hilarious shows, where they even tell political jokes, but I am sure even our Leader would laugh at them; the "Last Adventure," a stage drama in the "Residenz" Theater; a variety show in the German Theater, where one of the features was a woman who had nothing on but a veil where you could see thru. Herbert, Ingrid's fiancee, had raised a big fuss about it beforehand, but I didn't find it very exciting. Then I visited the German art exhibit, the English Garden, the Chinese tower, the Nymphenburg Castle, the Botanical Garden, the Animal Park at Hellabrunn, the Brown House where the National Socialistic Party used to have their first meetings, the Hall of Commanders-in-Chief, where many of Hitler's followers were gunned down in 1923, the Hall of Fame of the Fallen Heroes, all of the latter three buildings on King's square, the fantastic Italian ice-cream parlor" the night-club "Simplissimus," where they let me in, because I looked much, much older than thirteen with makeup on, the Chinese restaurant with the horrible yellow-faced types. There was a lady in the backroom. She was white and had a baby carriage along. In it I saw a cute baby with yellow skin but large black eyes without the mongolian crease. They said she is married to a Chinese. Poor little baby - having to grow up as a bastard - what a racial shame! I stayed with Ingrid in her furnished room on the third floor of a rental apartment building which was old and smelled of cabbage and poor unwashed people. I met quite a few of Ingrid's fellow students in the chemical department of the Technical University of Munich. One was Jimmy Penard, who was born in Java and had a Dutch father and French mother. Another one, Hans, had his leg in a cast, because something blew up during one of his experiments in the lab. Then there was Alfred of GermanAmerican parents who had sent him over here just before the war broke out. He is a redhead, speaks German with a soft foreign accent, is very friendly and surely doesn't look like a spy for American imperialist powers. He has to report to the police every week, but other than that they leave him alone and let him continue his studies. He said to me in Ingrid's presence that I am prettier than she is, but afterwards she told me that this was just one of his usual weird ideas. So, I doubt whether it's true. 54 coffee in the restaurant "Hans Gruss." Our return trip, however, proved a disaster. We had to row the whole way. The sun was setting, and the sky presented a unique and breath-taking picture. Above us, the sky was dark blue, while in the west it was blood-red, as the moon hung suspended in the sky in the Southeast - the moods of night and day fused into one. We reached the sailing school at 12: 30 a.m. a moonlit rowing party. Although everybody was dead-tired, Ingrid, Herbert and another student sneaked into the garden of a governmentsponsored children's camp and relieved the bushes of about three glass jars full of boysenberries, which they shared with me. After Herbert and Ingrid had left to go back to Munich, I learnt how to sail an olympic jolly-boat - a tiny sailboat without a foresail and therefore easily managed by one person, but also easy to capsize. So, Old Hein made us, the next youngest student, seventeen-year-old Otto and me, wear a life-belt - ridiculous. We sailed off smoothly and proceeded to cross the lake. As our work was done for the time being, we had time to talk some. He told me that he was an orphan of well-to-do parents and that his guardian was sending him to a very strict and joyless boarding school. He didn't seem to me like the type who needed a strict boarding school, as he was a good buddy - well behaved, reserved and efficient in managing the boat. We landed the boat safely on the other side of the lake, had a soft drink in a small restaurant, which tasted like hard candy dissolved in water, then sailed back to the school. We also learnt how to tie sailors knots - a whole gob of them. As is always the case with me, I had an easy time learning the complicated knots and a heck of a time grasping the easy ones. I and everybody else thought I'd never manage the square knot - after I knew all the other ones - but at last the coin dropped. Then one Sunday the rest of the students accompanied me to the train, and I had a hard time keeping my tears back, as I was leaving for home. FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 1942: Hurrah, fall vacations will start on October 3, and a group of girls of our class will go to the City of Weymar, where we'll meet Dixie (Dr. Dieckmann) and go to the theater. We wonder what they'll play. This year I also will have a birthday party, and as soon as we have peace, I'll have the wildest party ever. When will there be peace? Only God and, perhaps, the Leader know. The main thing is to win the war, and win we shall. Everybody knows that, even the enemy. WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23,1942 : What in the world am I to 56 We shall not retreat. Last year my parents turned in their entire skiing equipment and fur-lined coats to help our boys in Russia. People were beautiful and sacrificed all they could. As a result, there is a huge surplus of skis this year and is sold to the civilian population for a song. I bought a pair. They are good skis and painted white. I like to ski thru the forest by Muehlhausen. There is a hilly clearing in the middle of the forest called the "Katalaunic Fields," where many of us practice. Something strange happened the other day. As I came out of the forest and was about to ski out into the road to go home, I saw a group of people approaching along the road. I waited to let them pass. They looked so strange. They were guarded by soldiers and looked like ghosts. They couldn't have been prisoners of war or ordinary DP's (displaced persons brought to Germany from liberated countries to contribute their share in the war effort). They wore neither uniforms nor dresses, but long white gowns with hoods over their heads. Prisoners of war and laborers from other countries talk usually, and the women quite often giggle, but these just drudged along as if each of them were carrying something heavy. Their heads were bowed, their faces looked stony and motionless and not really pale white but yellowishly sallow. I tried to catch a glimpse of their downcast eyes. Somehow I expected or even hoped to see anger or hatred in them, but what little I could see was a lack of even a reflection, like lights gone out. As I could see the backs of the first of them, I saw a huge thick black cross painted across each gown. The white gowns looked dirty against the snow. I felt uncomfortable. Why wasn't there any meanness or hatred in their eyes, and why were they so completely silent. They seemed as if chained together, only there weren't any chains. And the guards didn't look severe or proud and erect but almost apologetic and completely and utterly apart from them. The whole group looked as if laden with a curse - a curse - a curse. Suddenly it occurred to me who they were. Only, I don't know whether they were men or women, because of the gowns. And those thick huge black crosses - like a symbol of branding. They must work at the factory in the middle of the forest. They looked quite different from what I had thought they would look like. JANUARY 1943: I am quite busy now, even after school, as I am in charge of thirty Young Maidens now. We meet twice a week, study for singing rallies, have drill sessions in the large yard of the Youth Home, once in a while I speak on a certain political topic handed down to me from my superiors. Frequently we visit local field hospitals, 58 have guns instead of butter if that's what's needed for our victory. We have to get up nights more frequently to descend into the bombshelter. Sometimes Dad and I climb up onto the flat roof of our very high brewery building, and with fieldglasses we can see the flashes of antiaircraft 50 miles West of us in the City of Kassel. On their way to Berlin, the American four-engine bomber-planes fly over Muehlhausen. We can distinguish their deep, sonorous drone from the sounds of smaller planes very easily. Frequently, during the daytime, on clear days, I can detect them with my eyes, flying very, very high, often merely by the reflection of the sun from their metallic bodies. And if one doesn't think about the rest, it is a very beautiful and thrilling picture. 60 ~ I MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE KIOSK Volume XXXI Spring, 1972  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Kiosk: Volume 31, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Subject The topic of the resource Student Publications Description An account of the resource The Kiosk contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Banys, JR., Frank C.: Author Wright, Terry: Author Kangal, Linda: Author Rough, J. Chandler: Author Munhall, Lyn: Author Dillard, T. R.: Author Stefanson, Rochelle: Author Isbell, Karen: Author Bittman, Linda: Artist Coates, Jennifer: Artist Mumm, Dianne: Artist Ulven, Marla: Artist Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1972 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-18 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Dillard, T. R.: Editor Streeby, Jeffrey: Editor Stefanson, D. H.: Faculty Advisor Shapiro, Elinor: Faculty Advisor Breneisen, Frank: Faculty Advisor Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical 74 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kiosk Manuscript Perspectives student publications http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/c25f1d4dae0cd631001550d78a05118b.jpg 6a58dad563952aebe24334bdd0810d6f Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Students on the Step of Charles City Hall Subject The topic of the resource Building Description An account of the resource A picture showing students standing on the steps outside of Charles City Hall with a tree covering obstructing the view. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Kast, Amber: Creator Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2016-12-13 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2016-12-15 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2016-12-13 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource JPEG 7930 Pixels X 6260 Pixels Type The nature or genre of the resource Image Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Charles-City-Hall-and -Tree_MHP_NA_01-01_01.jpg Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Kast, Amber: Cataloger Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Barrett, Art: Photographer Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Morningside's Historic Photographs Description An account of the resource This collection features a vast array of photographs of Morningside College, its students, faculty and staff, and various events through the College's long history. Make sure to sort by subjects or tags to narrow the photographs to a specific time period, event, organization or person. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Hickman-Johnson-Furrow Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Hickman-Johnson-Furrow Library Subject The topic of the resource History Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Hickman-Johnson-Furrow Library Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2016-06-29 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Photograph JPEG Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context MHP Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Photograph Physical Dimensions The actual physical size of the original image 8 inches X 10 inches Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Students on the Step of Charles City Hall Subject The topic of the resource Building Description An account of the resource A picture showing students standing on the steps outside of Charles City Hall with a tree covering obstructing the view. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Photograph 8 inches X 10 inches Type The nature or genre of the resource Image Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Kast, Amber: Cataloger Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Barrett, Art: Photographer Buildings Charles City Hall http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/a8849d10ea4426891b882b2cef8c0ccd.pdf ade1207139f605808ed12684ad1cb6be Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Perspectives: Volume 23, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Kiosk Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource This PDF file of the Perspectives contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ponder, Marcie Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2013-01-13 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-12-11 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-11 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF 7.56 MB 60 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Perspectives-Vol23-No01_KDC_1964_01-01_01.pdf Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger PDF Text Text P E R S P E C T I " E S '64 ����MOR, If ~~~-~. :: C .LEG LIB. SIOUX CITY, lOW PERSPECTIVES VOLUME XXIII SPRING 1964 NUMBER 1 Staff Editor ---------------------____ ______________ ______________________________ _______ _________ ______________________________________ Terry Ford _ __ Business Manager ______________ ______________________________________________ _ ____ _ _ _ _ __________________________ Marie Deel _ Art Consultant _____ ________ ___________ _ _______________________________________ Mr. William Zimmerman __ Faculty Advisor _______ ._____ .._____ _____ _____ ___________________ ._ ____________ .. ____________ Dr. Howard Levant . PERSPECTIVES is published by the students of Morningside College Sioux City, Iowa ��Rosey Ro.nald Beanblo.sso.m "Ro.sey Bro.wn," the receptio.nist called. A t the mentio.n o.f her name Ro.sey lifted her cumberso.me figure fro.m the chair and waddled into. Do.cto.r Newbalm's o.ffice. Again she made herself as co.mfo.rtable as po.ssible and waited fo.r Do.cto.r Newbalm to. m'a ke his grand entrance. She attempted to. cross her legs but the large bulge which at present disto.rted her no.rmally well ro.unded figure made her even mo.re unco.mfo.rtable. "Kid's a nuisance and it's no.t even bo.rn yet," she tho.ught. She heard the do.o.r o.pen and Do.cto.r N ewbalm came swinging into. the ro.o.m with his everpresent stetho.sco.pe draped aro.und his neck and a large mirro.r which was o.n a band aro.und his head; it lo.o.ked like a huge eye. "Go.o.d mo.rning, Ro.sey," he said, trying to. so.und as cheerful as po.ssible. "Ho.w are yo.u feeling to.day?" "Just ducky," she reto.rted witho.ut bo.thering to. smile. "Go.o.d," he replied. "No.w if yo.u'll co.me o.ver to. the table I'll examine yo.u." Again Ro.sey lifted herself fro.m the unco.mfo.rtable chair and made her way to. the examining table. With no. little effo.rt she go.t up o.n the table and lay back in co.mfo.rt fo.r the first time since she came to. the o.ffice. As she lay there, Ro.sey lo.o.ked into. the large mirro.r o.n Do.cto.r Newbalm's fo.rehead to. check her lipstick. Well, that silly mirro.r is go.o.d fo.r .so.mething, she tho.ught. Hey Do.c, that tickles, she wanted to. say as he ran the co.o.l stetho.sco.pe o.ver her bo.dy. Once she co.uldn't help herself and giggled. "Well, Ro.sey," Do.cto.r Newbalm said, "yo.u're in perfect health. Yo.u sho.uld have the baby anytime no.w. Ha! As we do.cto.rs say, yo.u're ripe." Just like a watermelo.n, she tho.ught. "Yo.u sho.uld be very happy," he said, as he helped her o.ff the table. "This sho.uld be o.ne o.f the greatest and mo.st rewarding experiences o.f yo.ur life. It's no.t everyday that a wo.man can feel the jo.y o.f life within her and no.t every wo.man is fo.rtunate eno.ugh to. be able to. bear children." What luck, she tho.ught. "I'll be expecting to. hear fro.m yo.u so.o.n," he said as she left the ro.o.m. As .she felt the first co.ntractio.ns, Ro.sey reached fo.r the clo.ck beside her bed. Hmm, they aren't regular yet, she decided as she slammed the clo.ck back o.n the night stand. By mid-afterno.o.n the 3 1394.0t �pains had established a regular pattern and she called Dr. N ewbalm. "You had better have your husband take you out to the hospital right away," he said. "But he isn't here now and there isn't any way I can reach him at work," .she said, attempting to hold back the tears. "Very well, leave him a note and I'll stop by for you myself. Goodbye." Blasted man. Never around when I need him, she thought, as she packed her bag. Dr. Newbalm checked her in at the hospital and she was given a light sedative to help ease the pain. As the pain became worse, she clung to the rods at the head of her bed to keep from screaming. Wonderful experience, she thought. Never had .so much fun in my life. Why, who wants to go to dances, and to parties, and bowling? Who wants to have a good figure when they can look like a blimp? Why did I have to get pregnant? I wish it were over with. Where is the 'd octor? vVhy don't they do something? "Nurse, nurse," she screamed. Where are they? Out for coffee? "Well, how are you coming, Rosey?" Dr. N ewbalm asked in a cheerful voice. You ass, she thought without bothering to answer. Can't you .see? Why don't you take a picture of a woman having a great experience? You should be happy. You don't have to go through this agony. Doctor N ewbalm sent for the orderlies and Rosey was wheeled into the delivery room. "Now, Rosey, everything is going to be all right. Just relax. Follow my instructions and it will make it much easier. Now, take deep breaths. That's it. Doesn't that feel better? Now push, Rosey, push. That's it, push." Why doesn't it come out? What's it waiting for? It would be easier to hatch eggs. I think I'm going to faint. Ah, they're wiping my head off. That feels better. Look at that doctor. He just stands there and waits. Why doesn't he do something? Oh, it hurts. Why don't they help me? He's holding its head. It's ugly. Why don't they wash it? "Push, Rosey, push. That's it. It won't be long now. You're doing fine." How does he know? He can't feel anything. How does he know I'm all right? Push, he says; why doesn't he pull? Why do I have to do all the work? Why are they showing that ugly 4 �thing to me? I don't want to see it. What are they doing? They're laying it on my stomach. It's warm. They're cutting the cord. Hurry up. I can't stand any more. "It's all right now, Rosey. It's all over with. The baby is fine." What do they mean it's all over with? It still hurts. I'm so tired. Why don't they leave me alone. Why don't they let me sleep? "Good morning, Rosey," said Doctor Newbalm in his usual cheerful voice. "How are you feeling today?" Good god, don't you ever quit? How do you think I feel? I feel like I've just had a baby, she felt like saying, but managed to answer with an indifferent "O.K." "Tomorrow, we'll have you up and around a little. Your husband was here last night, but I guess he had to back to work today. Do you want your baby brought in now?" he asked. "Yeah, I guess so," Rosey answered. It isn't very pretty, she thought. It doesn't have much hair. After the nurse took the baby away, Rosey asked for her cosmetics bag and began to comb her hair . Well, at least I'm rid of that pouch, she thought, as she consoled herself. Two Blooms Ronald Beanblossom "Ulcer," Adam Bloom grumbled to himself as he felt the growing pains jab his stomach. Adam looked at his watch. It'll soon be time for old faithful to come racing in here with my medicine, he thought. He prepared himself for the nurse's visit by pouring himself a glass of cold water from the green plastic container which had been placed on the stand beside his bed. N ext, he pushed the remote control button which turned on the television set. Perhaps that white elephant won't pester me with that "cheer-up chatter" of hers, if I act like I'm absorbed in a T.V. program. Humm, it's time for the count down. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one . . . "Good morning, Mr. Bloom," chirped Nurse Pickerton, as she closed the door behind herself. "Isn't it a beautiful day? How are you feeling today?" she continued without waiting for an answer. "That looks like an interesting T.V. program. What show is it? I never watch T.V. very much." She paused and 5 �sn1iled as if waiting for a reply to her barrage. It's a lousy morning, I feel horrible, and I don't know or care what program it is, he felt like retorting, but managed to smile and respond with "Oh." "Here is your medicine," Nurse Pickerton said, as she set the small white cup on his night stand. "I'll see you in an hour." Adam proped himself up on his pillow, grasped the small white cup in his hand, and stared at the smooth white substance. He tried to swirl the thick liquid in the cup, but mused at the silllilarity between it and his colorless life. He gulped the white liquid and quickly reached for the water to remove the chalk-like taste from his mouth. It didn't seem to help much. After shutting off the T.V., he once again lay back in the solitude which had composed most of his life. Always the quiet one, he thought, always alone. I gues.s I've been that way since I was found on the steps of the orphanage in a basket. Like that tiIne I hid in the ventilator shaft and overheard Miss Birthbea discuss my character with an applicant. "He is extremely well mannered," she had said. "Why, he never causes a bit of trouble, never talks back, and always does what he's told. He's a quiet boy and keeps to himself most of the time. I am sure that he would fit extremely well into your family." For some reason, no one seemed interested in a quiet, nonaggressive boy. "Always do like you're told," Miss Birthbea always said, "and you'll get along in this world just fine." Well, I got along fine at the orphanage all right. I got along so well I never got out until I became of age. Miss Birthbea was very nice about it. She said that she didn't want any boy of hers becoming a bum. I guess that's why she got me a job and an ap-artment. The old bat was worried about her reputation and not my place in society. But I smiled and thanked her when she told me what she had done for me. It sure didn't take me long to move, though. I put my belongings in a paper bag. Miss Birthbea was kind enough to show me where I lived and how to get to work from there. "N ow, if you ever need any help, don't be afraid to come to me. I am always glad to do anything I can for you," she said in a way that made me feel that she was the last person on earth I would go to for help. As I watched her black-clad figure descend the stairs, I was relieved to know that this was the last time I would have to look at t hat hawk-like face and listen to that screeching voice. Even 6 �my little cran1ped room seemed large and free, after living at the orphanage with six other boys in the same bedroom. And, of course, there is my boss, Mr. Antlion- the ass! He ' is always willing to lend a helping hand- providing there is a profi t to be made. "Bloom, get the files for the Finnley account; Bloom, get me some coffee; Bloom, do this; Bloom, do that." "Yes, Mr. Antlion; right away, Mr. Antlion." Hogwash! One of these days I'm going to tell that bald-headed slave driver to go to hell. But, I remember Miss Birthbea's advice- always do what you're told and you'll get along all right in this world. I guess that's why Mr. AntHon has kept me on the payroll. Why, that old goat even let me have time off to come to the hospital- without pay, of course. "Thank you, Mr. AntHon; I certainly appreciate this, sir." Oh, oh, here come those pains again. Adam poured himself a glass of water and turned on the television set. He looked at his watch and began the count down. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one . . . "Hello, Mr. Bloom," chirped Nurse Pickerton. "How are you feeling this hour? I see you're still watching television," she continued without waiting for a reply. "Is there anything good on ?" Shut your mouth, he wanted to say. But he smiled and responded with "Yes, nurse." "Here is your medicine," she said once again. "I'll see you in an hour." Adam again propped himself up on the pillow and took the' small white cup in his hand. He stared at the smooth white liquid and tried unsuccessfully to swirl the thick substance in the cup. He gulped the white liquid and quickly reached for the glass of water to wash the chalk-like taste from his mouth. It didn't help much. He turned off the T.V. and lay back in the solitude which Nurse Pickerton had interrupted. Soliloquy of A Dying MOl'tk Ronald Beanblossom God, mine has surely been a f.ruitful life. Since I knocked at the door of this place some twenty years, eight months, and nine days ago, I have spent my time in contemplation of Thee. It has not been an easy life, for I came to this place seeking escape from 7 �punishment for killing my wife. It seems fitting, somehow, that I should now escape this place in the name of Death. Why, I remember my many days in the apple orchard. The silence we keep makes the snapping of twigs seem like thunder. Those curious birds with their nimble wings sit idly by and chirp as you fill your sack. They look so free and full of life. But they can never know the fullness one achieves behind these walls. And the f.ruit which grows upon those trees achieves the fullnes.s of a young virgin's breasts. Their taste seems especially sweet in the cover of some concealing bush. Twice a day we are called together. Ah, I shall surely miss this fellowship. Prior to both of our meals, we entered into the sanctuary where we kneeled for an hour of meditation. I can not forget the solemn ending to our ritual; it was 'a lways a pleasure to watch from the back as my brothers, in order to signify the end of the period, bowed to kiss their small wooden crucifixes three times. Then, after all had finished, I did likewise, for I remembered that there is humbleness in duration. N ext, there was the meal, where I, like the rest of my brothers, took my allotted share of beans, bread and goat's milk; I then silently passed the rest to my neighbor. It is indeed a pleasure to share when in plenty. I always anxiously awaited my return to the fields or orchards. Where could I be closer to God than in nature? Ah yes, I can not help but recall the pleasure of arising at four each morning to begin my daily chores. The gentle watchman came each morning to the chair where I sleep and shook me until I awoke. Then came the brief freshness from the cold water in nly basin. There have indeed been many pleasant hours spent sleeping in this chair where my thoughts in the night 'a re kept in utmost purity; it is truly unfortunate that people outside the walls of this refuge do not retire to their private chambers at eight each night. This provides ample time to think more fully upon spiritual things. They will be coming soon to provide me with my first and last opportunity to speak. I don't know what I could say. Perhaps if I-no, that wouldn't leave a good impression. The light from my candle seems to reflect the barrenness of these four stone walls which make up my small room. I suppose that light is symbolic of God. I wish they would come soon sc that I could say my last words. My robe has so many patches. I was to trade it for a new one next month. The light seems to be getting dimmer. It wasn't very bright in the beginning. S �The Journal of John Sherwin Dan Bottorff June 19, 1775: Having now only a moment to reflect upon the events which have transpired recently, I have found a secluded spot to write down my thoughts before I return to the Colonial forces. I can but briefly describe the events leading up to the bloody action at Charlestown and Breed's Hill. Since the bloodthirsty British attacked at Concord in mid-April, the alarm for support had rung in every quarter. My first desire was for my wife and so it remains. I was therefore reluctant to join the Continental forces as hastily as many. Little Johnny has only begun to handle the store, though with apparent ability as a merchant. A fortnight ago Johnny came to me with a bolt of homespun. In his eyes shone the zeal of John Hancock himself. He implored me to allow his mother to fashion a uniform which he could proudly wear in defense against the British. What father can bear to see his boy stand before him representing the noblest cause under heaven today without his own heart bursting into flame? Using all of the wits which I possess, I strove to convince him that his first duty was to his mother and to her welfare. I would join the forces immediately if he would promise to protect his mother and to take diligent care of the store. At dawn the following day we reviewed the accounts and the shelves which were well stocked. By sundown I was satisfied with his command of the merchandise. I packed a bag with a change of clothing. Carrying my musket, I bid my wife and son farewell and sought that portion of the Continental forces which were residing not far distant. Arriving at the camp, I found it to be frightfully understocked. Due to the rapidity of events leading toward the eventual outburst at Concord, the militia could be but poorly equipped and were all but untrained save in the skill of firing their muskets. Colonel Prescott, the commanding officer, ordered no target practice, for the stock of powder and shot was so frightfully limited. We were drilled in the use of military methods so unfamiliar to men to whom guns were used only to shoot partridges and squirrels. Moving our camp frequently throughout the area west of Boston, we heard many accounts of the tortuous British plundering colonial settlements. Numerous families had been attacked by British regulars; husbands were shot, old men were slain, and wives and children were beaten to death. Frequently wild descriptions wer e given concerning the molesting of young children by the r ed-coated devils. 9 �On June twelfth General Gage proclaimed that all in the Continental militia who would swear allegiance to the tyrant would be pardoned. The proclamation provoked a good deal of jesting among the ranks. Our opportunity to do battle with the grenadiers came on June seventeenth. The horror of such a battle is difficult for a sane man to bear without the burden of also depicting it in a j ournal. Let it suffice to say that the militia was forced to flee their entrenchments on Breed's Hill due to the exhausted ammunition supply under the third frontal attack of the British. The fallen Colonials could not be counted, but we are assured we struck the British a much severer brow than they can readily absorb. I pray that shortly this struggle will cease and sanity will again prevail. M an-at-his-Best Dan Bottorff "Good morning, Mrs. Bland," I said to the old hag as I fought back a yawn. "Mary, why the 8 :30 service? Just one Sunday I'd like to sleep late." This time I couldn't control the weight pulling on my jaw. "I think you are trying for a perfect attendance medal," I remarked. "Cut it out, Joe!" she demanded, then snapped back, "you're the badge wearer in our house." "Do you want to keep your coat?" I asked 'a s I headed for the cloakroom. I knew she would give it to me. Its sleeves and collar were frayed. The sheepskin lining had torn and was patched back in. She didn't want people to associate the coat with her. It made me mad to .see the new coats in the cloakroom. The old hags always have new coats. As much as I hate the hypocrites, at tin1es I have to fight the desire to see my wife in a stylish new outfit that we can't afford. When I came out of the cloakroom, Mary called from across the narthex, "Joe, over here. Avis, this is Joe, my husband. Joe, this is Avis Gurdin, the president of our Women's Society. Avis and I will be working together on the program for next month." I thought to myself, "I'll bet it will be a big deal with such a fat ewe running it, Avis." But I said, "That's nice. It is nice to meet you, Avis." We moved on to the next ordeal, the greeters. God, I feel sorry for those poor devils. I'd die if I had to do that. I made 10 �Mary promise she would never get u.s into that spot. This Sunday's greeters were Councilman and Mrs. Walters. When I grasped her hand I got her thumb and all. It was like shaking a cold mutton chop. She bleated something, but I couldn't understand it. M} collar choked me and my ears burned. The Councilman was more suave as he said, "Good morning, Joe. How are things down at the station? I hear you have four new boys on the force." "Everything is fine, Mr. Walters. They will work out fine." I ground out the standard answer. If we could make it to the back row off to the side. But no, we were caught by the usher with the phoney sincere smile. Most of the ushers have that embarrassed look, but this fake enjoys leading people down to the front like a Judus goat. A phrase of the organ prelude reminded me of the "Whiffen Poof Song" played in two-four time. Our quartet should work up a parody of "sacred" music. If the preacher ever learned that I sing in the Four Parolers at the station he'd harp till I would have to join that chul'ch choir. In the bulletin it always says "Dr." J. August Shepherd. The old goat hasn't graduated from an accredited undergraduate school besides earning a doctor's degree. His gray hair is unkept. His ears droop. His eyes are pinkish. With chin whiskers he would look just like a goat. I can't talk like this to Mary because he baptised and confirmed her and married us. I often wonder if she wouldn't rather pass away before him just so he could bury her too. My wife slid into the pew beside an attractive girl in a black lambs wool sweater. Her makeup was thick, especially around her eyes. She looked as out of place in the church as I felt. I thanked God that this would only last an hour, unless the preacher drug out the prayer. In the pew I found it possible to daydream myself into a more pleasant situation. I was walking down the corridor outside of the drunk tank when the officer in charge slammed the door open and yelled for help. The room was a bedlam. The drunks were still high enough to want to have some fun. They were beating the bars with anything that would make noise. The best thing was to close the door on the screaming humanity. They would wear out eventually. Anyway a little spirited noise-making was good for the constitution. "Let all mortal flesh keep silent and with fear and trembling stand ... " The preacher had started. In sixty minutes it would be all over. "Let us JOIn our voices in singing hymn number two hundred-thirteen, 'My Faith Looks Up To Thee,' number 11 �two hundred-thirteen." I listened to the first line, "My faith looks up to The, Thou lamb of Calvary," and I couldn't take any more. The garage had to be cleaned at home and I could be planning what to do with the junk that had accumulated there. The lawn mower could be stored upstairs and the screens ... everyone sat down and flipped pages of the hymnal. Everyone read together. Everyone sang together. Everyone, everyone, even the girl sitting by my wife followed along, although I think she was confused. I could hardly wait for the sermon. At least then I would be able to look like I was following the service, if I could keep my eyes open. First though, old Shepherd sheared the congregational flock of its money. The choir sang an offertory number that sent me off in a wild dream. Hundreds of times I had thought of how great it would be to leap out of the pew, take bounding steps down the aisle, and summersault onto the altar. Then I would speak in eloquent phrases and by sheer force of will would convince the mob to purge the sanctuary. I don't know why I rembered a saying in my book of Confucius. "Clever talk and a domineering manner have little to do with being man-at-his-be.st." The old goat had begun to rave, "The blood of the lamb was shed for you for the remission of your sins." What does he know about blood? When had he cleaned up the human debris of an automobile wreck? When had he taken a bullet from a German on the front lines? Nausea struck my stomach. For twenty-five minutes I watched Dr. Shepherd drive his flock through the vilest sheep dip imaginable. "Oh God, please bring the service to an end." I was dying for the postlude. It came. The sheep followed the shepherd back through the aisle, one after another. "Mary, I'll meet you in the cloakroom. I'm going out the side door." Selah Phyllis Fleischauer Enter quietly. Quite full today. Whisper, "Half-way down, fine." Take program-no, bulletin-always forget. Fake Carnation, plastic. Real ones nicer-too expensive for every Sunday. "Here, Janie." Little warm hand, sticky. Party in Sunday School today. Sit quietly. Bow head, pray. Looks good. What to think? 12 �Dear God, help me concentrate. Amen. Mrs. Bayhead walks funny. Good organist, though Peace. Music beginning softly. Stream, flowing, cool, summer ady. Hot in here. Take off coat, and Janie's. Moan, "Janie." Chocolate ice cream best dress. Will it clean? Leave her coat on. Gravy on John's tie yet ;stain on linen tablecloth- tea? Grease on by gray slacks. John drop them on way to work tomorrow. Never tried machine. Might ruin slacks. Louder, like waves crashing, pounding. High blue sky, gray waves, foam. Suddenly black. Ends abruptly! Left hanging . . . Mrs. Bayhead very dramatic with hands. Flourish. Reverend Dunbury getting a little frosted at temples. Still very-good looking. Wife in hospital. Remember card and, "Let us pray." Bow head and clasp hands. Automatic. Pick thread off first. "Almighty God, unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and" Betty didn't know what I had in mind yesterday. Hated her for the new car. Jealous. Bob's better job. More money. Our house is nicer, though. Just wanted to drive to Joanne's to show off the new car. Guess I would too. p Wish John got a raise ... "that we may , erfectly love Thee, and worthily magnify Thy holy name, through Christ, our Lord. Amen." Hymn next. "No. 312" three-twelve. Highway to Smithland. John's mother not too well. Should visit a week-end this month. Next week-end bowling tournament, two weeks Hawaii. John not expert. No chance. But better than a car and . . . Stand up. Hold, and hold, and hold chord- now to start. Janie wants to see too. Give her book. Reach for another. Three-twelve, threetwelve, here. Where... "Here bring your wounded hearts, he-er te-ll yo-ur anguish; Earth has no sor-row that heav-ven can-not heal" and hold, and hold, and hold. Sound croaky today. Window open too much la.st night. Sinus. Clear throat. Better. Hold and vibratton on high not. Adult choir sings next Sunday. Only practiced for half an hour last. Late ... "can remove" and hold, and hold, and "Aaaaaah-menn" Ugh! never liked that hymn. Down again. Janie on floor to get our programs- bulletins. Hair getting too long. No curl. Needs permanent. Aunt Helen comes week from tomorrow. Pretty good with hair. Mine too, maybe. "The scripture lesson for today is from Psalms Seventy-six." Trombones. "But, thou, terrible art thou! Who can stand before thee when once thy anger is roused? From the heavens thou didst utter judgment; the earth feared and was still ... " Betty did it last. Should have her fix it for tonight. Might be mad. I'm not . . . 13 �Cherub Choir today. Cute. Messy bows. Mrs. Dulson does them when she can. On vacation. ".. little children come unto Him." Flat. Timmy Gatstone screeching above. Homely. Taller than others. "Amen." Flowers from the funeral yesterday. Never know. Always the same- wedding or funeral. Serve happy or sad, then church, sick people, shriveled. Music. Money. Soft soothing. Not much melody. Swish. Clank. Jingle. Back and forth. Janie drops dime. My envelope. Dim light. Cars honking outside- distracting. Open window. Fresh air. Raining softly. Misty. Gray day. Black trees. Slippery pavement. Collecting finished. Organ still playing. A fadeout. Can't see pulpit. Orange hat on her hair. Looks like Mrs. Alexander. No. Big nose. Janie's babysitter two rows ahead. Nice girl. Not too pretty, good student. Never worry about boys at the house. "Lighten our darkness, we beseech Thee, oh Lord; and by Thy great mercy defend us from all perils and danger.s of this day. Amen. In these days of worry and great insecurity, each individual needs one true strength to cling to- faith in Jesus Christ" vines. Did I water Mrs. Garth's plants yesterday? Dying. Not enough sun on north side. Too much on west. Curtains fading. Like to re-do the living room- pain and "God in His infinite Inercy ... " Hope Joanne's party goes all right. Nervous for her. Boss, mayor, doctor, Reverend Olsen. Wives. Class and money. Beautiful home. Joanne same as in college. No snob. Husband stuffy sometimes. " ... Has brought us a faith and a challenge. The soul of man is a mirror which must reflect the image of God. What then is our reflection?" Hurried. Smeared mascara. Powdered over. Medium blue eye shadow for tonight. Almost gone. Drug store after church- eye shadow, newspaper, mouthwash, pink napkins- paper, cigaretts. Janie will want candy- spoil dinner. Leave in car. Accident there last Thursday. No one hurt. " . . . Joy in his heart that speak to all his students . . ." Miss Edmond new fifth-grade teacher. Invited? Very independent. "Vears bright red coat. Roses on altar ... "But the promise was given that ultimately evil should perish and good should triumph. Yet man cannot shrink." Sanforized "from truth in the world as it is. Man himself is a free moral agent ... " Tickets. Refund last half of John's round trip. Sixty days. "And as Peter said, 'Truly I perceive that God shows no partiality but in every nation anyone who fears Him and -does what is right is acceptable to Him'." Hope we fit in tonight. All richer. "Amen. Let us pray together." Bow again. "Our Father, who art in heaven," Haven Dress Shop, sale, 14 �black velvet dress tonight, "Hallowed be Thy name." Watermelon shell for center piece, fruits, color. "Thy kiI)gdom come," six o'clock, "Thy will be done," organization and help, "On earth as it is in heaven," Peace on earth. "Give us this day our daily bread," communion, "And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us," sniff. "And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For Thine is the kingdom," high, "and the power," higher, "and the glory," highest, "forever, Amen." Put on coat. Purse, here. Gloves- one on floor. Bend quick, grab, too far away. Please, "Janie, my glove." Wriggle, squirm, reach. "Let us rise for the benediction." Scramble. Stand. Hurry, Janie, thank you. All ready now. Raised arm, big black wing . . . "May the peace of God remain in your hearts, and the blessing of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be amongst you, and remain with you always, Amen." Lights. Blurt of music, loud. People smile 'a nd stir. Action. Mill down aisle. Funny. Peace, honest peace. Mind wandered again- try harder next. But peace . . . Saltatorium Frustrated Phyllis Fleischauer The long, low bellow of a foghorn came from somewhere in the dark. Mist was rolling over the river in heavy clouds, blending everything into a homogeneity. Solemnly, the dark stone bridge kept watch over the murky river below it. Occasionally a glimmer could be detected on the far bank. Stella slowly mounted the three steps to the bridge and paced with deliberation to the middle of it. Rain began. She turned up the collar of her trench coat and then smiled an almost contemptuous smile while thinking to herself, ha! Turn up my collar to keep from catching cold when I'd be dead in ten minutes anyway. Stella had been contemplating this momentous decision for over a week and finally the time had come for action. The middle path of the bridge was worn smooth, but the side edges were rough and bits of refuse were stuck in the corner. Stella reached the highest arch of the bridge and tried to peer into the water, but the fog was so thick by this time that she couldn't even see to the bottom of the bridge. Stella had walked this f'ar with her head uplifted, her hand thrust deeply into her 15 �pockets bravely, like Marie Antoinette going to the guillotine, but now that she was actually here she was a little frightened. Her head began to swim and she couldn't remember what to do first. The purse? the coat? the shoes? She eased herself up onto the ledge. At that moment she heard an unmortal sound that startled her so she slipped back onto the path of the bridge and gasped. This, in turn, so startled the old man who had wheezed that he swallowed his spittle wrong and began to cough violently. Stella was reassured by this hunTan sound and peered intensely into the fog. All she could make out was a strange eerie white spot, which turned out to be a beard. She cautiously moved toward it to investigate and discovered a small old man sitting on one of the stone resting benches along the side of the bridge. He was bent over, leaning on his knarled walking cane, and had a battered gray hat pulled close about his head. There was a scrawny multi-colored cat arching his back against the old man's leg. Stella's footsteps alerted the old man and he looked up. They looked at each other for a moment. Stella was rather angry inside at being intruded upon. The old man saw this feeling reflecting in Stella's eyes and slowly lowered his to the cat, whose fur was becoming matted with the rain. Stella was still hmnan enough to have some sense of pity in her and she made a meaningless gesture with her hand and after a moment said, "Y ou better get inside somewhere. You're headin' for a case of pneumonia in this weather." The old man lifted his face, but his eyes looked like they had been crying, although one couldn't tell the tears from the rain. She turned to go. "Wait," the old man said. "What?" Stella turned her head. "Oh, pardon me." Stella turned away again. A block farther down the bridge would be far enough in this fog. "It's just . . . " "What ?" Stella knew he wanted to say something, but, she had a more important matter to attend to. "Excuse me, could I know your name?" the old man asked. "Sure, Stella-Stella Brown. Look, I gotta be goin' now . I" "This cat's name is Tobias," the old man said hopefully. "Well, both you and your cat better not stay out in this stuff much longer or they'll have to cart you away in the morning." Stella was sobered by her own statement. "Oh, he doesn't belong to me. I was just here when he 16 �came by and I . . . " "Honest, Pops, I gotto go now," Stella interrupted. The faint glimmer in the old man's eyes that had briefly appeared quickly disappeared. Stella turned and had only gone a few steps when she felt a slimy mass against her stockingless leg. The old man's arms were outstretched. "Here, kitty, kitty," the old man called with a hint of pleading in his voice. Stella picked the slimy creature from her legs and thought as long as she already had it in her hand she might as well take it back to the 01 dman. "Thank you, you've been so kind. Please, is there something I can do for you?" "No, Pops, thanks, but it's getting late, so . . . I'll just say good night and be on my way." The old man rested a little heavier on his walking stick 'a nd it chose that moment to crack in half. The old man was pitched forward and landed in a heap on the muddy stone in front of him. The cat, frightened by all this sudden action, arched his back and hissed, and would have stood its fur on end if it hadn't been so matted down. The old man moaned. Look, fella, Stella thought to herseelf, I didn't ask you to come out here on this night. If you were stupid enough to wander out here in the middle of this you deserve whatever you get. I gotta get on with my plans. Don't have time- ha, time! There won't be any time for me after tonight! The old man was trying to raise himself on one elbow so he could reach his hat that had fallen in the mud. His hair was white and wispy. His whiskers were mUd-spattered. Stella tried to leave but was glued to the bridge. After several moments she went back to the old man to help him back on the bench. The wind had been knocked out of him, and although he moved his mouth for several minutes, no sound came out. He finally gave up, but Stella could see the tears and knew what he was thinking: he was a burden, 'a lways had been. Now, when he was making a friend he had gotten in the way again. Stella watched the very first light streaks begin to break through the sky where the fog was beginning to part. The rain had stopped and the cat was straightening and cleaning his fur with rough tongue. Stella audibly sighed. Oh, well, she thought, I guess I might as well forget it for now. She slipped the old man's arm around her neck and lifted him to his feet. They started back the way Stella had come, the old man hobbling 17 �and the stray cat trotting- along behind. Stella began thinking about the bridge on the east side of town. That one was a little higher, and, she hoped, even less traveled than this one . . . A Compan.io· for Collins n David L. Menke iIi "You stay right where you are," said Collins cheerfully. I'll clear off the table and bring our tea into the living room." Collins picked up the dishes and headed for the kitchen. "W ould you like some cookies to go with the . . . ?" His companion sat, legs crossed, on the coffee table. She sat looking toward the dining room. She was young and attractive, and Collins had first met her at the department store where he worked. He was an accountant and she a model. "I really had quite a day," said Collins as he entered the living room "Frightening, really!" He set the small china tea service on the coffee table and took a chair opposite her. "I think you would have been proud of me though." Collins bent over, reached down and poured a cup of tea. "Sugar?" He added two lumps. "Nothing like a good cup of hot tea when one wishes to relax, I always say," said Gollins as he placed a cookie in her hand. "By the way, I saw Anne today. She asked about you. Said she missed you at work." Collins filled the second cup, placed a few cookies along side and settled back into his chair. "I worked all morning on the Anderson account," he said. "Then met with BJ for an hour and finally finished this month's report for the directors. I know they'll like it." He took a sip of his tea and placed a small cookie in his mouth. "Actually, quite good. The cookies, I mean." Collins smiled and looked across the table. She was ravishing, he thought. Those long legs, the blue eyes, the blond hair. .. Quite exquisite, really. And personality? Well, she could talk about anything. Anything, that is, that he wanted to talk about. She wasn't one to start a conversation, but one thing was certain, she was a good listener. And a good listener was hard to find. Especially in a female. "More tea?" he asked. He refilled his cup and smiled. This is what he enjoyed. Sitting together like this, relaxing, talking, enjoying good company. And he had so little time to himself. What with all the work he was doing and the way people were 18 �always asking him to stop over for dinners, parties, and other activities, he sometimes wondered how he managed. He chuckled to himself as he thought about it. Parties... dinners . . . friends . . . work . . . he was much in demand. Why, even But that would tonight, he had another appointment with .. have to wait. Right now he was busy. "By the way, dear, did I tell you that BJ asked for my opinion on how we might lower our overhead? I suggested the carpenter that worked on our front porch, but BJ just stared. Obviously, he hadn't been prepared for such a quick solution. Come to think of it, he didn't even take down the man's name. I should give it to him. In fact, he might be wondering about that very same thing right now. He mentioned that he'd like to talk with me in the morning. Oh well, it can wait. BJ's busy. And he hasn't looked well lately. Seems nervous and jumpy. He looked worried when I walked in the office this morning. Asked how I'd been. Told him fine. Haven't felt better in weeks, I said. He doesn't know about you. But then, why should he? Maybe we should have him over some night. I think you'd like him. He's sharp. No dummy, as they say in the department." Collins emptied his cup and set it on the table. "Well,', he s'aid, "I've got to run. But I should be back soon." He arose from his chair and smiled. "Thought I might go to the movies. It's Monday night, you know. Will you be OK while I'm gone?" He walked around behind the table, bent down and kissed his companion tenderly on the cheek. "I'll be back shortly." He crossed the living room, stepped into the den and flicked on the TV. "Should be a good show," he said as he helped the brown-eyed brunette off with her coat. She sat, legs crossed, facing the TV. Mighty good-looking woman, he thought to himself. Quiet, but nice. He took a seat beside her and reached for her hand. "Popcorn?" he asked. But the show was beginning. "I guess we'll have to wait," he said. "Sorry I'm late. But, you know how it is. What with all the parties . . . dinners . . . work . . . " And his companion sat and listened. 19 13 1 �Milk for Martha David L. Menke "Herbert, I think I'll have my warm milk now." Herbert Johnson sat in the big, over-stuffed armchair in front of the fire. His eyes gazed listlessly at the flames as they ate their way into the center of the logs. The logs would break, gently drop downward and a small stream of red sparks would silently drift up the chimney. "Herbert!" The name brought him back to reality. "I'd enjoy my warm milk now, please!" A note of irritation sounded in her voice. His wife sat on the couch, a copy of Harper's Bazaar in her lap. She enjoyed reading. Somehow, that seemed to be the only thing she ever really enj oyed. That and drinking warm milk. Warm milk! The thought of it brought a gagging sensation to his throat, and for a moment he thought he would cough and choke. But he didn't. He got up from his comfortable position and headed across the room toward the kitchen. The Siamese only lifted its head for a second, glanced at Herbert and then placed its gray head on the black leather shoes at her feet. And the cat, thought Herbert to himself. She does like the cat. Cats, milk, and reading. Herbert sighed as he opened the refrigerator and poured some milk into a saucepan. Thirtyfour years he and his wife hed been married. They had been n1arried when they were both in their late twenties and they hadn't had any children. Somehow, Mrs. Johnson thought all children were a nuisance and Herbert never really had a fond desire for children so the matter had only been mentioned once or twice. He put the pan on the stove, turned on the gas burner, listened to the hiss and poof! as the flame ignited and then sat down at the table while the milk began to warm. He and his wife had been happy, he thought to himself. And they were really quite fortunate. He had a good job, they owned their own home, he would retire soon and then maybe they could travel. Herbert liked traveling. Mrs. Johnson didn't. Up into the mountains, along cold rocky streams, where big speckled trout could be seen flashing their long sleek bodies in the air. To be there now, thought Johnson. He and his wife had started on one trip, but after a day on the road, Mrs. Johnson caught a cold and she insisted on coming home. Since then, he'd never been able to get her started again. She said she liked to stay home where it was comfortable and couldn't see why anyone would ever want to stand in water throwing a string at a bunch of fish. Sometimes, Herbert thought, he wondered why he didn't go alone. He guessed 20 �it was because she needed him. And he guessed she did, because she did seem to be rather helpless when it came to chores around the house and things like that. She enjoyed reading and ... "Herbert! Where's my . milk?" Her voice startled him and he jumped slightly. "Coming, dear," he said. He got up from the table, took a spoon from a drawer and dipped it into the milk. He dropped a couple of drops on his wrist. Mrs. Johnson liked her milk just right. Not too warm, not too cold, but just right. He remembered once when he had forgotten to test the milk. He had just poured it into the tall glass and carried it to her on her tray. He had set the tray down on the end table by the sofa, and had gone back to his chair in front of the fire. She hadn't looked up from her magazine, but only reached over and took a small sip. Evidently it had been too hot because she let out a yell and scream and put up such a commotion that he made a mental note to always be sure and test the milk before bringing it to her again. It seemed about right, he thought to himself. He filled the tall glass, placed it on the little silver tray and headed toward the living room. As he stepped from the linoleum onto the carpet, he noticed the latest issue of Field and Stream on the buffet near the door. He walked over to it. It was face down and the advertisement on the back cover met his passing glance. "When was the last time you were out with the boys?" the ad asked. It showed a picture of four men seated at a round table playing cards. The bartender in the background was pouring beer and a large mounted muskie hung on the wall. When was the last time, he thought to himself. Who knew? He cert'a inly didn't. He used to go down to the bar every once in a while when they were first married. Just to relax, maybe playa little huckly-buck and have a beer or two. It had .s ort of been fun. It had been a long time ago. Martha didn't like him to associate with "those kind of people" 'and he had told himself that it was probably better if he stayed home, so he stopped going and pretty soon they stopped asking why he never came down. It would be rather nice to go down again, he thought to himself. He knew some of the old gang still went down there nights and sometimes on a Saturday morning. He wondered what might be going on tonight. Maybe ... "Herbert! Haven't you got my milk yet?" Do you suppose old Tootie would be there? Herbert thought to himself. Good old Tootie. Why he hadn't seen or talked with Tootie in years and Ed, Ed Feddersen, he used to be a great pool player and . . . "Herbert!" There was impatience in her voice. What's wrong 21 �11 11 :111 " with you?" She turned in the sofa so that she looked across the room at Mr. Johnson holding the tall glass of milk on the silver tray, while he looked at the magazine. "Bring my milk over here!" Mr. Johnson looked up from the magazine. "What is wrong with you, Herbert?" And Jim. Why, Jim Farnsworth could tell more jokes than any. .. "Herbert!" Her voice was somewhat higher. And to think that all these years he hadn't ... "I think," said Mr. Johnson as he slowly set the silver tray on the buffet, "I will go have a beer." "You'll what?" Her voice echoed shock and disbelief. "I think," said Mr. Johnson dryly, "I will go have a beer." "You'll what?" she said again. She turned fully around in the sofa. Her feet flipped the Siamese on his back and he looked up and yawned. "You're going to what?" "Right," said Johnson casually to himself. "I'm going to have a beer. Or maybe even two. What would you think of that, Martha?" "I'd think you were crazy," she said. "Bring by milk over here and sit down." Her eye.s were hard now and her voice stern, like a field general just before final orders are given. "The milk, Herbert. I would like my milk." Herbert smiled. "Thirty-four years. Thirty-four years. Do you realize that . .. but you wouldn't realize. You couldn't. Well, all that's going to change." Herbert's voice was becoming firm and somewhat louder. "That's all suddenly changed, Martha. I've been thinking. I've worked. I've earned money, but we really haven't lived. I mean really lived. And I'm not going to wait any longer. I'm going to enjoy myself. Milk ... cats ... magazines. Why, we can always do that. But you think about it. I'm going downtown. He cro.ssed in front of the buffet and opened the door to the small closet. He reached in, pulled out his hat and placed it jauntily on his head. I'll be back shortly. Your milk is on the buffet. You can get it." He turned, opened the door to the porch, stepped out and pulled the door closed behind him. It was cool outside. Not cold. Just cool and clean. The sky was clear. There was a full moon. Johnson took a deep breath, hurried down the steps, crossed the lawn and turned downtown. He felt like walking. In fact, he thought to himself, he might go on more walks if he felt like it. But now for that beer. What a look on Martha's face. Milk? He coughed slightly. 22 ��Paul Corbin, "Rich Jacobi" Dennis Dykema, "Still Life" A............. 'Yiller, "Facts and ~is c:" _L ... .-.L._ _ _~ _ 1 ~J 1 . .,., Figure~ If/" ," ." �Drew Miller, "Landscape #1" �Ron Kitterman, "The Wormwood and the Can" Jon Skoglund, "Mother and Child" Dennis Dykema, "Fertility Machine" �Drew Miller, "Social Structure" Dennis Dykema, "Man the .Fool" �Joseph Meyer, "Karate Man" Richard Jacobi Dennis Dykema, "Social Problem #746" (clo.sed) Dennis Dykema, "Social Problem #746" (open) �John Nelson, "Wave" Denice Walker, "Nature Under a Microscope" �Richard Jacobi, "Parasite of Constant Virtue' John Nelson, "The Valley of the Shadow of Death" Sandra Smith, "What is Man That Thou Art Mindful of Him"- Psalm 8 �Suffer the Little Children Joan Neiman So this was the deep south. Bus depot sure didn't look much different. Dingier maybe. Not exactly dirty. But floors never glistened, and odors were odd, if not undesirable. Last night the lobby of the hotel had seemed fine, but this morning it looked slightly jarred. The plaster by the elevator buttons was cracked, and the wallpaper had been pulled away. And they said it was the best hotel. At least the room was spotless. She wondered if the negroes stayed there. She had not seen any except for the bell boys, so she guessed that they didn't. She wondered if she was prejudiced. It was a surprise to see the shoe shine boys when she had gotten off the bus. Not a boy, a man, on each wall of the depot. "Yessiring" and brush-brush-brushing away. All of their collars had seemed a little large. Their eyes had followed her with short jerky movement; and although she felt sorry for them, they seemed to mock her. Of course she imagined it. Daddy always did say what an imagination she had. Maybe the dirt and decay, the internal rotting, had not really been there: Atlanta, Birmingham, Nashville. Maybe she had seen what she looked for. She hadn't really believed it when she had read it. But Tom had been there for almost a year, and he denied it. Maybe it was her. Or he just didn't see it. They hadn't talked about it. Stepping onto the sidewalk, the green and light hit her. It sure was better than Iowa. Even in the middle of the city the difference in seasonal climate was vivid. More so in the city since the countryside was mostly fir trees. Or maybe pine? It was odd. She had expected elms and ash trees. But firs stretched for miles on the land, just as her day stretched for her until Tom got off the hase at six. Main Street lay before her. The southern army town. The color of the street appealed to her. White, wide street, with little white rubber disks nailed into the concrete to form the paths. Green strips lay between the sides of the roads. Wide green strips, as wide as each side itself. People could even cross from one strip to the other in the middle of the road. Brigh t clothed colored people everywhere, and once in a while a dull white one. There were a lot of them. She hadn't expected so many. And they looked good. Not oppressed. Some of the older ones were dirty, personally sloppy and over-all repulsive. But most of those thirty or younger were clean and healthy. Wearing bright 31 �attractive clothes of good taste. They didn't look starved at all. She felt herself being disappointed in the loss of the martyr image, and then her Christian logic took over and she felt corrupt. It was the whites who amazed her. This fabled romantic, cultural people she had been led to expect. Where was the gentle civilization? She was the only one who wore scarf and gloves. Almost all the women tottered around on heels, and their skirts were way below the knees. Much lower than they wore them back home. She had felt very chic, coming out of the hotel, but now she felt ill at ease, like the time she had tried on a small dress. She wore her hair long, because it was unusual, but here almost all of the women had long hair. It looked unkept and dirty. They let it hang free, and many put their bangs in awful tight little rolls above their foreheads. Their faces had a white underfed look and -each one looked as though she had just gotten over a very difficult pregnancy. Perhaps the contrast with the blacks gave this effect. Or perhaps it was the decay. If there was any. Most of the men seemed fine. No worse than northern men, anyway. She chuckled. In school they had told her that in a decaying religion the fertility goddess is the first to go, and then the rest collapses. Finally locating the post office (it had no flags, no enlistment poster, defense, shelter signs, or other appearances of life), she mailed the letter. All their public buildings had either lawns baked with concrete walls or stone yards. She didn't know why. The post office had a banked lawn. Coming out the other side she saw five real 'Ole time Mammys sitting on the curb selling flowers for Easter. Two had kerchiefs tied over their hair, like Aunt J eminah. Gunny sacks were aprons. Each mumbled at her, holding up pieces of orange wood. They were all fat, and she couldn't tell one from the other. She remembered a joke someone had told her. 'A negro cannot tell one white man from the other, their faces all look alike.' Not knowing why, she felt ashamed, and ducked her head. A Rexall sign loomed, flashing food, and she went inside. All tense, ready, alert to all going on, not wanting to miss a movement. There was only one seat at the counter. On the very end. The counter appeared to be wall-to-wall negro babies. Five in a row, diminishing gradually, then a big hump, mother, and down to the last, the smallest of all. There were only eight stools, so they and the girl filled the counter. She was delighted with them. They looked like some kind of an ad. The mother was about twenty-two, with Aryan features and very black skin. Giving the appearance of black-face. She would 32 �have been a beautiful caucasan woman, but she didn't know if the negroes would consider her pretty. Probably not. The mother's white blouse was so clean it was brilliant. From the cut it was impossible to tell if she was pregnant a seventh time. The five children she could see were spotless. The small girl's hair was taken up by yellow ribbons and tied on top of their heads. The four little dresses were starched and ironed precisely. Each sweater was embroidered in matching rosebuds. The girl decided they must be a military family, but couldn't decide what had brought them out. The colored woman glared at her for the fourth tin1e and the girl dropped her eyes guiltily. The children must have gotten their eyes from the father. The mother's stared piercingly again. There was something wrong with her eyes. They were deep brown, but looked strange, like she was drunk or wore contacts. Obviously she wasn't drunk with six kids and it was very unlikely she could afford contact lenses. But there was something there. Somehow it looked like she was ready to pass out. The girl ordered a dinner, and their hamburgers and french fries came. The woman went through the maneuvers necessary to divide everything and get everything ready. Their manners were perfect. Only disturbed when the oldest girl wanted a straw, like the mother had given the only boy. She growled, "8hhh, I said. I said drink it. Drink it." Obediently, she drank. Bestowing a napkin on each one in his turn she said, "Don't ya all mess up now, ya hear. Don't ya all mess up." The girl bent to the four year old boy. "What's your name? ... Those french fries good? ... You're an awful cute boy." No reply. The woman noticed this and looked at her, her eyes focusing largely. "Teddie, ya all leave the lady alone, ya hear. She's not your kind. You be quiet now. Yeat ya fries." The girl was hurt and disturbed. Why? She had tried to be nice to them. Even if they were niggers. Daddy had always been pro-negro. Until last year, anyway. He and Mom had gotten lost in Birmingham during the race riots. The riots had interferred with their vacation. Stupidly, they had taken a wrong road, and wound up in the midst of a negro gathering in the street. Surprisingly, Mother had remembered to lock all the car doors. They were forced to slow to a crawl, and black men surrounded the car, pounding and yelling. Poor Mother had been frightened to death, but Father had gotten mad. When they started taking the hub caps off Daddy had seen red, and put the car in low. He just took off, shifting so fast Mother had fallen. She was afraid he would 33 �kill one of them, but he didn't, they got out of the way, and they He had never liked negroes since. That didn't mean that he really meant the things he said, of course. She wondered what she would really think of them if they weren't controlled. The boy grabbed a french fry dripping with ketchup and put it in his mouth. It was a tremendous task. He was very carefu1. Slowly he emersed another in the thick red mass. Then he carefully balanced it and popped it into his mouth, wiping his hand on the next fry. His hair was cut as close as possible to the scalp, but still frizzed black, row on row of minute tight waves. His bright red T shirt had white edging and his bright red sweater matched it, hanging low to his brand new jeans. He was a really little dandy. Blood dripped down on the blue pants. One, two, three, large globs. Coagulating, then slowly soaking in, spreading. Ketchup. It dripped from his hand down his chin to the leg. He had miscalculated and caused chaos. Grabbing a napkin, the girl stopped the flow. Blotting the stream into a thin napkin was difficult since he conveyed his tension and his painful shame to her. "It's okay. I'll get it all here. You'll be as good as new. Let me see your hand." He answered, looking gratefully at her, and looking surreptitiously at his mother, "Yes. Thanks. Yes, mam." He jerked upward straight into the air. Held by a strong pair of hands. Standing on the seat, he stared up at his mother, holding him by the seat of his pants. "Shame on you all. Shame. You go get all mess up now. Leave that lady alone." She shook him violently. "And don't say 'Yes mam.' You hear. Don't you ever say 'Yes mam' to nobody!" She cast a seething look at the girl and left, going back to the stool. "Don't worry. You all is as good as new. Eat up." No answer. Just a bleak stare from son to mother. The woman's eyes. They were white's eyes. That was what was wrong. Not large pupiled as the negroid eyes were. She had white features and white eyes. They looked dilated in the dark face . Paying the bill, she gathered the herd together and led them to the door. Slipping, one of the thr ee year old girls hit a whit e woman who was going in the opposite direction. She fell against the plate glass, tilting her hat, and slipping to one pudgy knee. The girls laughed childishly and beat their chests. Quickly, t he mother grabbed them and they all vanished into the crowd. A cashier rushed over to the girl, "Oh, oh, what's going on. Dear, dear. What happened? What's going to happen. Is she got back on the main high way. 34 �hurt ?" "It's nothing unusuel." The girl made a mock courtsey as she walked past the fallen body. "Oh, oh, dear, what's that all about?" "I'm just paying my respects to her highness." Flesh or Spirit? Connie Stevens Even though I am not of legal age to go against my father's wishes, I must surrender to that spiritual power beyond myself. It is my utmost desire to make my father realize the great harmony to the spirit. I must help him to find it also. But he will not waste his precious time listening to my 'foolishness.' He insists that I continue my studies at the School of Chartres. Father says some day I will make a significant contribution to the long line of my heritage. If only he did not own all the land this side of the Merca River. Then I would not be able to go to the School. I could be free to roam the fields like boys who are not governors' sons. I could spend my time in communion with God. I am tired of futile efforts at writing and reading the Latin prose and verse. Fulbert's literary subjects hold no interest for me any more- away with Ovid, Cicero, Horace. However, I attend the school regularly, because I respect my father and grandfathers. I never pay attention to the grammar and rhetoric- there is nothing · left to learn of the dull Roman system. Instead I sit at my table and watch the hourglass until the last grain of sand has disappeared. Then I race to Old Pella's to spend a few forbidden moments with him before going to my home. I do not know why Father dislikes him so- I dearly love the old man. Day after day he sits, legs crossed, on his ancient rug, stroking continually his long white beard. Pella is waiting for more guiding words from our powerful God and I dare not disturb him when he is meditating. He is so wise-I hope someday to be just like him. An authentic scroll of Dionysius lies by Pella's side at all times. He reads from it every evening when I arrive. Dionysius wrote that if we lay aside all mental energies, by pure contemplation we can share in the super-light above knowledge. My friend is trying to help me find the super-light. Sometimes I feel as if I 35 �will never find it. Other times, it is quite to the contrary. For example, one night last year I dreamt of St. Paul. With one hand he was tearing down the walls around the School. In his other hand was Old Pella with Dionysius' script in his lap. I was, of course, afraid to tell my father- he has such faith in the 'proper teachings.' So after instruction hours, I hurried to Pella's abode as usual . . . "My friend, I have great news. I dreamt of St. Paul tearing down the School walls. Yo.u were seated in his free hand. And with you was the script of Dionysius! Doe.s this not signify that at last I am reaching the great realm of the spirit?" The old man spoke to me in the tender way only the very aged can master, "My son, you must listen intently to that which I tell you. This surely means that you truly love God and will one day become one body with Him. But you must remember- He will not allow an idiot to enter into his existence." That was exactly one year past on this night. There have been no more such dreams- there has been nothing since that dream. I seem to be making no progress with the spirit. Will I never be delivered from the flesh? Will I never be freed from casuality? Teach me, my father-God, receive me! Tlle Last Rose Joy Thompson Dad's been gone three months now and we haven't had any news of him, not even a postcard. I'm sure Mom could have had him found in the beginning if she'd tried. It's hard to disappear now with teletypes between police stations, all the identification necessary to get a job, and car licenses so easily spotted by highway patrols. I suppose at first she thought he'd come back. I know Sandy and I did. Our folks had been fighting ever since we could remember and we tried to tell ourselves that this time was no different even though we knew deep down that it was . .one of my earliest memories is of my parents fighting. That and Mom's afternoon teas. Odd how the two memories go together, but they were in some way bound up. Mom and Dad's worst quarrels usually came right after one of tho.se teas. Mom was always in a good mood on one of her tea days. Instead of being quiet and bitter, she was sort of excited and she talked a lot in a fast high voice. She'd babble on about 36 �what each one said, but after a while the glow would wear off and Mom would turn on Dad and start lashing out at him. Sandy and I hated those afternoon teas and not only because of our parents fighting afterwards. We would come home from school and there was no use sneaking in the back door. Mom would call us in to say good afternoon to the ladies. They were all women from the neighborhood, all younger than Mom. They had slick hairdos and bright lipstick and they wore the latest style in Toreador pants. Beside them Mom look so old-fashioned in her soft flowered chiffon dresses and black pumps. Mom is a little woman, dainty-looking and she has small bones. Her hair is black and curly but she pulls it back into a French twist that makes her look even older. She would sit in the big wing chair and preside over the tea table like somebody's grandmother. Grandma's tea set would be on the table. It was English bone china, so thin you could almost see through it. It had rose sprigs all over it, dainty and delicate little pink roses. With that tea set in front of her, Mom really looked like the high society lady she wanted to be. Sandy and I were supposed to come in and pass the plates of fancy little sandwiches. We felt gawky and awkward and we had a perfect horror of tripping over someone's slim slack-clad legs and dumping a whole plate in somebody's lap. Our big red hands and wrists stuck out of our sleeves because we always grew so fast that our clothes didn't fit. We both take after our Dad. We're big 'and stocky. Our sandy hair would stick out any which way no matter how much we tried to brush it smooth. By the time we would get home from school, we would be stick and rumpled and we'd feel out of place in the living room with our dainty little mother and the sleek women. It wasn't so bad after we got older. We both started working after school 'and we didn't get home before the teas were over. Mom would never admit that we worked because we needed the money. She used to tell her friends that I worked at the library because I'm such a bookworm. The same with Sandra's job at the five and dime. Mom was always saying that those girls just can't sit around. Between school and working and the baby-sitting we do now, we don't have time to sit around, but it isn't because we don't want to. Mom doesn't talk like this now that Dad is gone. She never talks about what happened either, even to Sandy and me. We talk about Dad often, but not where Mom can hear us. If anyone even n1entions his name, she gets that white funny look on her face that she had the day after Dad left. Mom never lets on to anyone how 37 �things bother her. She pretends that everything is just fine. guess that is one way she hasn't changed. I That was one of the things they fought about, Mom's pretending. For instance, there was the way .she acted about the house. Our house is the oldest one in the block. In fact it is about the oldest one I've seen anywhere. It sticks out in the neighborhood like a sore thumb. It's a big Victorian monstrosity with all kinds of supolas and balconies. It doesn't look quite so funny since Dad painted it all white, but it is three stories high and the rest of the houses around are all post-war ranches so it looks sort of like a big white hen surrounded by a bunch of pastel colored chicks. Sandy and I have always been embarrassed by it, but Mom always acted as if it was a castle and she wouldn't give it up for anything. She'd inherited it from her mother, who inherited it from her mother, and I guess it probably was a pretty good house in Grandma's day. I can vaguely remember how it looked with the floors all shiny and the furniture all polished up and new. It's pretty beat up now. The drapes are old and faded and the carpet is worn through to the backing. The floors are scuffed and the paint is dingy. Mom always told the neighbors that everything in it was so valuable that she wouldn't replace it for anything. She would move the furniture around so the worst spots in the carpet didn't show and she'd mend the drapes and the chintz on the sofa and stuff. She always kept the shades pulled so the sun wouldn't fade the carpet, she said, but we knew it was to hide the way everything was already faded. The only thing in the whole house worth having was Grandma's tea set. That was one thing Mom didn't have to pretend about. She'd have traded the house off like a shot, but that tea set was the one thing she bragged about and meant it. Another thing Mom always griped about to Dad was the store. Her family had had money and so had Dad's. Dad owned a little grocery store that had once been the best one in town. What with supermarkets and taxes and the fact that Dad was easy-going and not too ambitious, now it barely makes a profit. Mom had been used to being somebody, and now she lived in a neighborhood wher e everyone else was on the way up and she and Dad were on the way down. This was the kind of thing she was hiding from her friends. To them she pretended she was crazy about this house and that Dad should stay in the store as his father had done before him. At home it was a different story. "Robert," she'd say, she always called him that even though everyone else called him Bob, "Robert, you've got to do something." That cultured voice of Mom's would become shrill and she'd 38 �go on and on about what Dad should do and shouldn't do. He should not give credit. He should remodel and make the store into a supermarket. He should sell out to one of the big chains. And t he house. He should fix it up so it looked like something. He should sell it and buy one in the swankier part of town. He should make enough money that she and Sandy and I could have fancy clothes and join the country club and be somebody. That was her th eme-we should be somebody. Hughes have always been somebody and so have Rogers, her family. Mom never forgets that her dad was a big banker. He lost all his money in the crash of twenty-nine and died shortly after. She and her mother lived here after that with her grandmother. They didn't have to go to work but they pinched pennies and after Grandma died they sold off parts of the acreage that went with the house. They sold furniture and dishes and silver, too. Finally everything that was valuable was gone except the tea set. Mom was in the kitchen washing the tea set that last night. She always washed it right way so it wouldn't get stained or broken. Supper was always late after one of her teas. Sandy and I had lunched on some of the little sandwiches and cakes, so we didn't care, but Dad didn't like to have supper late. That night he was tired, they had been stocking shelves. He walked in and here was Mom washing her tea set and no supper even started. She was humming and she dried each cup carefully, paying no attention to Dad. Dad had to get back to the store. He didn't yell, he just said softly, "Martha, couldn't you let that damned thing go for once and get me something to eat?" Mom didn't even turn around. She just laughed and said, "Oh, Robert, sit down and read the paper or something. You know I've got to wash Grandma's tea set. Tea stains so badly, you know." Dad started rummaging around in the refrigerator. About all that was in it was a bunch of little -cucumber sandwiches left over from the party. Dad said, "My God, Martha, didn't you buy anything to eat? All that food in the store and we don't even have a piece of meat in the house. Wry didn't you tell me to bring home some hamburger ?" "H'a mburger," Mom sniffed. We never had hamburger at our house. We might have meat loaf, or Swedish meat balls or salisbury steak, but we never had hamburger. "Just a minute," Mom said, "I'll whip up an omelet." "Omelet," Dad said, groaning, "my God, Martha, I'm hungry." He grabbed the bacon and tossed a bunch of slices in the 39 �frying pan, and then got out the eggs and beat up about a halfdozen. He tossed them in to scramble and yelled at Sandy and me to make some toast and set the table. Pretty soon the kitchen smelled great. Mom hardly ever fried anything. It smelled up the house too much, she said. Sandy had set the table in the kitchen. It seemed kind of silly to eat scrambled eggs in the dining room, I guess. Everything was just about ready to eat. I had just got out some catsup for my eggs and put it on the table when Mom turned around. "Really, Robert, eggs in the kitchen for dinner." Dad's face turned red and he pounded his fist on the table. "Who do you think you are, Martha Hughes? Why didn't you marry one of the Rockefellers? I don't see that it hurts you to be what you are once. What's the difference whether we eat fancied up omelet in the dining room or plain scrambled eggs in the kitchen?" Mom took off her frilly apron and started toward the hall. Dad grabbed her arm and said, "Come on, Martha, you're not too good to eat with us." "I'm not hungry," she said, sort of wrinkling up her nose. "Well, you can have a cup of coffee, and sit with us while we eat," he said, giving her a little push into a chair. Sandy and I had been shoveling food into our mouths and trying not to look at them or even to hear them. Our folks had been fighting all our lives but we'd never got used to it. Mom just sat in the chair, her back straight, sort of looking off into space as if she was trying to be someplace else. Dad sloshed some coffee into one of the tea set cups still sitting on t he counter. Some of it slopped into the saucer. He set it down with a bang. Mom came to life then. "Robert," she said, "that is one of Grandma's good cups. Are you trying to break it?" She stood up and seemed to grow about three inches. Sh e looked at Dad as if he were a worm she was going to step on. They stood there for a few minutes glaring at each other, their hands clenched at their sides. Sandy and I looked at each other and made for the back stairs. We didn't want to be around when the real fight began. We didn't hear a sound all the way upstairs, but before we got our door shut, they started yelling. We could hear them even with the door closed. We sat on the bed, not wanting to listen, but not able to keep from it. They were really screaming now, Mom's voice high and shrill, Dad's low and grating. "You're no good, Robert Hughes, you've never been anybody 40 �and you never will be." "That's all right with me, I don't pretend to be something I'm not anyhow." "What do you mean, something I'm not? I'll thank you to remember that I'm a Rogers. My grandfather once owned half this town." "Yes, and your old man gambled it all away, and shot himself when he lost his money and the rest of the town's, too." "Robert, that's a terrible thing to say. Papa couldn't help it if the bank closed. All the banks closed." "Yeah, but not because the banker had absconded with the money of all the little people and played the stock market with it." Mom shrieked like a banshee at that. Sandy and I held our hands over our ears, but pretty soon we took them away. We had to know what happened, no matter how bad it was. We heard a slap, whose we couldn't tell. Then there was a long silence. We held our breaths listening for some sound. When it came it was so odd we didn't recognize it at first. It was a tinkling little noise, something like wind bells. Then came another, a little louder. We could hear Mom sort of moaning, "Oh no Robert no Robert no." And then another shattering noise. All of a sudden Sandy clapped her hand over her mouth. She began to cry softly. "Oh, Kathy," she said, "it's Grandma's tea set." She flopped face down on the bed and begain to wail, echoing Mom with "no, oh no, oh no." I listened and now I could tell too that the crashes were those of china smashing. We winced at each crash. Mom didn't seem to be trying to stop him, we could still he'a r her moaning quietly. We shivered each time a crash came, almost counting out the twelve cups and twelve saucers, twelve luncheon plates, and then the creamer and sugar bowL There was a long pause and we waited, hardly breathing. Then it came, one horribly loud crash and then another. "The tea pot," I said. "The tray," Sandy .said. For a few minutes after that the silence was deafening. Then we heard Dad's footsteps on the stairs. We cowered on the bed, watching the door, but his he-avy footsteps went on. He began slamming things around in his bedroom and for a little while we though t he was breaking something else. Then the sounds made a pattern. The drawers slammed open and shut. The closet door banged back against the wall. A large tinkling noice came as he swept the silver-backed brushes off the dresser. He stomped into 41 �the bathroom and glass clattered. At last came the bang of the lid of his suitcase and the snap of the locks. Now his footsteps were slower, heavier and quiet as he stepped on the carpet of the front stairs. At the head of the stairs, he called back softly, "Good-bye girls." We didn't answer or open the door. So many times since we've asked ourselves why. Why didn't we try to stop him? Our brains seemed to have shattered along with Grandma's tea set and we just sat there. The front door slammed and the car started up with a whine. The gravel in the driveway rattled as the car backed out, braked and then took off with a roar. We sat there as the roar died away in the distance. Finally we got up, not even looking at each other and started to get ready for bed. We moved mechanically, undressing, brushing our teeth, pulling our beds down. As I reached over to turn out the light, I glanced at Sandy. Then I shut off the light quickly and we crawled under the covers and put our heads under the pillows and bawled like babies. When we came shrinking down for breakfast the next morning, Mom greeted us coolly. The kitchen was cleaned up: the dishes done and nothing out of place. VI e went into the dining room for breakfast as we did every day of our lives. The room seemed bare. It looked dingy and battered in the morning sunlight. The dining room table was dull and scarred, the rug scuffed and worn. There was a bare, shiny, oval spot in the middle of the buffet where the tray from the tea set had stood for so many years. The house seemed shabby, lifeless. It wasn't Dad's being gone. He might come back. There was a hopelessness, as if a sudden decay had set in overnight. We ate without talking. Neither of us said anything to Mom. She had a white set look as if she was trying very hard to hold herself together. She looked as if she might fly to pieces herself if anyone touched her. As we went out the back door to school, a little piece of china with one perfect rose on it was lying beside the trash can. We knew that the rest of the pieces must be inside, but neither of us lifted the lid. I bent down and picked up that little piece and put it in my pocket. We've never heard a word from Dad since he's been gone. Mom works in the store now. She stands at the counter and sells things to the neighbors without batting an eyelash. I don't know what she told people. I only know that she never talks about Dad or the tea set. She doesn't talk about being a Rogers, either, or how wonderful it is to live in a historical mansion. She's even talking about taking in roomers. She looks tired and worn but she 42 �never complains. Sandy and I work as we always did and we do baby-sitting. The neighbors don't ask questions. I wish Dad \vould come back and see how Mom's changed. We eat hamburger lots of times now and sit at the kitchen table. There's a big bouquet of artificial roses on the buffet now. Sandy brought them hon1e from the dime store. They're just plain ten cent store fake flowers, but Mom took them in the dining room and put them right on the buffet. I wish Dad could see them. No Place to Hide Joy Thompson When Alex awoke that morning, the heat covered him like a blanket. He kicked as if he could push it away. He felt terribly sad; his eyes ached as if he were going to cry. At first he thought he must have had a nightmare, and he sat up slowly trying to remember it. Then his mother called to him from the foot of the stairs, "Alex, time for breakfast," and he knew that the nightmare had been real. He stood at the head of the stairs, his thin pajamas sticking to him. He was pale and thin; damp, dark curls stuck to his for ehead. His eyes were dark and smudgy and circled by black eyelashes. He looked drawn and he shifted restlessly from one bare foot to the other. Below him in the hall, his parents stood looking up at him. His mother too was pale and dark. Her face, below the dark cloudy hair, looked as if the heat had taken all her strength away. Behind her, his big, rangy father stood carefully apart. He smiled wearily at Alex. "Good morning, Alex. Did you sleep well?" Alex nodded. He waved briefly, "I'll see you tonight." He turned to the dark woman and his smile ebbed. "Try to get him out today, Marion. Take him to the pool, why don't you?" She shrugged and looked away. He looked up at Alex pleadingly, "Good-bye, son. Find yourself something to do, okay?" Alex nodded gravely, "So long, Dad." Alex started down the stairs, but he stopped as his mother suddenly turned. "If you get home early for a change, Stan, we could all go 43 �swimming." The man sighed. "If I can, Marion. I'll try, but you know we're always short-handed during vacation time." . She shrugged again and turned toward the kitchen. The screen door banged as Alex's father went out. Alex sat down on the steps. He wished he had had a nightmare. That would be gone now. He felt sick at his stomach. He didn't think he could eat any breakfast. He choked down a sob, thinking of his parents' bitter words last night. They had thought he was asleep and they had not tried to hold their voices down. His mother had shrilly accused his father of staying at the office because he didn't want to come home. His father had told her harshly that she should leave home once in a while. He said she shut herself and Alex off in their own private little world. He said he couldn't always be there to act as a shield. All through that long hot summer Stan and Marion had wrangled. Little arguments had grown into big ones. Temper s had flared as the heat had grown more intense. The last few weeks the violent bickering had alternated with an uneasy armed truce. Between the heated encounters a tense silence had prevailed. Had it not been for Alex, they might not have spoken at all. Each tried separately to make friends with Alex. Stan was bluff and hearty as he tried to get close to his son. He joked with him heavily, but he secretly worried about Alex's tenseness, his thinness, and his solitude. Marion sometimes hovered over Alex. She spent long hours trying to be companionable. At other times she retreated behind some wall, thinking her own thoughts. Sh e jumped when he came in sometimes, as if she had forgotten him completely. He watched her now as she sat across the table from her. She sipped her coffee and stared into space. N ow and then she pushed a tendril of hair back from her face. She looked at him questioningly, but she did not speak as he pushed his cereal bowl back and got up. Alex was glad to escape upstairs to dress. His mother was still sitting at the table when he slipped down the stairs and out the door. Alex's bare feet tingled as he walked through the cool, damp grass to his private place in the yard. It was behind a big lilac bush at the corner of the white picket fence that surrounded the yard. Here he could not be seen from the house, nor f r om outside the yard. He could peek out from between t h e slats and watch people go by. He lay on his back in t he shale from t he lilac bush, trying t o keep still enough to stay cool. He talked to the dark 44 �gr een leave.s above his head. What am I doing that is so bad? There must be something. Mom and Dad look at me as if they'd like to pull me apart. That's the way I feel, pulled apart. vVhen I'm with Dad, I want to tell him not to call be Pal or Buddy, and not to talk so loud and smile so much. Why can't I do like he wants and play ball and run around and yell with the other kids? But that's what Mom doesn't like. She always tells me to be quiet, not to run, that I might get hurt. She likes it best when I just sit where she can see me and she doesn't have to go out of the yard to call me. That's what makes Dad so mad. He doesn't like for MOln to stay home all the time. He says it's like being in prison. It isn't though. It's being safe. That's how Mom feels. I know because I feel that way too unless Dad's with me. If I could just be the way they both want me to then maybe they wouldn't fight. Alex bit his thumbnail until it hurt. He thrust his hands behind him, ashamed of this babyish habit. He was ashamed too of the tears that rose behind his eyelids. He rubbed his eye.s and walked slowly to the gate. He sat crouched inside the fence, waiting for his father to come home. He thought that maybe his Dad would come early enough to take them swimming. Alex didn't like swimming much; he was afraid of the water, afraid that someone would push him down. But it would mean that for a while his folk.s wouldn't be fighting. The shadows grew long. The sun was bright red behind the trees. Alex sat and listened to mothers calling their children in for supper. It was breathlessly hot and so still that not a leaf moved. The whole world seemed to be hushed and waiting. The sun had almost gone down when Alex's mother called him in. His Dad hadn't come yet. In a way Alex was thankful because now they could have supper peacefully. His mother didn't eat. She sat with a glass of iced tea, fanning herself slowly. Little beads of sweat beaded her upper lip. After supper they sat on the porch watching fireflies. Heat lightning flickered in the dark sky. Alex could barely see his mother's pale face, but he could tell that it was becoming more and more hurt-looking. Little lines came around her lips 'a s if she ached. Her mouth turned down. She sat nervously, restlessly swatting at mo.squitoes. Finally she rose stiffly, her white dress looming up in the dark. Her voice was soft but harsh as she said, "Alex, you'd better go to bed." Alex said softly, "Good-night, Mom." He wanted to pat her shoulder, but she looked so jumpy and held in that he didn't dare. 45 �She was pacing up and down the porch when he looked back from the stairs. He lay as .still as he could, waiting for the night to cool off. He felt guilty that he had been almost glad that his Dad hadn't come home. Even though loneliness was better than listening to his folks fight, he didn't thing it was right to wish for it. It seemed very late when he awoke. A bright flash lit the sky outside his window. At first he sleepily thought that it was lightning. Then he smelled the acrid smoke. He leaped out of bed and stumbled to the window. Below him in the yard he could see a bright fire burning. He could see his father; he looked s111all beside the leaping flames. He had an ax in his hand. Alex could see its bright blade flash down on .something white. He pushed against the screen to see what it was. His father bent, picked up something and threw it in the fire. As the fire blazed up, Alex could see that it was the fence that was burning. He looked around at the yard. It looked open, naked without the fence. As the flames leaped higher, Alex watched his father chop out the posts holding the section of fence around the lilac bush. He cut it up into pieces and threw them into the fire. Alex looked for his mother. By pushing the screen out and leaning out the window, he could see her white dress on the porch. She was crouched on the steps, holding herself with her arms as if she were trying to hide. She rocked back and forth as if she were crying. Tears welled up in Alex's eyes. He didn't understand, but he knew that his parents had been fighting again. To see the yard without the fence reminded him of his father pushing him out into a gang of kids, not letting Alex hide behind him. He was making their house open to the world. A cool breeze sprang up and blew on Alex and he shivered. He felt naked. He dashed blindly back to his bed and buried himself beneath the covers. His teeth were chattering and he felt cold all the way through. 46 �Communion Doris Wood "See, Grandpa," Sara directed, "down there, and over just a little bit. That's my secret place," she said conspiratorially. "There's a creek and trees and a flat place with big, big rocks. IVlaybe I'll take you there tomorrow. Only you can't tell anyone. Especially my mother." The shrunken, frail old man squinted to see where his granddaughter had pointed. "Oh yes." He couldn't make out the place she was referring to. "My, that looks like a good place." They stood on the hill against the rugged terrain, beneath the whispy summer sky. They were warmed by the bright sun. Sara turned away and ran up the hill. Her gradfather was used to flat lands and he panted as he struggled up the incline. Sara traveled with eyes down, looking for treasures. · Suddenly she stopped and squatted down on her haunches. She pried a stone from the dirt. It had a bright red streak through the middle. She daintily rubbed off the dirt and soberly inspected her find. The smell of the earth still clung to the stone and holding the cool jewel in her hand she inhaled the odor of the fragrant earts. She had a close affinity for the vital earth. She stood up and turned to her grandfather, who had now caught up with her. "Look, Grandpa, what I found!" She held up the stone for his inspection. He took the stone and pretended to study it carefully, trying to regain his breath. "My," he finally said, "that's a pretty one." Pocketing the stone Sara looked around for a treasure for her grandfather. Something off the path caught her eye. She stooped down and claimed it from the earth. She han back and presented him with a tiny violet flower. "Here Grandpa ... you don't have to keep it if you don't want to. It's just a tiny one," she apologized. "Big ones don't grow up here." He accepted the flower, pleased. "It's a beautiful flower. Thank you." He brought the flower up to smell, a mindless ge.sture for his senses were dimmed in his old age. "Look, Grandpa, behind you. You can see the whole world from here." Sara pointed to the city below them. "That's Duluth." The two stood looking out at the city below them, a gleaming and peaceful vision in the sun. Sara stole a sidelong glance at her grandfather to see his reaction. His interest mustn't lag. She searched the scene to find something of special interest. A ship was moving in the harbar. "Look, Grandpa, over there," she 47 �pointed, "do you see the ship?" He dutifully followed the line she had pointed out. He had great difficulty making out things at a distance. "Well !" "I've been on a ship!" she stated importantly, looking up to get his reaction. He crinkled up his face in feigned astonishment and smiled down at her. They had not known each other until two days ago. He didn't talk much, but there had been a silent communication between them. Sara looked down at her dress. It was her favorite, with tiny forget-me-nots on a pale yellow background. Her mother hadn't wanted Sara to wear it for a walk, it was her 'Sunday best'. But Sara had put all of her considerable will to the task and had won out. She smoothed down the skirt, a sensual gesture suggesting a potential voluptuary. Sara ~ondered if her grandfather liked the dress. She wanted to ask but was intuitive enough to know that asking would destroy the illusion. A warm breeze caught her dress and fluttered it around her like wings. Engulfed in a joyful exuberance, she capriciously scrambled off up the hill, singing "catch me if you can, Grandpa." She was the eternal coquette, running from the captor, hoping for the capture. "Don't run, child," he called weakly. "You'll stumble and fall." Sara's vanity was offended-to think that she was that childish and clumsy! She ran faster, laughing triumphantly. A stone cropped up where none had been and caught the toe of her shoe. She went sprawling on her knees. The pain of the skinned knees brought tears to her eyes. She fought them back. She felt an animosity for the earth that had spilled her in such an undignified fashion. She kicked it. Her grandfather caught up to her, heaving from his exertion. "Let me see that," he soothed. He made a motion to look at her skinned knees. She was embarrassed, humiliated by her spill, and she quickly drew up her knees and covered them with her dress. "No! It doesn't even hurt." She desired to conceal the source of her pain f r om him. "Aren't you going to let Grandpa see it?" He sat down helplessly next to her huddled figure and cautiously put his arm around her. Sara shook her head emphatically. "No." He withdrew his arm self-consciously. Her rebuff was , ainful to him. p 48 �She wanted to change the subject. "You know, this is my hill. Hardly anyone ever comes here." Her knees hurt- she wanted to look at the damage but restrained herself. "Oh ?" He recognized her gesture of conciliation. "I like t Lis very much." Sara leaped to her feet and started up the hill again. Her grandfather pushed himself up with great effort. He was exhausted f rom the climb and the heat of the mid-day sun. But yet he followed his grandchild. She was his link with life. What she had to show him he desired to see. He struggled to catch up. Her agile figure darted before him, lithe and beautiful. The sun caught her blonde head. She stopped and turned, hands on hips. "Grandpa, why are you so slow!" she reprimanded, in mock exasperation. Watching him .s truggling after her filled her with a sense of power. She was huge- on top of the world- more grown up than a grown-up. She laughed at him, struggling below. "Hurry up! We won't get there before doom's day," she yelled against the breeze. The old man pushed on. He must please this child. He couldn't lose this. He feared her exasperation, her displeasure, her rejection. He stumbled. Looking down at him he was incredibly shriveled beneath the broad expanse of land and sky. Sara remembered her mother's words, "Now don't take him too far. He's old and not very well. You mustn't tire him out too much." Sara ran down to him and put her smooth hand in his gnarled one. "Grandpa, are you tired?" She looked fearfully and anxiously up. He gave her an inarticulate nod, too fatigued for speech. "Grandpa, let's sit down here and look." "We can go on," he gasped, trying to smile. He didn't want to disappoint her, to hold her back. Sara helped him down. "No. I'm tired too. Let's rest here. We can sit here and look down." They sat on the grassy hill. Sara solicitously patted the old man's hand. "Are you okay, Grandpa?" "Yes, little one. I'm okay. I'm happy." "You're not to get too tired," she fussed-like a nurse or mother, she thought. They sat in silence except for the old man's heavy breathing. There was a rapport between them. Sara struggled to overcome her natural reticence. She felt it important that there be no mistake as to her feelings. The 49 �evidence of his weakness made her less concerned with her own vulnerability. "Grandpa, I love you." Happiness overwhelmed him. "Yes. And I love you, Granddaughter." He found her small hand and squeezed it. The smoothness of her young flesh amazed him anew. Sara felt the satisfaction of requited love. Minutes passed. They soaked in the earth smells about them. They felt the warmth of the sun. A bee droned in a nearby patch of clover. They reviewed the city scene below them. "Just think, Grandpa, we're kings. of the whole world up here." Underlt'al. r Affair e Joy Thompson I will meet you at twilight at the bottom of the sea, And we'll stroll along the sandy ocean floor. Side by side and hand in hand, we will frolic in the sand; Far from curious eyes, we'll turn to love once more. With no one around to ogle but the silent goggling fish, Submerged in subterranean solitude, We'll sit on a mossy rock, and secluded there we'll talk; In our emerald cave, no problems can intrude. In the current's swelling flood, I'll come surging up to you, Swaying close in rhythmic, undulating tide. Fin to fin and gill to gill, we'll float happily until We have quite forgot the prying world outside. Like Alpheus and Arethusa, I'll pursue you down the deeps, Till we meet in a sparkling fountain once again. I will gather pearls for you and a starfish, maybe two; You'll be mine and I'll be your.s, ever Amen. I will meet you at twilight at the bottom of the sea And among the coral reefs, we'll glide along. We will leave our cares behind us, and the world will never find us; Totally immersed, to ocean we'll belong. 50 �The End David Stead The tattered windmill slows the Constant pump of fluid, and the Aging clock begins its final toll. An image seeks the needed Repetition, but glassy windows Feel the shades being drawn. The microphone is scarcely heard Through ragged wires, and the Radar no longer finds the vibrating Echo. The band has played Its final number as the musicians Close their eyes and depart. The final Page is written and the ear-marked Book is all but complete. The publisher Reviews the author's work and passes judgement On the success of his toil. The actors enter Slowly for the final curtain call while Lights that brightly burn begin to Fade until the power fails. 51 �The Desert Suzanne Siemon The silent, burning desert has allured Curious men beginning to explore The mysterious secrets that are blurred And vaguely hidden on the sandy floor Of the vast, uninhabited waste land. These intense desires cause men to ignore Countless hazards that we must understand. The desert abandons to solitudeDismal and oppressive- that will withstand Curious probing of man's fortitude. The grim desert may lie- lifeless, voicelessNever to impart to the multitude Why it has remained barren and pathless Throughout unnumbered ages that have passed. It will persistently conquer unless Man reveals the solemn secret it hides Encompassed in sand lying desolate. Advancing through sand, the desert misguides Man to believe he has reached the summit When he has actually only started, And the minutest ropes remain uncut. 52 .~ ����� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College. Through its several titles—Manuscript, Perspectives, and Kiosk—the magazine has a long history of celebrating creative writing and art on campus. It began publication in 1938 under the title of Manuscript before changing its name to Perspectives in 1953. Then in 1971 it took another name that it is known by currently: Kiosk. It is still published annually by the Morningside College English Department. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1938- Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Morningside College Library Morningside College English Department Ponder, Marcie: Digital Creator Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical PDF Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Title A name given to the resource Kiosk Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource "The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children," (The Kiosk, 2003). Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. P E R S P E C T I " E S '64 MOR, If ~~~-~. :: C .LEG LIB. SIOUX CITY, lOW PERSPECTIVES VOLUME XXIII SPRING 1964 NUMBER 1 Staff Editor ---------------------____ ______________ ______________________________ _______ _________ ______________________________________ Terry Ford _ __ Business Manager ______________ ______________________________________________ _ ____ _ _ _ _ __________________________ Marie Deel _ Art Consultant _____ ________ ___________ _ _______________________________________ Mr. William Zimmerman __ Faculty Advisor _______ ._____ .._____ _____ _____ ___________________ ._ ____________ .. ____________ Dr. Howard Levant . PERSPECTIVES is published by the students of Morningside College Sioux City, Iowa Rosey Ro.nald Beanblo.sso.m "Ro.sey Bro.wn," the receptio.nist called. A t the mentio.n o.f her name Ro.sey lifted her cumberso.me figure fro.m the chair and waddled into. Do.cto.r Newbalm's o.ffice. Again she made herself as co.mfo.rtable as po.ssible and waited fo.r Do.cto.r Newbalm to. m'a ke his grand entrance. She attempted to. cross her legs but the large bulge which at present disto.rted her no.rmally well ro.unded figure made her even mo.re unco.mfo.rtable. "Kid's a nuisance and it's no.t even bo.rn yet," she tho.ught. She heard the do.o.r o.pen and Do.cto.r N ewbalm came swinging into. the ro.o.m with his everpresent stetho.sco.pe draped aro.und his neck and a large mirro.r which was o.n a band aro.und his head; it lo.o.ked like a huge eye. "Go.o.d mo.rning, Ro.sey," he said, trying to. so.und as cheerful as po.ssible. "Ho.w are yo.u feeling to.day?" "Just ducky," she reto.rted witho.ut bo.thering to. smile. "Go.o.d," he replied. "No.w if yo.u'll co.me o.ver to. the table I'll examine yo.u." Again Ro.sey lifted herself fro.m the unco.mfo.rtable chair and made her way to. the examining table. With no. little effo.rt she go.t up o.n the table and lay back in co.mfo.rt fo.r the first time since she came to. the o.ffice. As she lay there, Ro.sey lo.o.ked into. the large mirro.r o.n Do.cto.r Newbalm's fo.rehead to. check her lipstick. Well, that silly mirro.r is go.o.d fo.r .so.mething, she tho.ught. Hey Do.c, that tickles, she wanted to. say as he ran the co.o.l stetho.sco.pe o.ver her bo.dy. Once she co.uldn't help herself and giggled. "Well, Ro.sey," Do.cto.r Newbalm said, "yo.u're in perfect health. Yo.u sho.uld have the baby anytime no.w. Ha! As we do.cto.rs say, yo.u're ripe." Just like a watermelo.n, she tho.ught. "Yo.u sho.uld be very happy," he said, as he helped her o.ff the table. "This sho.uld be o.ne o.f the greatest and mo.st rewarding experiences o.f yo.ur life. It's no.t everyday that a wo.man can feel the jo.y o.f life within her and no.t every wo.man is fo.rtunate eno.ugh to. be able to. bear children." What luck, she tho.ught. "I'll be expecting to. hear fro.m yo.u so.o.n," he said as she left the ro.o.m. As .she felt the first co.ntractio.ns, Ro.sey reached fo.r the clo.ck beside her bed. Hmm, they aren't regular yet, she decided as she slammed the clo.ck back o.n the night stand. By mid-afterno.o.n the 3 1394.0t pains had established a regular pattern and she called Dr. N ewbalm. "You had better have your husband take you out to the hospital right away," he said. "But he isn't here now and there isn't any way I can reach him at work," .she said, attempting to hold back the tears. "Very well, leave him a note and I'll stop by for you myself. Goodbye." Blasted man. Never around when I need him, she thought, as she packed her bag. Dr. Newbalm checked her in at the hospital and she was given a light sedative to help ease the pain. As the pain became worse, she clung to the rods at the head of her bed to keep from screaming. Wonderful experience, she thought. Never had .so much fun in my life. Why, who wants to go to dances, and to parties, and bowling? Who wants to have a good figure when they can look like a blimp? Why did I have to get pregnant? I wish it were over with. Where is the 'd octor? vVhy don't they do something? "Nurse, nurse," she screamed. Where are they? Out for coffee? "Well, how are you coming, Rosey?" Dr. N ewbalm asked in a cheerful voice. You ass, she thought without bothering to answer. Can't you .see? Why don't you take a picture of a woman having a great experience? You should be happy. You don't have to go through this agony. Doctor N ewbalm sent for the orderlies and Rosey was wheeled into the delivery room. "Now, Rosey, everything is going to be all right. Just relax. Follow my instructions and it will make it much easier. Now, take deep breaths. That's it. Doesn't that feel better? Now push, Rosey, push. That's it, push." Why doesn't it come out? What's it waiting for? It would be easier to hatch eggs. I think I'm going to faint. Ah, they're wiping my head off. That feels better. Look at that doctor. He just stands there and waits. Why doesn't he do something? Oh, it hurts. Why don't they help me? He's holding its head. It's ugly. Why don't they wash it? "Push, Rosey, push. That's it. It won't be long now. You're doing fine." How does he know? He can't feel anything. How does he know I'm all right? Push, he says; why doesn't he pull? Why do I have to do all the work? Why are they showing that ugly 4 thing to me? I don't want to see it. What are they doing? They're laying it on my stomach. It's warm. They're cutting the cord. Hurry up. I can't stand any more. "It's all right now, Rosey. It's all over with. The baby is fine." What do they mean it's all over with? It still hurts. I'm so tired. Why don't they leave me alone. Why don't they let me sleep? "Good morning, Rosey," said Doctor Newbalm in his usual cheerful voice. "How are you feeling today?" Good god, don't you ever quit? How do you think I feel? I feel like I've just had a baby, she felt like saying, but managed to answer with an indifferent "O.K." "Tomorrow, we'll have you up and around a little. Your husband was here last night, but I guess he had to back to work today. Do you want your baby brought in now?" he asked. "Yeah, I guess so," Rosey answered. It isn't very pretty, she thought. It doesn't have much hair. After the nurse took the baby away, Rosey asked for her cosmetics bag and began to comb her hair . Well, at least I'm rid of that pouch, she thought, as she consoled herself. Two Blooms Ronald Beanblossom "Ulcer," Adam Bloom grumbled to himself as he felt the growing pains jab his stomach. Adam looked at his watch. It'll soon be time for old faithful to come racing in here with my medicine, he thought. He prepared himself for the nurse's visit by pouring himself a glass of cold water from the green plastic container which had been placed on the stand beside his bed. N ext, he pushed the remote control button which turned on the television set. Perhaps that white elephant won't pester me with that "cheer-up chatter" of hers, if I act like I'm absorbed in a T.V. program. Humm, it's time for the count down. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one . . . "Good morning, Mr. Bloom," chirped Nurse Pickerton, as she closed the door behind herself. "Isn't it a beautiful day? How are you feeling today?" she continued without waiting for an answer. "That looks like an interesting T.V. program. What show is it? I never watch T.V. very much." She paused and 5 sn1iled as if waiting for a reply to her barrage. It's a lousy morning, I feel horrible, and I don't know or care what program it is, he felt like retorting, but managed to smile and respond with "Oh." "Here is your medicine," Nurse Pickerton said, as she set the small white cup on his night stand. "I'll see you in an hour." Adam proped himself up on his pillow, grasped the small white cup in his hand, and stared at the smooth white substance. He tried to swirl the thick liquid in the cup, but mused at the silllilarity between it and his colorless life. He gulped the white liquid and quickly reached for the water to remove the chalk-like taste from his mouth. It didn't seem to help much. After shutting off the T.V., he once again lay back in the solitude which had composed most of his life. Always the quiet one, he thought, always alone. I gues.s I've been that way since I was found on the steps of the orphanage in a basket. Like that tiIne I hid in the ventilator shaft and overheard Miss Birthbea discuss my character with an applicant. "He is extremely well mannered," she had said. "Why, he never causes a bit of trouble, never talks back, and always does what he's told. He's a quiet boy and keeps to himself most of the time. I am sure that he would fit extremely well into your family." For some reason, no one seemed interested in a quiet, nonaggressive boy. "Always do like you're told," Miss Birthbea always said, "and you'll get along in this world just fine." Well, I got along fine at the orphanage all right. I got along so well I never got out until I became of age. Miss Birthbea was very nice about it. She said that she didn't want any boy of hers becoming a bum. I guess that's why she got me a job and an ap-artment. The old bat was worried about her reputation and not my place in society. But I smiled and thanked her when she told me what she had done for me. It sure didn't take me long to move, though. I put my belongings in a paper bag. Miss Birthbea was kind enough to show me where I lived and how to get to work from there. "N ow, if you ever need any help, don't be afraid to come to me. I am always glad to do anything I can for you," she said in a way that made me feel that she was the last person on earth I would go to for help. As I watched her black-clad figure descend the stairs, I was relieved to know that this was the last time I would have to look at t hat hawk-like face and listen to that screeching voice. Even 6 my little cran1ped room seemed large and free, after living at the orphanage with six other boys in the same bedroom. And, of course, there is my boss, Mr. Antlion- the ass! He ' is always willing to lend a helping hand- providing there is a profi t to be made. "Bloom, get the files for the Finnley account; Bloom, get me some coffee; Bloom, do this; Bloom, do that." "Yes, Mr. Antlion; right away, Mr. Antlion." Hogwash! One of these days I'm going to tell that bald-headed slave driver to go to hell. But, I remember Miss Birthbea's advice- always do what you're told and you'll get along all right in this world. I guess that's why Mr. AntHon has kept me on the payroll. Why, that old goat even let me have time off to come to the hospital- without pay, of course. "Thank you, Mr. AntHon; I certainly appreciate this, sir." Oh, oh, here come those pains again. Adam poured himself a glass of water and turned on the television set. He looked at his watch and began the count down. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one . . . "Hello, Mr. Bloom," chirped Nurse Pickerton. "How are you feeling this hour? I see you're still watching television," she continued without waiting for a reply. "Is there anything good on ?" Shut your mouth, he wanted to say. But he smiled and responded with "Yes, nurse." "Here is your medicine," she said once again. "I'll see you in an hour." Adam again propped himself up on the pillow and took the' small white cup in his hand. He stared at the smooth white liquid and tried unsuccessfully to swirl the thick substance in the cup. He gulped the white liquid and quickly reached for the glass of water to wash the chalk-like taste from his mouth. It didn't help much. He turned off the T.V. and lay back in the solitude which Nurse Pickerton had interrupted. Soliloquy of A Dying MOl'tk Ronald Beanblossom God, mine has surely been a f.ruitful life. Since I knocked at the door of this place some twenty years, eight months, and nine days ago, I have spent my time in contemplation of Thee. It has not been an easy life, for I came to this place seeking escape from 7 punishment for killing my wife. It seems fitting, somehow, that I should now escape this place in the name of Death. Why, I remember my many days in the apple orchard. The silence we keep makes the snapping of twigs seem like thunder. Those curious birds with their nimble wings sit idly by and chirp as you fill your sack. They look so free and full of life. But they can never know the fullness one achieves behind these walls. And the f.ruit which grows upon those trees achieves the fullnes.s of a young virgin's breasts. Their taste seems especially sweet in the cover of some concealing bush. Twice a day we are called together. Ah, I shall surely miss this fellowship. Prior to both of our meals, we entered into the sanctuary where we kneeled for an hour of meditation. I can not forget the solemn ending to our ritual; it was 'a lways a pleasure to watch from the back as my brothers, in order to signify the end of the period, bowed to kiss their small wooden crucifixes three times. Then, after all had finished, I did likewise, for I remembered that there is humbleness in duration. N ext, there was the meal, where I, like the rest of my brothers, took my allotted share of beans, bread and goat's milk; I then silently passed the rest to my neighbor. It is indeed a pleasure to share when in plenty. I always anxiously awaited my return to the fields or orchards. Where could I be closer to God than in nature? Ah yes, I can not help but recall the pleasure of arising at four each morning to begin my daily chores. The gentle watchman came each morning to the chair where I sleep and shook me until I awoke. Then came the brief freshness from the cold water in nly basin. There have indeed been many pleasant hours spent sleeping in this chair where my thoughts in the night 'a re kept in utmost purity; it is truly unfortunate that people outside the walls of this refuge do not retire to their private chambers at eight each night. This provides ample time to think more fully upon spiritual things. They will be coming soon to provide me with my first and last opportunity to speak. I don't know what I could say. Perhaps if I-no, that wouldn't leave a good impression. The light from my candle seems to reflect the barrenness of these four stone walls which make up my small room. I suppose that light is symbolic of God. I wish they would come soon sc that I could say my last words. My robe has so many patches. I was to trade it for a new one next month. The light seems to be getting dimmer. It wasn't very bright in the beginning. S The Journal of John Sherwin Dan Bottorff June 19, 1775: Having now only a moment to reflect upon the events which have transpired recently, I have found a secluded spot to write down my thoughts before I return to the Colonial forces. I can but briefly describe the events leading up to the bloody action at Charlestown and Breed's Hill. Since the bloodthirsty British attacked at Concord in mid-April, the alarm for support had rung in every quarter. My first desire was for my wife and so it remains. I was therefore reluctant to join the Continental forces as hastily as many. Little Johnny has only begun to handle the store, though with apparent ability as a merchant. A fortnight ago Johnny came to me with a bolt of homespun. In his eyes shone the zeal of John Hancock himself. He implored me to allow his mother to fashion a uniform which he could proudly wear in defense against the British. What father can bear to see his boy stand before him representing the noblest cause under heaven today without his own heart bursting into flame? Using all of the wits which I possess, I strove to convince him that his first duty was to his mother and to her welfare. I would join the forces immediately if he would promise to protect his mother and to take diligent care of the store. At dawn the following day we reviewed the accounts and the shelves which were well stocked. By sundown I was satisfied with his command of the merchandise. I packed a bag with a change of clothing. Carrying my musket, I bid my wife and son farewell and sought that portion of the Continental forces which were residing not far distant. Arriving at the camp, I found it to be frightfully understocked. Due to the rapidity of events leading toward the eventual outburst at Concord, the militia could be but poorly equipped and were all but untrained save in the skill of firing their muskets. Colonel Prescott, the commanding officer, ordered no target practice, for the stock of powder and shot was so frightfully limited. We were drilled in the use of military methods so unfamiliar to men to whom guns were used only to shoot partridges and squirrels. Moving our camp frequently throughout the area west of Boston, we heard many accounts of the tortuous British plundering colonial settlements. Numerous families had been attacked by British regulars; husbands were shot, old men were slain, and wives and children were beaten to death. Frequently wild descriptions wer e given concerning the molesting of young children by the r ed-coated devils. 9 On June twelfth General Gage proclaimed that all in the Continental militia who would swear allegiance to the tyrant would be pardoned. The proclamation provoked a good deal of jesting among the ranks. Our opportunity to do battle with the grenadiers came on June seventeenth. The horror of such a battle is difficult for a sane man to bear without the burden of also depicting it in a j ournal. Let it suffice to say that the militia was forced to flee their entrenchments on Breed's Hill due to the exhausted ammunition supply under the third frontal attack of the British. The fallen Colonials could not be counted, but we are assured we struck the British a much severer brow than they can readily absorb. I pray that shortly this struggle will cease and sanity will again prevail. M an-at-his-Best Dan Bottorff "Good morning, Mrs. Bland," I said to the old hag as I fought back a yawn. "Mary, why the 8 :30 service? Just one Sunday I'd like to sleep late." This time I couldn't control the weight pulling on my jaw. "I think you are trying for a perfect attendance medal," I remarked. "Cut it out, Joe!" she demanded, then snapped back, "you're the badge wearer in our house." "Do you want to keep your coat?" I asked 'a s I headed for the cloakroom. I knew she would give it to me. Its sleeves and collar were frayed. The sheepskin lining had torn and was patched back in. She didn't want people to associate the coat with her. It made me mad to .see the new coats in the cloakroom. The old hags always have new coats. As much as I hate the hypocrites, at tin1es I have to fight the desire to see my wife in a stylish new outfit that we can't afford. When I came out of the cloakroom, Mary called from across the narthex, "Joe, over here. Avis, this is Joe, my husband. Joe, this is Avis Gurdin, the president of our Women's Society. Avis and I will be working together on the program for next month." I thought to myself, "I'll bet it will be a big deal with such a fat ewe running it, Avis." But I said, "That's nice. It is nice to meet you, Avis." We moved on to the next ordeal, the greeters. God, I feel sorry for those poor devils. I'd die if I had to do that. I made 10 Mary promise she would never get u.s into that spot. This Sunday's greeters were Councilman and Mrs. Walters. When I grasped her hand I got her thumb and all. It was like shaking a cold mutton chop. She bleated something, but I couldn't understand it. M} collar choked me and my ears burned. The Councilman was more suave as he said, "Good morning, Joe. How are things down at the station? I hear you have four new boys on the force." "Everything is fine, Mr. Walters. They will work out fine." I ground out the standard answer. If we could make it to the back row off to the side. But no, we were caught by the usher with the phoney sincere smile. Most of the ushers have that embarrassed look, but this fake enjoys leading people down to the front like a Judus goat. A phrase of the organ prelude reminded me of the "Whiffen Poof Song" played in two-four time. Our quartet should work up a parody of "sacred" music. If the preacher ever learned that I sing in the Four Parolers at the station he'd harp till I would have to join that chul'ch choir. In the bulletin it always says "Dr." J. August Shepherd. The old goat hasn't graduated from an accredited undergraduate school besides earning a doctor's degree. His gray hair is unkept. His ears droop. His eyes are pinkish. With chin whiskers he would look just like a goat. I can't talk like this to Mary because he baptised and confirmed her and married us. I often wonder if she wouldn't rather pass away before him just so he could bury her too. My wife slid into the pew beside an attractive girl in a black lambs wool sweater. Her makeup was thick, especially around her eyes. She looked as out of place in the church as I felt. I thanked God that this would only last an hour, unless the preacher drug out the prayer. In the pew I found it possible to daydream myself into a more pleasant situation. I was walking down the corridor outside of the drunk tank when the officer in charge slammed the door open and yelled for help. The room was a bedlam. The drunks were still high enough to want to have some fun. They were beating the bars with anything that would make noise. The best thing was to close the door on the screaming humanity. They would wear out eventually. Anyway a little spirited noise-making was good for the constitution. "Let all mortal flesh keep silent and with fear and trembling stand ... " The preacher had started. In sixty minutes it would be all over. "Let us JOIn our voices in singing hymn number two hundred-thirteen, 'My Faith Looks Up To Thee,' number 11 two hundred-thirteen." I listened to the first line, "My faith looks up to The, Thou lamb of Calvary," and I couldn't take any more. The garage had to be cleaned at home and I could be planning what to do with the junk that had accumulated there. The lawn mower could be stored upstairs and the screens ... everyone sat down and flipped pages of the hymnal. Everyone read together. Everyone sang together. Everyone, everyone, even the girl sitting by my wife followed along, although I think she was confused. I could hardly wait for the sermon. At least then I would be able to look like I was following the service, if I could keep my eyes open. First though, old Shepherd sheared the congregational flock of its money. The choir sang an offertory number that sent me off in a wild dream. Hundreds of times I had thought of how great it would be to leap out of the pew, take bounding steps down the aisle, and summersault onto the altar. Then I would speak in eloquent phrases and by sheer force of will would convince the mob to purge the sanctuary. I don't know why I rembered a saying in my book of Confucius. "Clever talk and a domineering manner have little to do with being man-at-his-be.st." The old goat had begun to rave, "The blood of the lamb was shed for you for the remission of your sins." What does he know about blood? When had he cleaned up the human debris of an automobile wreck? When had he taken a bullet from a German on the front lines? Nausea struck my stomach. For twenty-five minutes I watched Dr. Shepherd drive his flock through the vilest sheep dip imaginable. "Oh God, please bring the service to an end." I was dying for the postlude. It came. The sheep followed the shepherd back through the aisle, one after another. "Mary, I'll meet you in the cloakroom. I'm going out the side door." Selah Phyllis Fleischauer Enter quietly. Quite full today. Whisper, "Half-way down, fine." Take program-no, bulletin-always forget. Fake Carnation, plastic. Real ones nicer-too expensive for every Sunday. "Here, Janie." Little warm hand, sticky. Party in Sunday School today. Sit quietly. Bow head, pray. Looks good. What to think? 12 Dear God, help me concentrate. Amen. Mrs. Bayhead walks funny. Good organist, though Peace. Music beginning softly. Stream, flowing, cool, summer ady. Hot in here. Take off coat, and Janie's. Moan, "Janie." Chocolate ice cream best dress. Will it clean? Leave her coat on. Gravy on John's tie yet ;stain on linen tablecloth- tea? Grease on by gray slacks. John drop them on way to work tomorrow. Never tried machine. Might ruin slacks. Louder, like waves crashing, pounding. High blue sky, gray waves, foam. Suddenly black. Ends abruptly! Left hanging . . . Mrs. Bayhead very dramatic with hands. Flourish. Reverend Dunbury getting a little frosted at temples. Still very-good looking. Wife in hospital. Remember card and, "Let us pray." Bow head and clasp hands. Automatic. Pick thread off first. "Almighty God, unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and" Betty didn't know what I had in mind yesterday. Hated her for the new car. Jealous. Bob's better job. More money. Our house is nicer, though. Just wanted to drive to Joanne's to show off the new car. Guess I would too. p Wish John got a raise ... "that we may , erfectly love Thee, and worthily magnify Thy holy name, through Christ, our Lord. Amen." Hymn next. "No. 312" three-twelve. Highway to Smithland. John's mother not too well. Should visit a week-end this month. Next week-end bowling tournament, two weeks Hawaii. John not expert. No chance. But better than a car and . . . Stand up. Hold, and hold, and hold chord- now to start. Janie wants to see too. Give her book. Reach for another. Three-twelve, threetwelve, here. Where... "Here bring your wounded hearts, he-er te-ll yo-ur anguish; Earth has no sor-row that heav-ven can-not heal" and hold, and hold, and hold. Sound croaky today. Window open too much la.st night. Sinus. Clear throat. Better. Hold and vibratton on high not. Adult choir sings next Sunday. Only practiced for half an hour last. Late ... "can remove" and hold, and hold, and "Aaaaaah-menn" Ugh! never liked that hymn. Down again. Janie on floor to get our programs- bulletins. Hair getting too long. No curl. Needs permanent. Aunt Helen comes week from tomorrow. Pretty good with hair. Mine too, maybe. "The scripture lesson for today is from Psalms Seventy-six." Trombones. "But, thou, terrible art thou! Who can stand before thee when once thy anger is roused? From the heavens thou didst utter judgment; the earth feared and was still ... " Betty did it last. Should have her fix it for tonight. Might be mad. I'm not . . . 13 Cherub Choir today. Cute. Messy bows. Mrs. Dulson does them when she can. On vacation. ".. little children come unto Him." Flat. Timmy Gatstone screeching above. Homely. Taller than others. "Amen." Flowers from the funeral yesterday. Never know. Always the same- wedding or funeral. Serve happy or sad, then church, sick people, shriveled. Music. Money. Soft soothing. Not much melody. Swish. Clank. Jingle. Back and forth. Janie drops dime. My envelope. Dim light. Cars honking outside- distracting. Open window. Fresh air. Raining softly. Misty. Gray day. Black trees. Slippery pavement. Collecting finished. Organ still playing. A fadeout. Can't see pulpit. Orange hat on her hair. Looks like Mrs. Alexander. No. Big nose. Janie's babysitter two rows ahead. Nice girl. Not too pretty, good student. Never worry about boys at the house. "Lighten our darkness, we beseech Thee, oh Lord; and by Thy great mercy defend us from all perils and danger.s of this day. Amen. In these days of worry and great insecurity, each individual needs one true strength to cling to- faith in Jesus Christ" vines. Did I water Mrs. Garth's plants yesterday? Dying. Not enough sun on north side. Too much on west. Curtains fading. Like to re-do the living room- pain and "God in His infinite Inercy ... " Hope Joanne's party goes all right. Nervous for her. Boss, mayor, doctor, Reverend Olsen. Wives. Class and money. Beautiful home. Joanne same as in college. No snob. Husband stuffy sometimes. " ... Has brought us a faith and a challenge. The soul of man is a mirror which must reflect the image of God. What then is our reflection?" Hurried. Smeared mascara. Powdered over. Medium blue eye shadow for tonight. Almost gone. Drug store after church- eye shadow, newspaper, mouthwash, pink napkins- paper, cigaretts. Janie will want candy- spoil dinner. Leave in car. Accident there last Thursday. No one hurt. " . . . Joy in his heart that speak to all his students . . ." Miss Edmond new fifth-grade teacher. Invited? Very independent. "Vears bright red coat. Roses on altar ... "But the promise was given that ultimately evil should perish and good should triumph. Yet man cannot shrink." Sanforized "from truth in the world as it is. Man himself is a free moral agent ... " Tickets. Refund last half of John's round trip. Sixty days. "And as Peter said, 'Truly I perceive that God shows no partiality but in every nation anyone who fears Him and -does what is right is acceptable to Him'." Hope we fit in tonight. All richer. "Amen. Let us pray together." Bow again. "Our Father, who art in heaven," Haven Dress Shop, sale, 14 black velvet dress tonight, "Hallowed be Thy name." Watermelon shell for center piece, fruits, color. "Thy kiI)gdom come," six o'clock, "Thy will be done," organization and help, "On earth as it is in heaven," Peace on earth. "Give us this day our daily bread," communion, "And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us," sniff. "And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For Thine is the kingdom," high, "and the power," higher, "and the glory," highest, "forever, Amen." Put on coat. Purse, here. Gloves- one on floor. Bend quick, grab, too far away. Please, "Janie, my glove." Wriggle, squirm, reach. "Let us rise for the benediction." Scramble. Stand. Hurry, Janie, thank you. All ready now. Raised arm, big black wing . . . "May the peace of God remain in your hearts, and the blessing of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be amongst you, and remain with you always, Amen." Lights. Blurt of music, loud. People smile 'a nd stir. Action. Mill down aisle. Funny. Peace, honest peace. Mind wandered again- try harder next. But peace . . . Saltatorium Frustrated Phyllis Fleischauer The long, low bellow of a foghorn came from somewhere in the dark. Mist was rolling over the river in heavy clouds, blending everything into a homogeneity. Solemnly, the dark stone bridge kept watch over the murky river below it. Occasionally a glimmer could be detected on the far bank. Stella slowly mounted the three steps to the bridge and paced with deliberation to the middle of it. Rain began. She turned up the collar of her trench coat and then smiled an almost contemptuous smile while thinking to herself, ha! Turn up my collar to keep from catching cold when I'd be dead in ten minutes anyway. Stella had been contemplating this momentous decision for over a week and finally the time had come for action. The middle path of the bridge was worn smooth, but the side edges were rough and bits of refuse were stuck in the corner. Stella reached the highest arch of the bridge and tried to peer into the water, but the fog was so thick by this time that she couldn't even see to the bottom of the bridge. Stella had walked this f'ar with her head uplifted, her hand thrust deeply into her 15 pockets bravely, like Marie Antoinette going to the guillotine, but now that she was actually here she was a little frightened. Her head began to swim and she couldn't remember what to do first. The purse? the coat? the shoes? She eased herself up onto the ledge. At that moment she heard an unmortal sound that startled her so she slipped back onto the path of the bridge and gasped. This, in turn, so startled the old man who had wheezed that he swallowed his spittle wrong and began to cough violently. Stella was reassured by this hunTan sound and peered intensely into the fog. All she could make out was a strange eerie white spot, which turned out to be a beard. She cautiously moved toward it to investigate and discovered a small old man sitting on one of the stone resting benches along the side of the bridge. He was bent over, leaning on his knarled walking cane, and had a battered gray hat pulled close about his head. There was a scrawny multi-colored cat arching his back against the old man's leg. Stella's footsteps alerted the old man and he looked up. They looked at each other for a moment. Stella was rather angry inside at being intruded upon. The old man saw this feeling reflecting in Stella's eyes and slowly lowered his to the cat, whose fur was becoming matted with the rain. Stella was still hmnan enough to have some sense of pity in her and she made a meaningless gesture with her hand and after a moment said, "Y ou better get inside somewhere. You're headin' for a case of pneumonia in this weather." The old man lifted his face, but his eyes looked like they had been crying, although one couldn't tell the tears from the rain. She turned to go. "Wait," the old man said. "What?" Stella turned her head. "Oh, pardon me." Stella turned away again. A block farther down the bridge would be far enough in this fog. "It's just . . . " "What ?" Stella knew he wanted to say something, but, she had a more important matter to attend to. "Excuse me, could I know your name?" the old man asked. "Sure, Stella-Stella Brown. Look, I gotta be goin' now . I" "This cat's name is Tobias," the old man said hopefully. "Well, both you and your cat better not stay out in this stuff much longer or they'll have to cart you away in the morning." Stella was sobered by her own statement. "Oh, he doesn't belong to me. I was just here when he 16 came by and I . . . " "Honest, Pops, I gotto go now," Stella interrupted. The faint glimmer in the old man's eyes that had briefly appeared quickly disappeared. Stella turned and had only gone a few steps when she felt a slimy mass against her stockingless leg. The old man's arms were outstretched. "Here, kitty, kitty," the old man called with a hint of pleading in his voice. Stella picked the slimy creature from her legs and thought as long as she already had it in her hand she might as well take it back to the 01 dman. "Thank you, you've been so kind. Please, is there something I can do for you?" "No, Pops, thanks, but it's getting late, so . . . I'll just say good night and be on my way." The old man rested a little heavier on his walking stick 'a nd it chose that moment to crack in half. The old man was pitched forward and landed in a heap on the muddy stone in front of him. The cat, frightened by all this sudden action, arched his back and hissed, and would have stood its fur on end if it hadn't been so matted down. The old man moaned. Look, fella, Stella thought to herseelf, I didn't ask you to come out here on this night. If you were stupid enough to wander out here in the middle of this you deserve whatever you get. I gotta get on with my plans. Don't have time- ha, time! There won't be any time for me after tonight! The old man was trying to raise himself on one elbow so he could reach his hat that had fallen in the mud. His hair was white and wispy. His whiskers were mUd-spattered. Stella tried to leave but was glued to the bridge. After several moments she went back to the old man to help him back on the bench. The wind had been knocked out of him, and although he moved his mouth for several minutes, no sound came out. He finally gave up, but Stella could see the tears and knew what he was thinking: he was a burden, 'a lways had been. Now, when he was making a friend he had gotten in the way again. Stella watched the very first light streaks begin to break through the sky where the fog was beginning to part. The rain had stopped and the cat was straightening and cleaning his fur with rough tongue. Stella audibly sighed. Oh, well, she thought, I guess I might as well forget it for now. She slipped the old man's arm around her neck and lifted him to his feet. They started back the way Stella had come, the old man hobbling 17 and the stray cat trotting- along behind. Stella began thinking about the bridge on the east side of town. That one was a little higher, and, she hoped, even less traveled than this one . . . A Compan.io· for Collins n David L. Menke iIi "You stay right where you are," said Collins cheerfully. I'll clear off the table and bring our tea into the living room." Collins picked up the dishes and headed for the kitchen. "W ould you like some cookies to go with the . . . ?" His companion sat, legs crossed, on the coffee table. She sat looking toward the dining room. She was young and attractive, and Collins had first met her at the department store where he worked. He was an accountant and she a model. "I really had quite a day," said Collins as he entered the living room "Frightening, really!" He set the small china tea service on the coffee table and took a chair opposite her. "I think you would have been proud of me though." Collins bent over, reached down and poured a cup of tea. "Sugar?" He added two lumps. "Nothing like a good cup of hot tea when one wishes to relax, I always say," said Gollins as he placed a cookie in her hand. "By the way, I saw Anne today. She asked about you. Said she missed you at work." Collins filled the second cup, placed a few cookies along side and settled back into his chair. "I worked all morning on the Anderson account," he said. "Then met with BJ for an hour and finally finished this month's report for the directors. I know they'll like it." He took a sip of his tea and placed a small cookie in his mouth. "Actually, quite good. The cookies, I mean." Collins smiled and looked across the table. She was ravishing, he thought. Those long legs, the blue eyes, the blond hair. .. Quite exquisite, really. And personality? Well, she could talk about anything. Anything, that is, that he wanted to talk about. She wasn't one to start a conversation, but one thing was certain, she was a good listener. And a good listener was hard to find. Especially in a female. "More tea?" he asked. He refilled his cup and smiled. This is what he enjoyed. Sitting together like this, relaxing, talking, enjoying good company. And he had so little time to himself. What with all the work he was doing and the way people were 18 always asking him to stop over for dinners, parties, and other activities, he sometimes wondered how he managed. He chuckled to himself as he thought about it. Parties... dinners . . . friends . . . work . . . he was much in demand. Why, even But that would tonight, he had another appointment with .. have to wait. Right now he was busy. "By the way, dear, did I tell you that BJ asked for my opinion on how we might lower our overhead? I suggested the carpenter that worked on our front porch, but BJ just stared. Obviously, he hadn't been prepared for such a quick solution. Come to think of it, he didn't even take down the man's name. I should give it to him. In fact, he might be wondering about that very same thing right now. He mentioned that he'd like to talk with me in the morning. Oh well, it can wait. BJ's busy. And he hasn't looked well lately. Seems nervous and jumpy. He looked worried when I walked in the office this morning. Asked how I'd been. Told him fine. Haven't felt better in weeks, I said. He doesn't know about you. But then, why should he? Maybe we should have him over some night. I think you'd like him. He's sharp. No dummy, as they say in the department." Collins emptied his cup and set it on the table. "Well,', he s'aid, "I've got to run. But I should be back soon." He arose from his chair and smiled. "Thought I might go to the movies. It's Monday night, you know. Will you be OK while I'm gone?" He walked around behind the table, bent down and kissed his companion tenderly on the cheek. "I'll be back shortly." He crossed the living room, stepped into the den and flicked on the TV. "Should be a good show," he said as he helped the brown-eyed brunette off with her coat. She sat, legs crossed, facing the TV. Mighty good-looking woman, he thought to himself. Quiet, but nice. He took a seat beside her and reached for her hand. "Popcorn?" he asked. But the show was beginning. "I guess we'll have to wait," he said. "Sorry I'm late. But, you know how it is. What with all the parties . . . dinners . . . work . . . " And his companion sat and listened. 19 13 1 Milk for Martha David L. Menke "Herbert, I think I'll have my warm milk now." Herbert Johnson sat in the big, over-stuffed armchair in front of the fire. His eyes gazed listlessly at the flames as they ate their way into the center of the logs. The logs would break, gently drop downward and a small stream of red sparks would silently drift up the chimney. "Herbert!" The name brought him back to reality. "I'd enjoy my warm milk now, please!" A note of irritation sounded in her voice. His wife sat on the couch, a copy of Harper's Bazaar in her lap. She enjoyed reading. Somehow, that seemed to be the only thing she ever really enj oyed. That and drinking warm milk. Warm milk! The thought of it brought a gagging sensation to his throat, and for a moment he thought he would cough and choke. But he didn't. He got up from his comfortable position and headed across the room toward the kitchen. The Siamese only lifted its head for a second, glanced at Herbert and then placed its gray head on the black leather shoes at her feet. And the cat, thought Herbert to himself. She does like the cat. Cats, milk, and reading. Herbert sighed as he opened the refrigerator and poured some milk into a saucepan. Thirtyfour years he and his wife hed been married. They had been n1arried when they were both in their late twenties and they hadn't had any children. Somehow, Mrs. Johnson thought all children were a nuisance and Herbert never really had a fond desire for children so the matter had only been mentioned once or twice. He put the pan on the stove, turned on the gas burner, listened to the hiss and poof! as the flame ignited and then sat down at the table while the milk began to warm. He and his wife had been happy, he thought to himself. And they were really quite fortunate. He had a good job, they owned their own home, he would retire soon and then maybe they could travel. Herbert liked traveling. Mrs. Johnson didn't. Up into the mountains, along cold rocky streams, where big speckled trout could be seen flashing their long sleek bodies in the air. To be there now, thought Johnson. He and his wife had started on one trip, but after a day on the road, Mrs. Johnson caught a cold and she insisted on coming home. Since then, he'd never been able to get her started again. She said she liked to stay home where it was comfortable and couldn't see why anyone would ever want to stand in water throwing a string at a bunch of fish. Sometimes, Herbert thought, he wondered why he didn't go alone. He guessed 20 it was because she needed him. And he guessed she did, because she did seem to be rather helpless when it came to chores around the house and things like that. She enjoyed reading and ... "Herbert! Where's my . milk?" Her voice startled him and he jumped slightly. "Coming, dear," he said. He got up from the table, took a spoon from a drawer and dipped it into the milk. He dropped a couple of drops on his wrist. Mrs. Johnson liked her milk just right. Not too warm, not too cold, but just right. He remembered once when he had forgotten to test the milk. He had just poured it into the tall glass and carried it to her on her tray. He had set the tray down on the end table by the sofa, and had gone back to his chair in front of the fire. She hadn't looked up from her magazine, but only reached over and took a small sip. Evidently it had been too hot because she let out a yell and scream and put up such a commotion that he made a mental note to always be sure and test the milk before bringing it to her again. It seemed about right, he thought to himself. He filled the tall glass, placed it on the little silver tray and headed toward the living room. As he stepped from the linoleum onto the carpet, he noticed the latest issue of Field and Stream on the buffet near the door. He walked over to it. It was face down and the advertisement on the back cover met his passing glance. "When was the last time you were out with the boys?" the ad asked. It showed a picture of four men seated at a round table playing cards. The bartender in the background was pouring beer and a large mounted muskie hung on the wall. When was the last time, he thought to himself. Who knew? He cert'a inly didn't. He used to go down to the bar every once in a while when they were first married. Just to relax, maybe playa little huckly-buck and have a beer or two. It had .s ort of been fun. It had been a long time ago. Martha didn't like him to associate with "those kind of people" 'and he had told himself that it was probably better if he stayed home, so he stopped going and pretty soon they stopped asking why he never came down. It would be rather nice to go down again, he thought to himself. He knew some of the old gang still went down there nights and sometimes on a Saturday morning. He wondered what might be going on tonight. Maybe ... "Herbert! Haven't you got my milk yet?" Do you suppose old Tootie would be there? Herbert thought to himself. Good old Tootie. Why he hadn't seen or talked with Tootie in years and Ed, Ed Feddersen, he used to be a great pool player and . . . "Herbert!" There was impatience in her voice. What's wrong 21 11 11 :111 " with you?" She turned in the sofa so that she looked across the room at Mr. Johnson holding the tall glass of milk on the silver tray, while he looked at the magazine. "Bring my milk over here!" Mr. Johnson looked up from the magazine. "What is wrong with you, Herbert?" And Jim. Why, Jim Farnsworth could tell more jokes than any. .. "Herbert!" Her voice was somewhat higher. And to think that all these years he hadn't ... "I think," said Mr. Johnson as he slowly set the silver tray on the buffet, "I will go have a beer." "You'll what?" Her voice echoed shock and disbelief. "I think," said Mr. Johnson dryly, "I will go have a beer." "You'll what?" she said again. She turned fully around in the sofa. Her feet flipped the Siamese on his back and he looked up and yawned. "You're going to what?" "Right," said Johnson casually to himself. "I'm going to have a beer. Or maybe even two. What would you think of that, Martha?" "I'd think you were crazy," she said. "Bring by milk over here and sit down." Her eye.s were hard now and her voice stern, like a field general just before final orders are given. "The milk, Herbert. I would like my milk." Herbert smiled. "Thirty-four years. Thirty-four years. Do you realize that . .. but you wouldn't realize. You couldn't. Well, all that's going to change." Herbert's voice was becoming firm and somewhat louder. "That's all suddenly changed, Martha. I've been thinking. I've worked. I've earned money, but we really haven't lived. I mean really lived. And I'm not going to wait any longer. I'm going to enjoy myself. Milk ... cats ... magazines. Why, we can always do that. But you think about it. I'm going downtown. He cro.ssed in front of the buffet and opened the door to the small closet. He reached in, pulled out his hat and placed it jauntily on his head. I'll be back shortly. Your milk is on the buffet. You can get it." He turned, opened the door to the porch, stepped out and pulled the door closed behind him. It was cool outside. Not cold. Just cool and clean. The sky was clear. There was a full moon. Johnson took a deep breath, hurried down the steps, crossed the lawn and turned downtown. He felt like walking. In fact, he thought to himself, he might go on more walks if he felt like it. But now for that beer. What a look on Martha's face. Milk? He coughed slightly. 22 Paul Corbin, "Rich Jacobi" Dennis Dykema, "Still Life" A............. 'Yiller, "Facts and ~is c:" _L ... .-.L._ _ _~ _ 1 ~J 1 . .,., Figure~ If/" ," ." Drew Miller, "Landscape #1" Ron Kitterman, "The Wormwood and the Can" Jon Skoglund, "Mother and Child" Dennis Dykema, "Fertility Machine" Drew Miller, "Social Structure" Dennis Dykema, "Man the .Fool" Joseph Meyer, "Karate Man" Richard Jacobi Dennis Dykema, "Social Problem #746" (clo.sed) Dennis Dykema, "Social Problem #746" (open) John Nelson, "Wave" Denice Walker, "Nature Under a Microscope" Richard Jacobi, "Parasite of Constant Virtue' John Nelson, "The Valley of the Shadow of Death" Sandra Smith, "What is Man That Thou Art Mindful of Him"- Psalm 8 Suffer the Little Children Joan Neiman So this was the deep south. Bus depot sure didn't look much different. Dingier maybe. Not exactly dirty. But floors never glistened, and odors were odd, if not undesirable. Last night the lobby of the hotel had seemed fine, but this morning it looked slightly jarred. The plaster by the elevator buttons was cracked, and the wallpaper had been pulled away. And they said it was the best hotel. At least the room was spotless. She wondered if the negroes stayed there. She had not seen any except for the bell boys, so she guessed that they didn't. She wondered if she was prejudiced. It was a surprise to see the shoe shine boys when she had gotten off the bus. Not a boy, a man, on each wall of the depot. "Yessiring" and brush-brush-brushing away. All of their collars had seemed a little large. Their eyes had followed her with short jerky movement; and although she felt sorry for them, they seemed to mock her. Of course she imagined it. Daddy always did say what an imagination she had. Maybe the dirt and decay, the internal rotting, had not really been there: Atlanta, Birmingham, Nashville. Maybe she had seen what she looked for. She hadn't really believed it when she had read it. But Tom had been there for almost a year, and he denied it. Maybe it was her. Or he just didn't see it. They hadn't talked about it. Stepping onto the sidewalk, the green and light hit her. It sure was better than Iowa. Even in the middle of the city the difference in seasonal climate was vivid. More so in the city since the countryside was mostly fir trees. Or maybe pine? It was odd. She had expected elms and ash trees. But firs stretched for miles on the land, just as her day stretched for her until Tom got off the hase at six. Main Street lay before her. The southern army town. The color of the street appealed to her. White, wide street, with little white rubber disks nailed into the concrete to form the paths. Green strips lay between the sides of the roads. Wide green strips, as wide as each side itself. People could even cross from one strip to the other in the middle of the road. Brigh t clothed colored people everywhere, and once in a while a dull white one. There were a lot of them. She hadn't expected so many. And they looked good. Not oppressed. Some of the older ones were dirty, personally sloppy and over-all repulsive. But most of those thirty or younger were clean and healthy. Wearing bright 31 attractive clothes of good taste. They didn't look starved at all. She felt herself being disappointed in the loss of the martyr image, and then her Christian logic took over and she felt corrupt. It was the whites who amazed her. This fabled romantic, cultural people she had been led to expect. Where was the gentle civilization? She was the only one who wore scarf and gloves. Almost all the women tottered around on heels, and their skirts were way below the knees. Much lower than they wore them back home. She had felt very chic, coming out of the hotel, but now she felt ill at ease, like the time she had tried on a small dress. She wore her hair long, because it was unusual, but here almost all of the women had long hair. It looked unkept and dirty. They let it hang free, and many put their bangs in awful tight little rolls above their foreheads. Their faces had a white underfed look and -each one looked as though she had just gotten over a very difficult pregnancy. Perhaps the contrast with the blacks gave this effect. Or perhaps it was the decay. If there was any. Most of the men seemed fine. No worse than northern men, anyway. She chuckled. In school they had told her that in a decaying religion the fertility goddess is the first to go, and then the rest collapses. Finally locating the post office (it had no flags, no enlistment poster, defense, shelter signs, or other appearances of life), she mailed the letter. All their public buildings had either lawns baked with concrete walls or stone yards. She didn't know why. The post office had a banked lawn. Coming out the other side she saw five real 'Ole time Mammys sitting on the curb selling flowers for Easter. Two had kerchiefs tied over their hair, like Aunt J eminah. Gunny sacks were aprons. Each mumbled at her, holding up pieces of orange wood. They were all fat, and she couldn't tell one from the other. She remembered a joke someone had told her. 'A negro cannot tell one white man from the other, their faces all look alike.' Not knowing why, she felt ashamed, and ducked her head. A Rexall sign loomed, flashing food, and she went inside. All tense, ready, alert to all going on, not wanting to miss a movement. There was only one seat at the counter. On the very end. The counter appeared to be wall-to-wall negro babies. Five in a row, diminishing gradually, then a big hump, mother, and down to the last, the smallest of all. There were only eight stools, so they and the girl filled the counter. She was delighted with them. They looked like some kind of an ad. The mother was about twenty-two, with Aryan features and very black skin. Giving the appearance of black-face. She would 32 have been a beautiful caucasan woman, but she didn't know if the negroes would consider her pretty. Probably not. The mother's white blouse was so clean it was brilliant. From the cut it was impossible to tell if she was pregnant a seventh time. The five children she could see were spotless. The small girl's hair was taken up by yellow ribbons and tied on top of their heads. The four little dresses were starched and ironed precisely. Each sweater was embroidered in matching rosebuds. The girl decided they must be a military family, but couldn't decide what had brought them out. The colored woman glared at her for the fourth tin1e and the girl dropped her eyes guiltily. The children must have gotten their eyes from the father. The mother's stared piercingly again. There was something wrong with her eyes. They were deep brown, but looked strange, like she was drunk or wore contacts. Obviously she wasn't drunk with six kids and it was very unlikely she could afford contact lenses. But there was something there. Somehow it looked like she was ready to pass out. The girl ordered a dinner, and their hamburgers and french fries came. The woman went through the maneuvers necessary to divide everything and get everything ready. Their manners were perfect. Only disturbed when the oldest girl wanted a straw, like the mother had given the only boy. She growled, "8hhh, I said. I said drink it. Drink it." Obediently, she drank. Bestowing a napkin on each one in his turn she said, "Don't ya all mess up now, ya hear. Don't ya all mess up." The girl bent to the four year old boy. "What's your name? ... Those french fries good? ... You're an awful cute boy." No reply. The woman noticed this and looked at her, her eyes focusing largely. "Teddie, ya all leave the lady alone, ya hear. She's not your kind. You be quiet now. Yeat ya fries." The girl was hurt and disturbed. Why? She had tried to be nice to them. Even if they were niggers. Daddy had always been pro-negro. Until last year, anyway. He and Mom had gotten lost in Birmingham during the race riots. The riots had interferred with their vacation. Stupidly, they had taken a wrong road, and wound up in the midst of a negro gathering in the street. Surprisingly, Mother had remembered to lock all the car doors. They were forced to slow to a crawl, and black men surrounded the car, pounding and yelling. Poor Mother had been frightened to death, but Father had gotten mad. When they started taking the hub caps off Daddy had seen red, and put the car in low. He just took off, shifting so fast Mother had fallen. She was afraid he would 33 kill one of them, but he didn't, they got out of the way, and they He had never liked negroes since. That didn't mean that he really meant the things he said, of course. She wondered what she would really think of them if they weren't controlled. The boy grabbed a french fry dripping with ketchup and put it in his mouth. It was a tremendous task. He was very carefu1. Slowly he emersed another in the thick red mass. Then he carefully balanced it and popped it into his mouth, wiping his hand on the next fry. His hair was cut as close as possible to the scalp, but still frizzed black, row on row of minute tight waves. His bright red T shirt had white edging and his bright red sweater matched it, hanging low to his brand new jeans. He was a really little dandy. Blood dripped down on the blue pants. One, two, three, large globs. Coagulating, then slowly soaking in, spreading. Ketchup. It dripped from his hand down his chin to the leg. He had miscalculated and caused chaos. Grabbing a napkin, the girl stopped the flow. Blotting the stream into a thin napkin was difficult since he conveyed his tension and his painful shame to her. "It's okay. I'll get it all here. You'll be as good as new. Let me see your hand." He answered, looking gratefully at her, and looking surreptitiously at his mother, "Yes. Thanks. Yes, mam." He jerked upward straight into the air. Held by a strong pair of hands. Standing on the seat, he stared up at his mother, holding him by the seat of his pants. "Shame on you all. Shame. You go get all mess up now. Leave that lady alone." She shook him violently. "And don't say 'Yes mam.' You hear. Don't you ever say 'Yes mam' to nobody!" She cast a seething look at the girl and left, going back to the stool. "Don't worry. You all is as good as new. Eat up." No answer. Just a bleak stare from son to mother. The woman's eyes. They were white's eyes. That was what was wrong. Not large pupiled as the negroid eyes were. She had white features and white eyes. They looked dilated in the dark face . Paying the bill, she gathered the herd together and led them to the door. Slipping, one of the thr ee year old girls hit a whit e woman who was going in the opposite direction. She fell against the plate glass, tilting her hat, and slipping to one pudgy knee. The girls laughed childishly and beat their chests. Quickly, t he mother grabbed them and they all vanished into the crowd. A cashier rushed over to the girl, "Oh, oh, what's going on. Dear, dear. What happened? What's going to happen. Is she got back on the main high way. 34 hurt ?" "It's nothing unusuel." The girl made a mock courtsey as she walked past the fallen body. "Oh, oh, dear, what's that all about?" "I'm just paying my respects to her highness." Flesh or Spirit? Connie Stevens Even though I am not of legal age to go against my father's wishes, I must surrender to that spiritual power beyond myself. It is my utmost desire to make my father realize the great harmony to the spirit. I must help him to find it also. But he will not waste his precious time listening to my 'foolishness.' He insists that I continue my studies at the School of Chartres. Father says some day I will make a significant contribution to the long line of my heritage. If only he did not own all the land this side of the Merca River. Then I would not be able to go to the School. I could be free to roam the fields like boys who are not governors' sons. I could spend my time in communion with God. I am tired of futile efforts at writing and reading the Latin prose and verse. Fulbert's literary subjects hold no interest for me any more- away with Ovid, Cicero, Horace. However, I attend the school regularly, because I respect my father and grandfathers. I never pay attention to the grammar and rhetoric- there is nothing · left to learn of the dull Roman system. Instead I sit at my table and watch the hourglass until the last grain of sand has disappeared. Then I race to Old Pella's to spend a few forbidden moments with him before going to my home. I do not know why Father dislikes him so- I dearly love the old man. Day after day he sits, legs crossed, on his ancient rug, stroking continually his long white beard. Pella is waiting for more guiding words from our powerful God and I dare not disturb him when he is meditating. He is so wise-I hope someday to be just like him. An authentic scroll of Dionysius lies by Pella's side at all times. He reads from it every evening when I arrive. Dionysius wrote that if we lay aside all mental energies, by pure contemplation we can share in the super-light above knowledge. My friend is trying to help me find the super-light. Sometimes I feel as if I 35 will never find it. Other times, it is quite to the contrary. For example, one night last year I dreamt of St. Paul. With one hand he was tearing down the walls around the School. In his other hand was Old Pella with Dionysius' script in his lap. I was, of course, afraid to tell my father- he has such faith in the 'proper teachings.' So after instruction hours, I hurried to Pella's abode as usual . . . "My friend, I have great news. I dreamt of St. Paul tearing down the School walls. Yo.u were seated in his free hand. And with you was the script of Dionysius! Doe.s this not signify that at last I am reaching the great realm of the spirit?" The old man spoke to me in the tender way only the very aged can master, "My son, you must listen intently to that which I tell you. This surely means that you truly love God and will one day become one body with Him. But you must remember- He will not allow an idiot to enter into his existence." That was exactly one year past on this night. There have been no more such dreams- there has been nothing since that dream. I seem to be making no progress with the spirit. Will I never be delivered from the flesh? Will I never be freed from casuality? Teach me, my father-God, receive me! Tlle Last Rose Joy Thompson Dad's been gone three months now and we haven't had any news of him, not even a postcard. I'm sure Mom could have had him found in the beginning if she'd tried. It's hard to disappear now with teletypes between police stations, all the identification necessary to get a job, and car licenses so easily spotted by highway patrols. I suppose at first she thought he'd come back. I know Sandy and I did. Our folks had been fighting ever since we could remember and we tried to tell ourselves that this time was no different even though we knew deep down that it was . .one of my earliest memories is of my parents fighting. That and Mom's afternoon teas. Odd how the two memories go together, but they were in some way bound up. Mom and Dad's worst quarrels usually came right after one of tho.se teas. Mom was always in a good mood on one of her tea days. Instead of being quiet and bitter, she was sort of excited and she talked a lot in a fast high voice. She'd babble on about 36 what each one said, but after a while the glow would wear off and Mom would turn on Dad and start lashing out at him. Sandy and I hated those afternoon teas and not only because of our parents fighting afterwards. We would come home from school and there was no use sneaking in the back door. Mom would call us in to say good afternoon to the ladies. They were all women from the neighborhood, all younger than Mom. They had slick hairdos and bright lipstick and they wore the latest style in Toreador pants. Beside them Mom look so old-fashioned in her soft flowered chiffon dresses and black pumps. Mom is a little woman, dainty-looking and she has small bones. Her hair is black and curly but she pulls it back into a French twist that makes her look even older. She would sit in the big wing chair and preside over the tea table like somebody's grandmother. Grandma's tea set would be on the table. It was English bone china, so thin you could almost see through it. It had rose sprigs all over it, dainty and delicate little pink roses. With that tea set in front of her, Mom really looked like the high society lady she wanted to be. Sandy and I were supposed to come in and pass the plates of fancy little sandwiches. We felt gawky and awkward and we had a perfect horror of tripping over someone's slim slack-clad legs and dumping a whole plate in somebody's lap. Our big red hands and wrists stuck out of our sleeves because we always grew so fast that our clothes didn't fit. We both take after our Dad. We're big 'and stocky. Our sandy hair would stick out any which way no matter how much we tried to brush it smooth. By the time we would get home from school, we would be stick and rumpled and we'd feel out of place in the living room with our dainty little mother and the sleek women. It wasn't so bad after we got older. We both started working after school 'and we didn't get home before the teas were over. Mom would never admit that we worked because we needed the money. She used to tell her friends that I worked at the library because I'm such a bookworm. The same with Sandra's job at the five and dime. Mom was always saying that those girls just can't sit around. Between school and working and the baby-sitting we do now, we don't have time to sit around, but it isn't because we don't want to. Mom doesn't talk like this now that Dad is gone. She never talks about what happened either, even to Sandy and me. We talk about Dad often, but not where Mom can hear us. If anyone even n1entions his name, she gets that white funny look on her face that she had the day after Dad left. Mom never lets on to anyone how 37 things bother her. She pretends that everything is just fine. guess that is one way she hasn't changed. I That was one of the things they fought about, Mom's pretending. For instance, there was the way .she acted about the house. Our house is the oldest one in the block. In fact it is about the oldest one I've seen anywhere. It sticks out in the neighborhood like a sore thumb. It's a big Victorian monstrosity with all kinds of supolas and balconies. It doesn't look quite so funny since Dad painted it all white, but it is three stories high and the rest of the houses around are all post-war ranches so it looks sort of like a big white hen surrounded by a bunch of pastel colored chicks. Sandy and I have always been embarrassed by it, but Mom always acted as if it was a castle and she wouldn't give it up for anything. She'd inherited it from her mother, who inherited it from her mother, and I guess it probably was a pretty good house in Grandma's day. I can vaguely remember how it looked with the floors all shiny and the furniture all polished up and new. It's pretty beat up now. The drapes are old and faded and the carpet is worn through to the backing. The floors are scuffed and the paint is dingy. Mom always told the neighbors that everything in it was so valuable that she wouldn't replace it for anything. She would move the furniture around so the worst spots in the carpet didn't show and she'd mend the drapes and the chintz on the sofa and stuff. She always kept the shades pulled so the sun wouldn't fade the carpet, she said, but we knew it was to hide the way everything was already faded. The only thing in the whole house worth having was Grandma's tea set. That was one thing Mom didn't have to pretend about. She'd have traded the house off like a shot, but that tea set was the one thing she bragged about and meant it. Another thing Mom always griped about to Dad was the store. Her family had had money and so had Dad's. Dad owned a little grocery store that had once been the best one in town. What with supermarkets and taxes and the fact that Dad was easy-going and not too ambitious, now it barely makes a profit. Mom had been used to being somebody, and now she lived in a neighborhood wher e everyone else was on the way up and she and Dad were on the way down. This was the kind of thing she was hiding from her friends. To them she pretended she was crazy about this house and that Dad should stay in the store as his father had done before him. At home it was a different story. "Robert," she'd say, she always called him that even though everyone else called him Bob, "Robert, you've got to do something." That cultured voice of Mom's would become shrill and she'd 38 go on and on about what Dad should do and shouldn't do. He should not give credit. He should remodel and make the store into a supermarket. He should sell out to one of the big chains. And t he house. He should fix it up so it looked like something. He should sell it and buy one in the swankier part of town. He should make enough money that she and Sandy and I could have fancy clothes and join the country club and be somebody. That was her th eme-we should be somebody. Hughes have always been somebody and so have Rogers, her family. Mom never forgets that her dad was a big banker. He lost all his money in the crash of twenty-nine and died shortly after. She and her mother lived here after that with her grandmother. They didn't have to go to work but they pinched pennies and after Grandma died they sold off parts of the acreage that went with the house. They sold furniture and dishes and silver, too. Finally everything that was valuable was gone except the tea set. Mom was in the kitchen washing the tea set that last night. She always washed it right way so it wouldn't get stained or broken. Supper was always late after one of her teas. Sandy and I had lunched on some of the little sandwiches and cakes, so we didn't care, but Dad didn't like to have supper late. That night he was tired, they had been stocking shelves. He walked in and here was Mom washing her tea set and no supper even started. She was humming and she dried each cup carefully, paying no attention to Dad. Dad had to get back to the store. He didn't yell, he just said softly, "Martha, couldn't you let that damned thing go for once and get me something to eat?" Mom didn't even turn around. She just laughed and said, "Oh, Robert, sit down and read the paper or something. You know I've got to wash Grandma's tea set. Tea stains so badly, you know." Dad started rummaging around in the refrigerator. About all that was in it was a bunch of little -cucumber sandwiches left over from the party. Dad said, "My God, Martha, didn't you buy anything to eat? All that food in the store and we don't even have a piece of meat in the house. Wry didn't you tell me to bring home some hamburger ?" "H'a mburger," Mom sniffed. We never had hamburger at our house. We might have meat loaf, or Swedish meat balls or salisbury steak, but we never had hamburger. "Just a minute," Mom said, "I'll whip up an omelet." "Omelet," Dad said, groaning, "my God, Martha, I'm hungry." He grabbed the bacon and tossed a bunch of slices in the 39 frying pan, and then got out the eggs and beat up about a halfdozen. He tossed them in to scramble and yelled at Sandy and me to make some toast and set the table. Pretty soon the kitchen smelled great. Mom hardly ever fried anything. It smelled up the house too much, she said. Sandy had set the table in the kitchen. It seemed kind of silly to eat scrambled eggs in the dining room, I guess. Everything was just about ready to eat. I had just got out some catsup for my eggs and put it on the table when Mom turned around. "Really, Robert, eggs in the kitchen for dinner." Dad's face turned red and he pounded his fist on the table. "Who do you think you are, Martha Hughes? Why didn't you marry one of the Rockefellers? I don't see that it hurts you to be what you are once. What's the difference whether we eat fancied up omelet in the dining room or plain scrambled eggs in the kitchen?" Mom took off her frilly apron and started toward the hall. Dad grabbed her arm and said, "Come on, Martha, you're not too good to eat with us." "I'm not hungry," she said, sort of wrinkling up her nose. "Well, you can have a cup of coffee, and sit with us while we eat," he said, giving her a little push into a chair. Sandy and I had been shoveling food into our mouths and trying not to look at them or even to hear them. Our folks had been fighting all our lives but we'd never got used to it. Mom just sat in the chair, her back straight, sort of looking off into space as if she was trying to be someplace else. Dad sloshed some coffee into one of the tea set cups still sitting on t he counter. Some of it slopped into the saucer. He set it down with a bang. Mom came to life then. "Robert," she said, "that is one of Grandma's good cups. Are you trying to break it?" She stood up and seemed to grow about three inches. Sh e looked at Dad as if he were a worm she was going to step on. They stood there for a few minutes glaring at each other, their hands clenched at their sides. Sandy and I looked at each other and made for the back stairs. We didn't want to be around when the real fight began. We didn't hear a sound all the way upstairs, but before we got our door shut, they started yelling. We could hear them even with the door closed. We sat on the bed, not wanting to listen, but not able to keep from it. They were really screaming now, Mom's voice high and shrill, Dad's low and grating. "You're no good, Robert Hughes, you've never been anybody 40 and you never will be." "That's all right with me, I don't pretend to be something I'm not anyhow." "What do you mean, something I'm not? I'll thank you to remember that I'm a Rogers. My grandfather once owned half this town." "Yes, and your old man gambled it all away, and shot himself when he lost his money and the rest of the town's, too." "Robert, that's a terrible thing to say. Papa couldn't help it if the bank closed. All the banks closed." "Yeah, but not because the banker had absconded with the money of all the little people and played the stock market with it." Mom shrieked like a banshee at that. Sandy and I held our hands over our ears, but pretty soon we took them away. We had to know what happened, no matter how bad it was. We heard a slap, whose we couldn't tell. Then there was a long silence. We held our breaths listening for some sound. When it came it was so odd we didn't recognize it at first. It was a tinkling little noise, something like wind bells. Then came another, a little louder. We could hear Mom sort of moaning, "Oh no Robert no Robert no." And then another shattering noise. All of a sudden Sandy clapped her hand over her mouth. She began to cry softly. "Oh, Kathy," she said, "it's Grandma's tea set." She flopped face down on the bed and begain to wail, echoing Mom with "no, oh no, oh no." I listened and now I could tell too that the crashes were those of china smashing. We winced at each crash. Mom didn't seem to be trying to stop him, we could still he'a r her moaning quietly. We shivered each time a crash came, almost counting out the twelve cups and twelve saucers, twelve luncheon plates, and then the creamer and sugar bowL There was a long pause and we waited, hardly breathing. Then it came, one horribly loud crash and then another. "The tea pot," I said. "The tray," Sandy .said. For a few minutes after that the silence was deafening. Then we heard Dad's footsteps on the stairs. We cowered on the bed, watching the door, but his he-avy footsteps went on. He began slamming things around in his bedroom and for a little while we though t he was breaking something else. Then the sounds made a pattern. The drawers slammed open and shut. The closet door banged back against the wall. A large tinkling noice came as he swept the silver-backed brushes off the dresser. He stomped into 41 the bathroom and glass clattered. At last came the bang of the lid of his suitcase and the snap of the locks. Now his footsteps were slower, heavier and quiet as he stepped on the carpet of the front stairs. At the head of the stairs, he called back softly, "Good-bye girls." We didn't answer or open the door. So many times since we've asked ourselves why. Why didn't we try to stop him? Our brains seemed to have shattered along with Grandma's tea set and we just sat there. The front door slammed and the car started up with a whine. The gravel in the driveway rattled as the car backed out, braked and then took off with a roar. We sat there as the roar died away in the distance. Finally we got up, not even looking at each other and started to get ready for bed. We moved mechanically, undressing, brushing our teeth, pulling our beds down. As I reached over to turn out the light, I glanced at Sandy. Then I shut off the light quickly and we crawled under the covers and put our heads under the pillows and bawled like babies. When we came shrinking down for breakfast the next morning, Mom greeted us coolly. The kitchen was cleaned up: the dishes done and nothing out of place. VI e went into the dining room for breakfast as we did every day of our lives. The room seemed bare. It looked dingy and battered in the morning sunlight. The dining room table was dull and scarred, the rug scuffed and worn. There was a bare, shiny, oval spot in the middle of the buffet where the tray from the tea set had stood for so many years. The house seemed shabby, lifeless. It wasn't Dad's being gone. He might come back. There was a hopelessness, as if a sudden decay had set in overnight. We ate without talking. Neither of us said anything to Mom. She had a white set look as if she was trying very hard to hold herself together. She looked as if she might fly to pieces herself if anyone touched her. As we went out the back door to school, a little piece of china with one perfect rose on it was lying beside the trash can. We knew that the rest of the pieces must be inside, but neither of us lifted the lid. I bent down and picked up that little piece and put it in my pocket. We've never heard a word from Dad since he's been gone. Mom works in the store now. She stands at the counter and sells things to the neighbors without batting an eyelash. I don't know what she told people. I only know that she never talks about Dad or the tea set. She doesn't talk about being a Rogers, either, or how wonderful it is to live in a historical mansion. She's even talking about taking in roomers. She looks tired and worn but she 42 never complains. Sandy and I work as we always did and we do baby-sitting. The neighbors don't ask questions. I wish Dad \vould come back and see how Mom's changed. We eat hamburger lots of times now and sit at the kitchen table. There's a big bouquet of artificial roses on the buffet now. Sandy brought them hon1e from the dime store. They're just plain ten cent store fake flowers, but Mom took them in the dining room and put them right on the buffet. I wish Dad could see them. No Place to Hide Joy Thompson When Alex awoke that morning, the heat covered him like a blanket. He kicked as if he could push it away. He felt terribly sad; his eyes ached as if he were going to cry. At first he thought he must have had a nightmare, and he sat up slowly trying to remember it. Then his mother called to him from the foot of the stairs, "Alex, time for breakfast," and he knew that the nightmare had been real. He stood at the head of the stairs, his thin pajamas sticking to him. He was pale and thin; damp, dark curls stuck to his for ehead. His eyes were dark and smudgy and circled by black eyelashes. He looked drawn and he shifted restlessly from one bare foot to the other. Below him in the hall, his parents stood looking up at him. His mother too was pale and dark. Her face, below the dark cloudy hair, looked as if the heat had taken all her strength away. Behind her, his big, rangy father stood carefully apart. He smiled wearily at Alex. "Good morning, Alex. Did you sleep well?" Alex nodded. He waved briefly, "I'll see you tonight." He turned to the dark woman and his smile ebbed. "Try to get him out today, Marion. Take him to the pool, why don't you?" She shrugged and looked away. He looked up at Alex pleadingly, "Good-bye, son. Find yourself something to do, okay?" Alex nodded gravely, "So long, Dad." Alex started down the stairs, but he stopped as his mother suddenly turned. "If you get home early for a change, Stan, we could all go 43 swimming." The man sighed. "If I can, Marion. I'll try, but you know we're always short-handed during vacation time." . She shrugged again and turned toward the kitchen. The screen door banged as Alex's father went out. Alex sat down on the steps. He wished he had had a nightmare. That would be gone now. He felt sick at his stomach. He didn't think he could eat any breakfast. He choked down a sob, thinking of his parents' bitter words last night. They had thought he was asleep and they had not tried to hold their voices down. His mother had shrilly accused his father of staying at the office because he didn't want to come home. His father had told her harshly that she should leave home once in a while. He said she shut herself and Alex off in their own private little world. He said he couldn't always be there to act as a shield. All through that long hot summer Stan and Marion had wrangled. Little arguments had grown into big ones. Temper s had flared as the heat had grown more intense. The last few weeks the violent bickering had alternated with an uneasy armed truce. Between the heated encounters a tense silence had prevailed. Had it not been for Alex, they might not have spoken at all. Each tried separately to make friends with Alex. Stan was bluff and hearty as he tried to get close to his son. He joked with him heavily, but he secretly worried about Alex's tenseness, his thinness, and his solitude. Marion sometimes hovered over Alex. She spent long hours trying to be companionable. At other times she retreated behind some wall, thinking her own thoughts. Sh e jumped when he came in sometimes, as if she had forgotten him completely. He watched her now as she sat across the table from her. She sipped her coffee and stared into space. N ow and then she pushed a tendril of hair back from her face. She looked at him questioningly, but she did not speak as he pushed his cereal bowl back and got up. Alex was glad to escape upstairs to dress. His mother was still sitting at the table when he slipped down the stairs and out the door. Alex's bare feet tingled as he walked through the cool, damp grass to his private place in the yard. It was behind a big lilac bush at the corner of the white picket fence that surrounded the yard. Here he could not be seen from the house, nor f r om outside the yard. He could peek out from between t h e slats and watch people go by. He lay on his back in t he shale from t he lilac bush, trying t o keep still enough to stay cool. He talked to the dark 44 gr een leave.s above his head. What am I doing that is so bad? There must be something. Mom and Dad look at me as if they'd like to pull me apart. That's the way I feel, pulled apart. vVhen I'm with Dad, I want to tell him not to call be Pal or Buddy, and not to talk so loud and smile so much. Why can't I do like he wants and play ball and run around and yell with the other kids? But that's what Mom doesn't like. She always tells me to be quiet, not to run, that I might get hurt. She likes it best when I just sit where she can see me and she doesn't have to go out of the yard to call me. That's what makes Dad so mad. He doesn't like for MOln to stay home all the time. He says it's like being in prison. It isn't though. It's being safe. That's how Mom feels. I know because I feel that way too unless Dad's with me. If I could just be the way they both want me to then maybe they wouldn't fight. Alex bit his thumbnail until it hurt. He thrust his hands behind him, ashamed of this babyish habit. He was ashamed too of the tears that rose behind his eyelids. He rubbed his eye.s and walked slowly to the gate. He sat crouched inside the fence, waiting for his father to come home. He thought that maybe his Dad would come early enough to take them swimming. Alex didn't like swimming much; he was afraid of the water, afraid that someone would push him down. But it would mean that for a while his folk.s wouldn't be fighting. The shadows grew long. The sun was bright red behind the trees. Alex sat and listened to mothers calling their children in for supper. It was breathlessly hot and so still that not a leaf moved. The whole world seemed to be hushed and waiting. The sun had almost gone down when Alex's mother called him in. His Dad hadn't come yet. In a way Alex was thankful because now they could have supper peacefully. His mother didn't eat. She sat with a glass of iced tea, fanning herself slowly. Little beads of sweat beaded her upper lip. After supper they sat on the porch watching fireflies. Heat lightning flickered in the dark sky. Alex could barely see his mother's pale face, but he could tell that it was becoming more and more hurt-looking. Little lines came around her lips 'a s if she ached. Her mouth turned down. She sat nervously, restlessly swatting at mo.squitoes. Finally she rose stiffly, her white dress looming up in the dark. Her voice was soft but harsh as she said, "Alex, you'd better go to bed." Alex said softly, "Good-night, Mom." He wanted to pat her shoulder, but she looked so jumpy and held in that he didn't dare. 45 She was pacing up and down the porch when he looked back from the stairs. He lay as .still as he could, waiting for the night to cool off. He felt guilty that he had been almost glad that his Dad hadn't come home. Even though loneliness was better than listening to his folks fight, he didn't thing it was right to wish for it. It seemed very late when he awoke. A bright flash lit the sky outside his window. At first he sleepily thought that it was lightning. Then he smelled the acrid smoke. He leaped out of bed and stumbled to the window. Below him in the yard he could see a bright fire burning. He could see his father; he looked s111all beside the leaping flames. He had an ax in his hand. Alex could see its bright blade flash down on .something white. He pushed against the screen to see what it was. His father bent, picked up something and threw it in the fire. As the fire blazed up, Alex could see that it was the fence that was burning. He looked around at the yard. It looked open, naked without the fence. As the flames leaped higher, Alex watched his father chop out the posts holding the section of fence around the lilac bush. He cut it up into pieces and threw them into the fire. Alex looked for his mother. By pushing the screen out and leaning out the window, he could see her white dress on the porch. She was crouched on the steps, holding herself with her arms as if she were trying to hide. She rocked back and forth as if she were crying. Tears welled up in Alex's eyes. He didn't understand, but he knew that his parents had been fighting again. To see the yard without the fence reminded him of his father pushing him out into a gang of kids, not letting Alex hide behind him. He was making their house open to the world. A cool breeze sprang up and blew on Alex and he shivered. He felt naked. He dashed blindly back to his bed and buried himself beneath the covers. His teeth were chattering and he felt cold all the way through. 46 Communion Doris Wood "See, Grandpa," Sara directed, "down there, and over just a little bit. That's my secret place," she said conspiratorially. "There's a creek and trees and a flat place with big, big rocks. IVlaybe I'll take you there tomorrow. Only you can't tell anyone. Especially my mother." The shrunken, frail old man squinted to see where his granddaughter had pointed. "Oh yes." He couldn't make out the place she was referring to. "My, that looks like a good place." They stood on the hill against the rugged terrain, beneath the whispy summer sky. They were warmed by the bright sun. Sara turned away and ran up the hill. Her gradfather was used to flat lands and he panted as he struggled up the incline. Sara traveled with eyes down, looking for treasures. · Suddenly she stopped and squatted down on her haunches. She pried a stone from the dirt. It had a bright red streak through the middle. She daintily rubbed off the dirt and soberly inspected her find. The smell of the earth still clung to the stone and holding the cool jewel in her hand she inhaled the odor of the fragrant earts. She had a close affinity for the vital earth. She stood up and turned to her grandfather, who had now caught up with her. "Look, Grandpa, what I found!" She held up the stone for his inspection. He took the stone and pretended to study it carefully, trying to regain his breath. "My," he finally said, "that's a pretty one." Pocketing the stone Sara looked around for a treasure for her grandfather. Something off the path caught her eye. She stooped down and claimed it from the earth. She han back and presented him with a tiny violet flower. "Here Grandpa ... you don't have to keep it if you don't want to. It's just a tiny one," she apologized. "Big ones don't grow up here." He accepted the flower, pleased. "It's a beautiful flower. Thank you." He brought the flower up to smell, a mindless ge.sture for his senses were dimmed in his old age. "Look, Grandpa, behind you. You can see the whole world from here." Sara pointed to the city below them. "That's Duluth." The two stood looking out at the city below them, a gleaming and peaceful vision in the sun. Sara stole a sidelong glance at her grandfather to see his reaction. His interest mustn't lag. She searched the scene to find something of special interest. A ship was moving in the harbar. "Look, Grandpa, over there," she 47 pointed, "do you see the ship?" He dutifully followed the line she had pointed out. He had great difficulty making out things at a distance. "Well !" "I've been on a ship!" she stated importantly, looking up to get his reaction. He crinkled up his face in feigned astonishment and smiled down at her. They had not known each other until two days ago. He didn't talk much, but there had been a silent communication between them. Sara looked down at her dress. It was her favorite, with tiny forget-me-nots on a pale yellow background. Her mother hadn't wanted Sara to wear it for a walk, it was her 'Sunday best'. But Sara had put all of her considerable will to the task and had won out. She smoothed down the skirt, a sensual gesture suggesting a potential voluptuary. Sara ~ondered if her grandfather liked the dress. She wanted to ask but was intuitive enough to know that asking would destroy the illusion. A warm breeze caught her dress and fluttered it around her like wings. Engulfed in a joyful exuberance, she capriciously scrambled off up the hill, singing "catch me if you can, Grandpa." She was the eternal coquette, running from the captor, hoping for the capture. "Don't run, child," he called weakly. "You'll stumble and fall." Sara's vanity was offended-to think that she was that childish and clumsy! She ran faster, laughing triumphantly. A stone cropped up where none had been and caught the toe of her shoe. She went sprawling on her knees. The pain of the skinned knees brought tears to her eyes. She fought them back. She felt an animosity for the earth that had spilled her in such an undignified fashion. She kicked it. Her grandfather caught up to her, heaving from his exertion. "Let me see that," he soothed. He made a motion to look at her skinned knees. She was embarrassed, humiliated by her spill, and she quickly drew up her knees and covered them with her dress. "No! It doesn't even hurt." She desired to conceal the source of her pain f r om him. "Aren't you going to let Grandpa see it?" He sat down helplessly next to her huddled figure and cautiously put his arm around her. Sara shook her head emphatically. "No." He withdrew his arm self-consciously. Her rebuff was , ainful to him. p 48 She wanted to change the subject. "You know, this is my hill. Hardly anyone ever comes here." Her knees hurt- she wanted to look at the damage but restrained herself. "Oh ?" He recognized her gesture of conciliation. "I like t Lis very much." Sara leaped to her feet and started up the hill again. Her grandfather pushed himself up with great effort. He was exhausted f rom the climb and the heat of the mid-day sun. But yet he followed his grandchild. She was his link with life. What she had to show him he desired to see. He struggled to catch up. Her agile figure darted before him, lithe and beautiful. The sun caught her blonde head. She stopped and turned, hands on hips. "Grandpa, why are you so slow!" she reprimanded, in mock exasperation. Watching him .s truggling after her filled her with a sense of power. She was huge- on top of the world- more grown up than a grown-up. She laughed at him, struggling below. "Hurry up! We won't get there before doom's day," she yelled against the breeze. The old man pushed on. He must please this child. He couldn't lose this. He feared her exasperation, her displeasure, her rejection. He stumbled. Looking down at him he was incredibly shriveled beneath the broad expanse of land and sky. Sara remembered her mother's words, "Now don't take him too far. He's old and not very well. You mustn't tire him out too much." Sara ran down to him and put her smooth hand in his gnarled one. "Grandpa, are you tired?" She looked fearfully and anxiously up. He gave her an inarticulate nod, too fatigued for speech. "Grandpa, let's sit down here and look." "We can go on," he gasped, trying to smile. He didn't want to disappoint her, to hold her back. Sara helped him down. "No. I'm tired too. Let's rest here. We can sit here and look down." They sat on the grassy hill. Sara solicitously patted the old man's hand. "Are you okay, Grandpa?" "Yes, little one. I'm okay. I'm happy." "You're not to get too tired," she fussed-like a nurse or mother, she thought. They sat in silence except for the old man's heavy breathing. There was a rapport between them. Sara struggled to overcome her natural reticence. She felt it important that there be no mistake as to her feelings. The 49 evidence of his weakness made her less concerned with her own vulnerability. "Grandpa, I love you." Happiness overwhelmed him. "Yes. And I love you, Granddaughter." He found her small hand and squeezed it. The smoothness of her young flesh amazed him anew. Sara felt the satisfaction of requited love. Minutes passed. They soaked in the earth smells about them. They felt the warmth of the sun. A bee droned in a nearby patch of clover. They reviewed the city scene below them. "Just think, Grandpa, we're kings. of the whole world up here." Underlt'al. r Affair e Joy Thompson I will meet you at twilight at the bottom of the sea, And we'll stroll along the sandy ocean floor. Side by side and hand in hand, we will frolic in the sand; Far from curious eyes, we'll turn to love once more. With no one around to ogle but the silent goggling fish, Submerged in subterranean solitude, We'll sit on a mossy rock, and secluded there we'll talk; In our emerald cave, no problems can intrude. In the current's swelling flood, I'll come surging up to you, Swaying close in rhythmic, undulating tide. Fin to fin and gill to gill, we'll float happily until We have quite forgot the prying world outside. Like Alpheus and Arethusa, I'll pursue you down the deeps, Till we meet in a sparkling fountain once again. I will gather pearls for you and a starfish, maybe two; You'll be mine and I'll be your.s, ever Amen. I will meet you at twilight at the bottom of the sea And among the coral reefs, we'll glide along. We will leave our cares behind us, and the world will never find us; Totally immersed, to ocean we'll belong. 50 The End David Stead The tattered windmill slows the Constant pump of fluid, and the Aging clock begins its final toll. An image seeks the needed Repetition, but glassy windows Feel the shades being drawn. The microphone is scarcely heard Through ragged wires, and the Radar no longer finds the vibrating Echo. The band has played Its final number as the musicians Close their eyes and depart. The final Page is written and the ear-marked Book is all but complete. The publisher Reviews the author's work and passes judgement On the success of his toil. The actors enter Slowly for the final curtain call while Lights that brightly burn begin to Fade until the power fails. 51 The Desert Suzanne Siemon The silent, burning desert has allured Curious men beginning to explore The mysterious secrets that are blurred And vaguely hidden on the sandy floor Of the vast, uninhabited waste land. These intense desires cause men to ignore Countless hazards that we must understand. The desert abandons to solitudeDismal and oppressive- that will withstand Curious probing of man's fortitude. The grim desert may lie- lifeless, voicelessNever to impart to the multitude Why it has remained barren and pathless Throughout unnumbered ages that have passed. It will persistently conquer unless Man reveals the solemn secret it hides Encompassed in sand lying desolate. Advancing through sand, the desert misguides Man to believe he has reached the summit When he has actually only started, And the minutest ropes remain uncut. 52 .~  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Perspectives: Volume 23, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Kiosk Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Perspectives contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Beanblossom, Ronald: Author Bottorff, Dan: Author Fleischauer, Phyllis: Author Menke, David L.: Author Corbin, Paul: Artist Dykema, Dennis: Artist Willer, Avis: Artist Miller, Drew: Artist Jacobi, Richard: Artist Kitterman, Ron: Artist Skoglund, Jon: Artist Meyer, Joseph: Artist Nelson, John: Artist Walker, Denice: Artist Smith, Sandra: Artist Neiman, Joan: Author Stevens, Connie: Author Thompson, Joy: Author Wood, Doris: Author Stead, David: Author Siemon, Suzanne Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1964 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-12-11 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-11 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Ford, Terry: Editor Deel, Marie: Business Manager Zimmerman, William: Art Consultant Levant, Dr. Howard: Faculty Advisor Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical 60 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kiosk Manuscript Perspectives student publications Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Morningside College Archival Books Subject The topic of the resource Books in the archives of Morningside College. Description An account of the resource Books written by or about Morningside College faculty and alumni. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2017-04-20 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Book Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Book Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Ground-Water Resources of Waupaca County Wisconsin: Contributions to the Hydrology of the United Staes Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Berkstresser Jr., Charles F.: Author Subject The topic of the resource Geology--Wisconsin Groundwater Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archives (3rd Floor) Description An account of the resource Charles F. Berkstresser Jr. attended Morningside College in 1942 and 1943. This is the Geological Survey Water- Supply Paper 1669-U. Abstract A summary of the resource. "The purpose of the investigation was to determine (1) the use of the ground water, with special attention to irrigation, (2) the location of additional ground-water supplies, (3) the water-bearing properties of the aquifers, including the geologic conditions that must be considered in planning water supplies, and (4) the chemical quality of the ground water." (introduction, U2). Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Washington, DC: United States Government Printing Office Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1964 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Book 38 Pages 6 Inches x 9 Inchhes Language A language of the resource English Spatial Coverage Spatial characteristics of the resource. Wisconsin Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Trisler, Susan: Cataloger Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2017-08-25 Alum Publications http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/eeea1b26762d12c4186b536072d3b0da.pdf e66bb43e8cd62dbf1b91faf427aa20d1 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Kiosk: Volume 43 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Kiosk contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ponder, Marcie Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2014-1-23 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-12-19 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-19 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF 3.34 MB 39 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Kiosk-Vol43_KDC_1981_01-01_01.pdf Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger PDF Text Text �KIOSK MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE SIOUX CITY, IOWA SPRING 1981 Student Editors: Deborah Craft Brad Bergeson Jeanne Hulsebus Ci ndy Rosene Faculty Editors: Scott Simmer Frank Breneisen Cover by Jana Bobolz �Table of Contents Jana Bobolz ......... . Cover: Bicycle Photograph Winner of the Kiosk Prize for Best Photograp h Deb Freese ....... . ... Visiting Wyoming 4 Winner of the Kiosk Prize for Best Poem Scott Simmer . . .... . . Greyhound Breakdown 5 Rebekah Yates ....... The Knives 6 Winner of the Kiosk Prize for Best Short Story Zine Cortez ........... To My Sister 8 Desilusao Beth Taylor ........... For Kim 9 John Bowitz ......... Untitled 10 Rod Wingfield ........ Ali Baba 11 Gina Grimsley ........ On The Death of a Friend 13 Jana Bobolz ....... ... Fi re Escape 14 Rebekah Yates .. . .... Out -I'here 15 Billy Barbee .......... Split 16 Gary Mecus ........ . . Grill 17 Frank Breneisen ...... Coastal Wind 18 Jim Marshall ......... Tree 19 Cary Harter ........... Picnic Benches 20 Mike Stodden ........ New Bridge 21 Joan Sandvick ..... . .. Champagne, Orchids . . . 22 Sandra Long ......... The Final Battlefield 23 Marcine Smith ..... . .. Requiem For Lulu 24 Jan D. Hodge ...... . .. Similes 26 Deb Craft ........... . Easy As 1-2-3 - 27 Opal Noble ........... Pantry Psychology 28 Quin Brunk. . . . . . . . . .. Poem -Gina Grimsley ........ Morning 29 �Jan D. Hodge . . . .. . . . . Say Whatever Comes into Your Mind as I Count Slowly to Ten Rebekah Yates. . .... Untitled Poem Deb Craft .. . . . . . . .. . Into The 80's Deb Freese . . . . . . . . . . In The Valley of The Shadow Allison Averill .... . . . . Right Down the Middle 30 31 32 35 �Visiting Wyoming Uncle Donald flicks ashes Into his shirt pocket. He knows What is wrong with America. Aunt Jaree sips coffee and squeezes Into herself. Nebraska after Gordon is like a giant unmade bed, Soft and lumpy, mourning Sleep. Then, you meet The Big Sky, The antelope, the deer, and miles And miles of nothing. Donald talks with clenched teeth, Cigarette waggtng. Range cattle, he says , Are real-wild : afraid, like God Intended. They hide Theiryoung from men. Cows in Iowa are tame. Wyoming Is a place for cowboys, For men who love and fear The wind, the cold, the snow. For men who fight. The sky Is not bigger In Wyoming Just closer. It hides behind No cornfields, only mountains. 4 �Donald climbs the mountains To touch the sky. He shoots antelope and deer. ks Jaree drin- coffee and longs For home and cornfields. Deb Freese Greyhound Breakdown Got laid over for three hours in Texarkana till I caught this northbound toward late afternoon. Lulled by the drone of tires and telephone poles keeping time on my eyes, I squinted into the low sun and saw my life stretched out like lines of broken cornstalks slow toward the horizontill a slender woman got on at Hot Spri ngs. Miles later I see me out there tied up on a pole. Crows wait for my eyeballs. Scott Simmer 5 �The Knives Rebekah Yates He loved the knives. He had discovered them hanging in their rack and nad gazed ("; n as his mothe r used them . They glInted in the afternoon SUi"1. ~ore swift and deadly than anything he had ever seen, they had th e power to pass through anything they were put against. He longed to touch them, to press them to his palm and feel their smooth, firm coolness. But, each tm e he would reach for them, he was met with a slap and a sharp rebuke. Compromising, he would hide in the hallway to watch them, to feel them with his eyes. As the knives were sharpened : he would ciose his eyes and listen to the siice of metal pulled against metal. The sound burned against his ear. His lon gi ng grew . He became obsessed with it; he plotted their capture . He soon learned he was closely watch'ed. "You 're much too young to be playing with something like a knife. They aren 't made for littie boys ." Now he knew he must Ilave them. Each time he crouched in the hall and listened to his mother's foot· steps fade down the basement stairs. he was ready Walking softl y onto the linoleum , he approached the sinK . He did not ~un. he did not speak. The oniy sound was that of the refrigerator. humming into the silence , He reached for the !~nives. Despite his caution . his silent swiftness, he was caught. Each time: tl€ was reprimanded, sometimes spanked, but always caught. Soon, the knives were moved above the refrigerator, totally out of reach. He was not discouraged; instead, the desire began to eat at him . He could not sleep at night Tossing, he would see the knives above him, sneering , shining in the moonlight. His mother sensed a change in him; he had begun to watch her. too. At t~mes . she would feel his eyes upon her and turn to catch a glimpse of him. a shadow' from around the corner. He 'Nas anXiOUS for the day his mother would forget to follow him. forget to take him with her. Certainly, some day , she would drop her guard and he was ready. Forcing his patience, he was finally reward ed . A beautiful day dawned. grew warm. and beckoned. She iiftec the heaping laundry basket to her hip and bumped open the door. He waited . His mother must have forgotten. for she did not order him into the yard or to his room . Facing the southern breeze, she simply stepped outs:d€. The door closed on his watchful silence. The k.i!chen glowed warm and ·whlte. Today, he did not stand and gaze at the knives Today he must work quickly . From the 6 �floor, he stepped on the bread drawer and finally to the counter. Through the window, he could see his mother, mouth full of clothes pi ns, sheets billowing around her in the breeze. She payed no attention to the house; she did not miss him in the yard. Turning his attention to the knives, he lifted the rack from the wall and settled on his haunches. He pulled the largest from its slot and slid to the floor, leaving the others behind. The room seemed to grow brighter; he felt warm and dizzy. He knew he had won. The knife in his hand was heavy and long, longer than his forearm and nearly as wide. The handle was warm from the reflected morning sun, the carved words worn smooth . The blade felt just as he had always known it would feel, cool and clean. He cradled the knife, clenched the handle in his small hand, feeling its power. He threatened the air. Touching the tip to his arm, he marveled at the depression it made. He leaned against it, pressing it to his face, then to his throat. Closing his eyes, he recalled the sound that had been burned into his memory so many weeks ago. The silver, scraping rhythm. He pictured the blade sliding upon itself, gaining its power. Suddenly, he knew. He knew he, too, must gain that power. He had known it all along. He drew the blade across his throat. The blood made no sound as it spread across the tiles and settled into geometric shapes between the squares .. Beside the boy, the knife grew warmer. It shone with strength and glistened wet. I staggered from the crumpled Honda on the street Bleeding on the brick, my trembling feet; My roaring ears had heard above the din Her call to me - I laughed without, within. The sallow, jealous face of Death Had missed me by a silent breath. Opal Noble 7 �To My Sister Your memory comes to me tonight, Fluid, light, I see the contour of your face, The silky hair over the pillow case. The silence is broken by distant music. My soul opens up, Pure, white, Your memory sets in. As light As the blue that falls from the sky Into the waters of the lake; As the moonbeam that rests On the gaunt face of a sick woman; As the shadow of a ch i Id In the garden of an orphanage. ' Desilusao The moonlight passes through the blinds, Pai nts shadows on the carpet, Comes to rest on my lover's face. I hear the clock on the mantelpiece Tick away the darkness of the night. When the light changes in the window I'll see him go. But I'm powerless to make him stay. It was the past that brought him back And I have nothing to offbr but today. Zine Cortez 8 �For Kim I write this And in between the words I watch the smoke as it winds And twists upward from my cigarette. As I inhale I watch the red glow, It comes closer to my fingers as they hold it And I think of you eight goddamn hours away. The last time you were here We got drunk on T.J. Swann. You don't smoke but you asked for one anyway. I laughed when you puffed but didn't inhale, When you did I laughed because you started coughing And the smoke came,out of your mouth all at once. We tried to play backgammon, But you could barely see the dice And I missed the board when I rolled. We both looked up at the same time, Tears still in your eyes from coughing, And you smiled. My cigarette lies stuffed out in the ashtray. I look at it with tears in my eyes, And hate you. Beth Taylor 9 �Re:-~.i~!..j. ·-; A?C tile 0: LSD *note This system was mistaken for literature. This is not a piece of literariness, nor does it respect language. This is the adoption of pre-fixed symbols from our civilisation. In drawing it, I remembered two old men and their toughts. One old man said , "Civilisation, too, is a hallucinogen, a consciousness-destroying, habit-forming drug, and we are all opium-eaters from birth. " The other old gentleman simply said, "The 'fault' lies with language, and as language is the tool of thought, the fault lies with our way of thinking." I apologize for Mr. Bunuel, Mr. Richter, an myself for any and all confusion caused. - Mr. Bunuel and Mr. Richter would never apologize for themselves. Ergo, do not confuse the above drawing for anything normally published in literary magazines. -, ._--, 10 �Ali Baba Rod Wingfield Once upon a time there was a city in Persia called YacchAh-Yaccha-Hacch-Im-Dakkum-Ah-Sah-Sooboo-Sooboo, which in Persian meant "I didn't say you were a blockhead, I just said, 'Put on your turbin, Charlie, 'here comes a flock of woodpeckers.'" Persia was a land of Persian melons, Persian cats, and snake charmers (which is very charming if you're a snake). It was a land where the snake charmers played Russian Roulette. How do snake charmers play Russian Roulette? One of the Cobras is deaf. In this land of Persia lived two brothers named Ali Saba and Kaseem. They used to call each other all the time. These were the first Persian-to-Persian calls. Their father was a bag salesman. They used to call him Old Sag-Dad. Ali Saba married a very poor girl and settled down. Kaseem married a very rich girl and settled up. Yes, Ali Saba was very, very po"or. He eked out a meager living by painting pickles yellow and selling them for bananas. He had such bad luck, if it was raining cats and dogs, he'd get a skunk. He was even once in the marble business but he lost all his marbles. Whenever Ali Saba wanted to think, he went to the mountains because the mountains were all he thought about when he wanted to think. When he thought about the mountains, he was at his peak. So while he was peeking at the mountains, he heard horses in the distance. Yes, he saw a bunch of thieves loaded down with silver and gold and all kinds of goodies, so he hid behind a tree that looked like a mink coat. It was a fur tree. As the thieves approached the mountain, Ali could see that they were all riding backwards. Well, I guess that was because it made the horses nervous to have somebody looking over their shoulders. He recognized the leader of the bandits because he used to be a taylor before he became a robber, so they all called him Robber Taylor. The chief of the thieves called out to the mountain, "Open Sesame! Open Sesame!" What else can you say to a mountain? And sure enough, the mountain was opened by Irving Sesame, the famous mountain opener. The thieves rode in, left their illgotten gains in the big cave, and after the mountain was closed by Myron Sesame (a brother of Irving, and a famous mountain closer in his own right), they rode off into the desert. When the thieves were out of sight, Ali Saba walked up to the mountain and yelled, "Open Sesame!" And sure enough, Irving Sesame again hearing the magic word opened the moun- 11 �tain. Ali Baba walked in and 10 and behold! Everywhere he looked he saw jewels, furs, and gorgeous fabrics. He said to himself, "Gee, I didn't know Saks Fifth Avenue had a place u here." Then>he loaded up -his m- le with as many treasures as he could carry and he took them home. His wife asked, "Where'd you get the stuff?" And Ali rep lied, "I just used my Visa card." But she was very upset because he didn't get any green stamps. When Ali's brother Kaseem heard about the fortune his brother found, he figured he would do the same bit. So he went to the mountain. He yelled " Open Sesame!" and walked into the glittering cave. However, the mountain slammed shut behind him. Kaseem loaded down forty-seven donkeys with all the loot they could carry, and wanting to open the cave, he called > out, "Open Pumpernickel! Open Whole-wheat! Open Rye!" But he just couldn't think of Sesame, so he was stuck. While he was knocking his head against the wall trying to get it into the shape he wanted, the forty thieves came back and found him there! Needless to say, they were not too choked up about this discovery, so they drew their swords and cut Kaseem up into little pieces. The forty thieves now knew that besides themselves, only Ali Baba knew where the magic cave was, so they decided to murder him, which was pretty drastic as we all know that murder can be fata\. The chief thief, whose real name was Ivan (Ivan Offulitch), disguised himself by putting on a clean shirt and rang Ali Baba's doorbell. "Ivan calling." When the door was opened by Ali Baba's wife, the chief said, "Allah be with you, Allah be with you, Allah be with you in apple blossom time." Thinking he was one of the Andrews Sisters, she invited him in to have dinner with Ali Baba. This time Ali Baba didn't recognize the thief so they sat down together for a sumptuous feast. What a tongue-tempting menu! Crabapple soup with real crabs and real apples floating around in it. Broiled brisket of babboon gizzard with gorilla gravy. Yum, yum! Python pie with monkey marmalade and whipped caterpillar juice, and other nauseating tidbits. Luckily, Ali Baba had hired a dancer named Morgana to dance for his guest. She was a chewin g gum dancer (Wrigley all over).' When she danced ' she would shiver and shake like the license plate on an old used car. Morgana recognized the thief chief and excused herself by saying she ate something that didn 't agree with her and she cou ldn't do her belly dance on a sour stomach. She rushed out into the garden where there were forty huge jars. Each one contained one of the forty thieves. She poured scalding safflower oil into each of the jars, and although they were boiled in oil, their doctor was happy to report that they were polyunstaturated. 12 �Then Morgana ran back into the house, grabbed a sword, cut off the thief 's head and threw it in his face. When Ali Baba found out that Morgana had saved his life, he said to her, "Nothing I do would be good enough for you, so I will be good enough to do nothing for you." She was tired of being a belly dancer so she turned in her belly button and quit danCing. However, she wanted to keep a hand in the business so she opened a small stand and sold naval oranges. Then she met Ali Baba's nephew, Ali Katz, and they moved to Arizona where they run a dude ranch f,or old belly dancers called Stomach Acres. On The Death of a Friend Dogs bark back and forth Across the neighborhood. Water drips from a diluted glass of iced tea. My fingers stick To the onion skin pages of a book. It's been two weeks. I can't believe Those kids outside Have nothing better to do Than throw that damn frisbee around all day. My back hurts from slouching in this old chair. I know I've read this part before And I still don't know what it means. The church bells interrupt, " . . . suffered to redeem our loss ... " My loss. Gina Grimsley 13 �����������Champagne, Orchids and Cavier You are Bachelor button mornings of twinkling blue skies. Sun glittering gold through windows of white. Breakfast for two in drifts of eider-down, croissants with jam and cinnamon tea. Daisy afternoons of plump feather pillows tossed in the sky over luscious green meadows waiting for two. Light wicker basket with crackers and brie, frosted green grapes and red cabernet. White gardenia evenings of 50ft velvet black. Parms, Casablanca and slow ceiling-fans nestled among them our table for twowhite linen island adrift from the room. Nibbling green lettuce, filet of sole, freshly baked bread and a glass of white wine. Red roses at sunrise as the night fades to gray flickering fire to embers- ' a setti ng for two. The day circles around us Like your arms round me. Life's touch of champagne, orchids and caviar. Joan Sandvick 22 �The Final Battlefield Fire fell from the sky and was consumed by the blazing turf with the indifference of the sea swallowing rain. Liquid earth, red and righteous, meandered in streams to an unknown shore. Explosions of light disturbed the rhythm of night displaying a raging scene that wished to remain hidden. The flaring chaos was accompanied by quaking vibrations that unloosed stones tumbling in confusion among smouldering forests, falling heavily into· crimson flows, and the liquid splashed over the Earth, and the whole world was stained. Sandra Long 23 �Requiem For Lulu Marcine Smith Lulu was sprawled like a fat X under the corner street light, on her stomach with her head turned to the side. Her face looked yellow in the light. And her mouth sagged open. It looked to me like she'd been eating dirt. She was drunk and stinking. And someone should pull her crumpled black dress from where it was rolled around her waist, down past her butt so her pink bloomers wouldn't show. And to cover the layer of fat that poked out below where the legs of the bloomers were too tight. "Drunk as a skunk," Murphy said. "Wonder that she made it this far." Hertha said nothing. Just looked at Lulu. I shook my head. The pool hall was only half a block down the street. East. Yet Lulu had gone the wrong way. Her house was south, at the edge of town. But this wasn't the first time Lulu'd gone the wrong way. There'd been times when Lulu wandered all over Westfield, trying to get home. The town was three blocks square. That included Main Street where we were standing looking down on Lulu. Drunk. One time she'd ended up in bed with Reverend Crandall and his Mrs. I'll bet they scrambled to get up, I thought. That is, if Lufu stunk then as bad as she was stinking now. "Looks dead," Hertha said. She had gone to stand over Lulu. Hertha bent at the waist and stared down into the old woman's face. "Do you think Lulu dyes her hair red?" "Gawd," Murphy groaned. "Who cares." "One of us should pull her dress down," I said. Really. Someone should. Or haul Lulu home. That's what someone should do. It would be only decent. Proper. Murphy snorted. "You want to pull her dress down? Do it. Not me. I ain't touchin' that ole drunk." Hertha was staring hard at Lulu. "Think she's breathing?" "You want to know, stick your nose down' closer," Murphy said. "Won't do it. She's got vomit all over herself. I can smell it from here. It's vomit." Hertha backed away. "Do you remember the time Lulu swallowed them live crawdads?" Murphy asked, then snickered himself into a tizzy. He'd been the one who'd got Lulu to do it. Supplied the crawdads. Seined them from the creek north of town and was on his way fishing when he came on Lulu. 24 �"I heard rumors that Lulu's folks had money," I offered. Lulu wasn't one of us. She had just showed up in town one day. No one even saw her get off the train. She said that's how she'd come. She did housecleaning for women around town when the women could catch Lulu sober. Her own house never saw dusting or a mop, people said. And people said she ate out of cans. "I heard she said she was a teacher," Hertha said. "Ma says teaching is enough to drive a sane woman to drink. But Ma don't touch nothing at all, of course." "Shit. My ma says Lulu told her she had herself a boyfriend a long time ago. Then he got her in trouble. But the guy didn't marry her. Lulu said the bastard was already married." Murphy was shoving dirt around with his feet. "I don't believe that," Hertha said. Logical. "Lulu doesn't have a kid. Lulu ain't got nobody." "Gawd, Hertha. How'd you ever get into the sixth grade being so stupid. Ma says Lulu gave the kid away." Murphy smirked at Hertha. "Who to?" I wanted to know. "Gawd, Marcella, you're as stupid as hertha. How'd I know? Girls. You're all stupid." I doubled my fist and poked it into Murphy's stomach. He grunted and hit me back. I didn't let on I'd even felt it. I said, "Someone should pull Lulu's skirt down." Neither Murphy or Hertha answered. Not one of us moved. "It's a shame." I said. "The poor old woman." I couldn't help but think it was sad. Her laying there, like a fat X. Not moving. I'd seen Lulu drunk lots of times before, bobbing and weaving. Flat on her face in the dirt, spread-eagled. But before she was wiggling, trying to stand. Trying to get up and out of the dirt, trying to go somewhere. Wiggling on her stomach, Lulu looked like a fish swimming on dry land. Now, she looked like nothing. "What's a shame?" Murphy demanded. "Well ... the way she is," I tried to explain. "Shit. Like ma says, Lulu's enjoying herself," Murphy asserted. "I don't see how that can be true." "You callin' me a liar, Marcella?" Murphy'd rolled his hand into a fist, again. "Boy, I don't know," Hertha said. "Lulu sure is quiet. She ain't moved at all. Think maybe she really is dead?" "H ell. Who cares?" Murphy said. "Let's go play." Well, Lulu was dead and the county buried her. In the cemetery on the hill east of town. Reverend Crandall had the sermon. The Ladies Aid served coffee after. My ma said it was a nice funeral ... considering. I wanted to ask ma, When people die and get buried, does someone dress them proper? Did someone pull Lulu's dress 25 �down? And wash her up good? Put clean bloomers on the body? Lulu needed clean bloomers bad. She'd shit the ones she was wearing. And somehow it seemed to me, she'd shit on the town. And, I guess, me too. Similes Like eating after having two teeth pulledthat's how it feels. Whatever tastes or distastes (squash, pea soup, stroganoff gone cold) tempt the palate, all senses concentrate on a nervous tongue fretting noth ingness. That's how I miss you ... who can surprise, the way a dancer, teasing men with flesh and baiting Eros by drawing finger tips across her nipples or along her thighs, might for a moment use her hands to speak another language and of other things with someone deaf and mute beside the stage. Jan D. Hodge 26 �Easy As 1·2·3 He thunderbolted me when we metmy Beatles (Red, White, and Blue) harmonized with his Tchaikovsky (1812, swans, and the Sugar Plum Fairy). ' Thenhiding behind roses and the Blue Nunhe told me, "I'm married, and my wife wants to borrow the Beatles. She wants to become progressive. I picked up the Red, White, and Blue (he picked up his wife) and we headed for his place. His eyes commanded "Please" but I picked up 1812 and hurled it at the western wall. OneDefeat the British. His eyes demanded "Now" but I picked up the swans and hurled them at the southern wall. TwoPluck for stuffing. His eyes pleaded "Don't" but I picked up the Sugar Plum Fairy and hurled her at the eastern wall. 27 �ThreePickle the fruit. I told him, " Now, I want to be progressive. " So I picked up his wife and together we wal kedwalked through the northern wall. His eyes were left flat in sharp progress, an d feel the chill. Deborah Craft Pantry Psychology I can't afford my coffee since the price went up, There's only one solutionhot water in a dark cup. Opal Noble Little girl dreams sit in a vase by the window: Indian princesses faded to aspirations of Miss America. By twelve, piano concerts in Carnegie Hall replaced all others. Scottie's wife and field lunches fell short. The innocent dreams of girlhood are vanished. The vase overflows with stars. Quincealea Brunk 28 �Morning Eye s dark. from no sleep And stubborn mascara Stare into a mirror. No blush in the cheeks This morning. Hair sti ll damp in backFlattened on the right side , Frizzed and kinked on the other. My holey sweat pants And ripped blu e f lannel shirt My negligee of winter Kept me warm . As I head toward the bathroom. I try to puff the right side And flatten the left. Grab my toothbrush. From behind A hand touches and pulls me near For a hug . Gina Grims/e.v 29 �Say Whatever Comes into Your Mind as I Count Slowly to Ten (a cardinal ideogram after May Swenson) o Maybe a target of some kind? 1 Mumblety-pega knife quivering at my foot 2 A hanger for the neckties I gave father for Christmas that he never wore 3 How my lips felt when they were chapped and I ate popcorn 4 The chair the acrobat balanced on just before he fell 5 The ball I hit went through a window. I cut my finger pickup up the glass. 6 Walking the dog with my yo-yo (the only dog I ever had) 7 I was tied to a giant wheel. It was spinning slowly. The hatchets came straight at me. My scream woke me up. 30 �F 8 After he hit me my glasses hid under the table . 9 I took a balloon on a stick home from the circus but Kenny broke it. 10 That was close. Next time will be a bull's-eye. Jan D. Hodge Into The 80's I will be Virginia Woolf, You will be T.S. Eliot; Together, we will conquer The rotting jungles Of Rod McKuen And Jacqueline Susann-We wi II explore the Antarctica Of I iteratu re in the deep-freezeAnd we will triumph. Deborah Craft I read a book the other night the light was on 'til four. The dish heap grows beside the sink. there's laundry on the floor. Dust mice hide beneath the bed, your shoes rest by the door. And I'm afraid to touch the scene afraid you'll come no more. Rebekah Yates �In The Valley of The Shadow Deb Freese Abby eyed the shadow of her pen fluttering on the wall while she wrote . She knew she was losing her concentration, and her fingers cramped. She laid the pen down. Eleven o'clock. Her eyes burned from the hours of reading. She hunched her sore shoulders and rolled her head. Time for a study break. She 'Nandered down the long hallway to the kitchen, improvising obscene dance movements to stretch her stiff muscles. Longfellow was sleeping on top of the refrigerator. She reached up to scratch his skin. "Lazy cat," she mumbled. He didn't even open an eye to acknowledge her presence. She looked inside the fridge. It was empty except for half a bottle of ketchup, a carton of sour milk, and a margarine bowl full of fuzzy tuna casserole. She fared no better in the freezerit contained an empty ice cube tray and The Social Integration of Lebanese-American Children in the Public Schools of Philadelphia. "Damn, it's overdue." She brushed the front of the cover and tossed it on the table. The cupboard was her last chance for the supper she'd skipped. She shoved aside cans of 9 Lives and boxes of Meow Mix and Tender Vittles to find a jar of peanut butter. Somehow. she couldn't face an encore of breakfast and lunch . She sighed. At least the rent was paid. Longfellow yawned and stretched. Abby tore open a packet of Tender Vittles. It was tempting her growling stomach, but it smelled worse than the eat's breath. " Here, kitty-kitty." The cat arched his back, then ieapt from the refrigerator to the counter to the floor beside his food dish. "Chow down, Fella." She got a drink of water and headed back to her room . On the way: she made a pitstop. It was strange. The bathroom seemed smaller than usual. Abby guessed it was the pile of dirty laundry and the t owels draped around the bathtub. No time to worry about that though. Her Soc term paper wasn't going to write itself. Back to work. She began reading what she had just written. 'The French sociologist Emile Durkheim classified suic ide JI three kinds of ways ." She nibbled ·:m the cap of her pen , �"Emile DLirkeim classified suicides as either-shit. Durkheim distinguished three di'stinct types of suicide." She closed her eyes. "Damn." She crumpled the paper into a little ball. Longfellow galloped down the hall. "I knew you'd come." She tossed the paper to him. Sometimes she regretted having used him as a laboratory subject for Behavioral Psych. He batted the paper ball around with his paw, then he brought it to her. She threw it again. "Fetch." Longfellow fetched dutifully. Abby checked the clock . 11 :39. She was wasting time. "Okay. There are three reasons for killing yourself." She rubbed her forehead. "No food, headache, and term paper." The cat jumped up on the bed. He pressed his slimy nose against Abby's cheek. "Go away; Longfellow. There are three-scram, Fella. There are-dammit. There are three reasons for killing a cat." She crumpled up another paper and tossed it. "Potty break." she got up and went into the bathroom. The whole room seemed bright, even though she hadn't turned on the light. She looked around. Something was different. She couldn't pinpoint it, but something was different. She sat down on the toilet to relieve her weak bladder. Longfellow appeared in the doorway. "Voyeur." She leaned forward to stretch her back. Her feet dangled before her, a good six inches off the linoleum. She rubbed her eyes. "I'm farther gone than I thought." She got up and opened the medicine cabinet. She found what she was looking for. "What would I do without you?" she asked as she popped a No-Doz. Longfellow rubbed against her calf. "I'd like to try it without you." She went back to work. Her concentration was still lacking. Soon, her ears started ringing as the No-Doz took effect. She was getting buzzed. "Death-what a depressing subject. Death." She closed her eyes and dreamt of Sunday school and the special program she had starred in when she was seven years old. She had memorized the 23rd Psalm. That was the first time he had ever heard the word death. " Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death .... " She woke up. The term paper had to be finished. She chuckled. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of F, I will fear no evil, for I've got No-Doz." 33 �She sorted t hrough her index cards, looking for a quote. Her eyelids were heavy. She wasn't going to make it. " Cold showe r;" she mumbled. She put her papers aside. She stumbled Into the bathroom with her eyes half closed and bumped into something hard , cold, and wet. She gasped and opened her eyes. "My God, it 's a giant toilet!" She couldn 't believe her eyes. The toilet stood six feet high. She stood on her tiptoes and peeked over the seat into the crystal white water. " My God , the toilet grew." She stumbled backwards into the hallway , staring at the sh iny porcelain-coated monstrosity. It was still growing. "Longfellow, you're not going to believe this. " she said, even though she didn't know where he had disappeared to . She went to the kitchen and picked up the phone and dialed the emergencv number. " Yes, please help me . I've got a giant to~let in my bathroom and it's still growing and I don't know what to do . . -Well, it's about six feet tall. Eight feet if you count the tank ... White. Yes, it 's white . . . Distinguishing features? Look, mister, will you just get somebody out here before my toilet explodes and drowns me ... Hello? Hello? Shit." She threw the receiver down . "What am I gonna do?" She went back to have another look at her problem. It was stili there . and it was bigger. "Man) what am I gonna do?" The toilet provided no answers. It just sat there, glistening and growing. "I've gotta pee. How the hell am I gonna get up there? " She looked around. The clothes hamper. She pulled it over next to the toilet and climbed up. The seat was five feet across. It was going to be some balancing act. She backed up to it and held herself suspended over the water. Her arms were weak. They started shaking. She knew she'd never hold herself long enough. Her muscles gave out and she fell splashing into the col d water. The crystal clear water was like ice. She was fully awake now . This was better than No-Doz anyday- She shivered in the wate r. How would she ever get out? The sides of the bowl were slicker than ice. She was stuck. There was no escape . She would have to stay there until morning when the pot shrunk back to its normal size. She knew her instructor would never believe that she didn't get her term paper done because she was stuck all night in the toilet. She sighed. " Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow . .. " 34 �Right Down the Middle Please don't make me Make a choice, Form an opinion, Pick this over that; . I'd rather not. After years in med school I might find That Vo-Tech U Made more sense. I really like green better Now that I've painted the room Blue. A skirt and sweater would have been More appropriate But, I guess, My jeans were ... maybe ... more comfortable. Please don't make me Make a choice. I might be wrong. Allison Averill 35 �� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College. Through its several titles—Manuscript, Perspectives, and Kiosk—the magazine has a long history of celebrating creative writing and art on campus. It began publication in 1938 under the title of Manuscript before changing its name to Perspectives in 1953. Then in 1971 it took another name that it is known by currently: Kiosk. It is still published annually by the Morningside College English Department. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1938- Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Morningside College Library Morningside College English Department Ponder, Marcie: Digital Creator Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical PDF Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Title A name given to the resource Kiosk Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource "The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children," (The Kiosk, 2003). Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. KIOSK MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE SIOUX CITY, IOWA SPRING 1981 Student Editors: Deborah Craft Brad Bergeson Jeanne Hulsebus Ci ndy Rosene Faculty Editors: Scott Simmer Frank Breneisen Cover by Jana Bobolz Table of Contents Jana Bobolz ......... . Cover: Bicycle Photograph Winner of the Kiosk Prize for Best Photograp h Deb Freese ....... . ... Visiting Wyoming 4 Winner of the Kiosk Prize for Best Poem Scott Simmer . . .... . . Greyhound Breakdown 5 Rebekah Yates ....... The Knives 6 Winner of the Kiosk Prize for Best Short Story Zine Cortez ........... To My Sister 8 Desilusao Beth Taylor ........... For Kim 9 John Bowitz ......... Untitled 10 Rod Wingfield ........ Ali Baba 11 Gina Grimsley ........ On The Death of a Friend 13 Jana Bobolz ....... ... Fi re Escape 14 Rebekah Yates .. . .... Out -I'here 15 Billy Barbee .......... Split 16 Gary Mecus ........ . . Grill 17 Frank Breneisen ...... Coastal Wind 18 Jim Marshall ......... Tree 19 Cary Harter ........... Picnic Benches 20 Mike Stodden ........ New Bridge 21 Joan Sandvick ..... . .. Champagne, Orchids . . . 22 Sandra Long ......... The Final Battlefield 23 Marcine Smith ..... . .. Requiem For Lulu 24 Jan D. Hodge ...... . .. Similes 26 Deb Craft ........... . Easy As 1-2-3 - 27 Opal Noble ........... Pantry Psychology 28 Quin Brunk. . . . . . . . . .. Poem -Gina Grimsley ........ Morning 29 Jan D. Hodge . . . .. . . . . Say Whatever Comes into Your Mind as I Count Slowly to Ten Rebekah Yates. . .... Untitled Poem Deb Craft .. . . . . . . .. . Into The 80's Deb Freese . . . . . . . . . . In The Valley of The Shadow Allison Averill .... . . . . Right Down the Middle 30 31 32 35 Visiting Wyoming Uncle Donald flicks ashes Into his shirt pocket. He knows What is wrong with America. Aunt Jaree sips coffee and squeezes Into herself. Nebraska after Gordon is like a giant unmade bed, Soft and lumpy, mourning Sleep. Then, you meet The Big Sky, The antelope, the deer, and miles And miles of nothing. Donald talks with clenched teeth, Cigarette waggtng. Range cattle, he says , Are real-wild : afraid, like God Intended. They hide Theiryoung from men. Cows in Iowa are tame. Wyoming Is a place for cowboys, For men who love and fear The wind, the cold, the snow. For men who fight. The sky Is not bigger In Wyoming Just closer. It hides behind No cornfields, only mountains. 4 Donald climbs the mountains To touch the sky. He shoots antelope and deer. ks Jaree drin- coffee and longs For home and cornfields. Deb Freese Greyhound Breakdown Got laid over for three hours in Texarkana till I caught this northbound toward late afternoon. Lulled by the drone of tires and telephone poles keeping time on my eyes, I squinted into the low sun and saw my life stretched out like lines of broken cornstalks slow toward the horizontill a slender woman got on at Hot Spri ngs. Miles later I see me out there tied up on a pole. Crows wait for my eyeballs. Scott Simmer 5 The Knives Rebekah Yates He loved the knives. He had discovered them hanging in their rack and nad gazed ("; n as his mothe r used them . They glInted in the afternoon SUi"1. ~ore swift and deadly than anything he had ever seen, they had th e power to pass through anything they were put against. He longed to touch them, to press them to his palm and feel their smooth, firm coolness. But, each tm e he would reach for them, he was met with a slap and a sharp rebuke. Compromising, he would hide in the hallway to watch them, to feel them with his eyes. As the knives were sharpened : he would ciose his eyes and listen to the siice of metal pulled against metal. The sound burned against his ear. His lon gi ng grew . He became obsessed with it; he plotted their capture . He soon learned he was closely watch'ed. "You 're much too young to be playing with something like a knife. They aren 't made for littie boys ." Now he knew he must Ilave them. Each time he crouched in the hall and listened to his mother's foot· steps fade down the basement stairs. he was ready Walking softl y onto the linoleum , he approached the sinK . He did not ~un. he did not speak. The oniy sound was that of the refrigerator. humming into the silence , He reached for the !~nives. Despite his caution . his silent swiftness, he was caught. Each time: tl€ was reprimanded, sometimes spanked, but always caught. Soon, the knives were moved above the refrigerator, totally out of reach. He was not discouraged; instead, the desire began to eat at him . He could not sleep at night Tossing, he would see the knives above him, sneering , shining in the moonlight. His mother sensed a change in him; he had begun to watch her. too. At t~mes . she would feel his eyes upon her and turn to catch a glimpse of him. a shadow' from around the corner. He 'Nas anXiOUS for the day his mother would forget to follow him. forget to take him with her. Certainly, some day , she would drop her guard and he was ready. Forcing his patience, he was finally reward ed . A beautiful day dawned. grew warm. and beckoned. She iiftec the heaping laundry basket to her hip and bumped open the door. He waited . His mother must have forgotten. for she did not order him into the yard or to his room . Facing the southern breeze, she simply stepped outs:d€. The door closed on his watchful silence. The k.i!chen glowed warm and ·whlte. Today, he did not stand and gaze at the knives Today he must work quickly . From the 6 floor, he stepped on the bread drawer and finally to the counter. Through the window, he could see his mother, mouth full of clothes pi ns, sheets billowing around her in the breeze. She payed no attention to the house; she did not miss him in the yard. Turning his attention to the knives, he lifted the rack from the wall and settled on his haunches. He pulled the largest from its slot and slid to the floor, leaving the others behind. The room seemed to grow brighter; he felt warm and dizzy. He knew he had won. The knife in his hand was heavy and long, longer than his forearm and nearly as wide. The handle was warm from the reflected morning sun, the carved words worn smooth . The blade felt just as he had always known it would feel, cool and clean. He cradled the knife, clenched the handle in his small hand, feeling its power. He threatened the air. Touching the tip to his arm, he marveled at the depression it made. He leaned against it, pressing it to his face, then to his throat. Closing his eyes, he recalled the sound that had been burned into his memory so many weeks ago. The silver, scraping rhythm. He pictured the blade sliding upon itself, gaining its power. Suddenly, he knew. He knew he, too, must gain that power. He had known it all along. He drew the blade across his throat. The blood made no sound as it spread across the tiles and settled into geometric shapes between the squares .. Beside the boy, the knife grew warmer. It shone with strength and glistened wet. I staggered from the crumpled Honda on the street Bleeding on the brick, my trembling feet; My roaring ears had heard above the din Her call to me - I laughed without, within. The sallow, jealous face of Death Had missed me by a silent breath. Opal Noble 7 To My Sister Your memory comes to me tonight, Fluid, light, I see the contour of your face, The silky hair over the pillow case. The silence is broken by distant music. My soul opens up, Pure, white, Your memory sets in. As light As the blue that falls from the sky Into the waters of the lake; As the moonbeam that rests On the gaunt face of a sick woman; As the shadow of a ch i Id In the garden of an orphanage. ' Desilusao The moonlight passes through the blinds, Pai nts shadows on the carpet, Comes to rest on my lover's face. I hear the clock on the mantelpiece Tick away the darkness of the night. When the light changes in the window I'll see him go. But I'm powerless to make him stay. It was the past that brought him back And I have nothing to offbr but today. Zine Cortez 8 For Kim I write this And in between the words I watch the smoke as it winds And twists upward from my cigarette. As I inhale I watch the red glow, It comes closer to my fingers as they hold it And I think of you eight goddamn hours away. The last time you were here We got drunk on T.J. Swann. You don't smoke but you asked for one anyway. I laughed when you puffed but didn't inhale, When you did I laughed because you started coughing And the smoke came,out of your mouth all at once. We tried to play backgammon, But you could barely see the dice And I missed the board when I rolled. We both looked up at the same time, Tears still in your eyes from coughing, And you smiled. My cigarette lies stuffed out in the ashtray. I look at it with tears in my eyes, And hate you. Beth Taylor 9 Re:-~.i~!..j. ·-; A?C tile 0: LSD *note This system was mistaken for literature. This is not a piece of literariness, nor does it respect language. This is the adoption of pre-fixed symbols from our civilisation. In drawing it, I remembered two old men and their toughts. One old man said , "Civilisation, too, is a hallucinogen, a consciousness-destroying, habit-forming drug, and we are all opium-eaters from birth. " The other old gentleman simply said, "The 'fault' lies with language, and as language is the tool of thought, the fault lies with our way of thinking." I apologize for Mr. Bunuel, Mr. Richter, an myself for any and all confusion caused. - Mr. Bunuel and Mr. Richter would never apologize for themselves. Ergo, do not confuse the above drawing for anything normally published in literary magazines. -, ._--, 10 Ali Baba Rod Wingfield Once upon a time there was a city in Persia called YacchAh-Yaccha-Hacch-Im-Dakkum-Ah-Sah-Sooboo-Sooboo, which in Persian meant "I didn't say you were a blockhead, I just said, 'Put on your turbin, Charlie, 'here comes a flock of woodpeckers.'" Persia was a land of Persian melons, Persian cats, and snake charmers (which is very charming if you're a snake). It was a land where the snake charmers played Russian Roulette. How do snake charmers play Russian Roulette? One of the Cobras is deaf. In this land of Persia lived two brothers named Ali Saba and Kaseem. They used to call each other all the time. These were the first Persian-to-Persian calls. Their father was a bag salesman. They used to call him Old Sag-Dad. Ali Saba married a very poor girl and settled down. Kaseem married a very rich girl and settled up. Yes, Ali Saba was very, very po"or. He eked out a meager living by painting pickles yellow and selling them for bananas. He had such bad luck, if it was raining cats and dogs, he'd get a skunk. He was even once in the marble business but he lost all his marbles. Whenever Ali Saba wanted to think, he went to the mountains because the mountains were all he thought about when he wanted to think. When he thought about the mountains, he was at his peak. So while he was peeking at the mountains, he heard horses in the distance. Yes, he saw a bunch of thieves loaded down with silver and gold and all kinds of goodies, so he hid behind a tree that looked like a mink coat. It was a fur tree. As the thieves approached the mountain, Ali could see that they were all riding backwards. Well, I guess that was because it made the horses nervous to have somebody looking over their shoulders. He recognized the leader of the bandits because he used to be a taylor before he became a robber, so they all called him Robber Taylor. The chief of the thieves called out to the mountain, "Open Sesame! Open Sesame!" What else can you say to a mountain? And sure enough, the mountain was opened by Irving Sesame, the famous mountain opener. The thieves rode in, left their illgotten gains in the big cave, and after the mountain was closed by Myron Sesame (a brother of Irving, and a famous mountain closer in his own right), they rode off into the desert. When the thieves were out of sight, Ali Saba walked up to the mountain and yelled, "Open Sesame!" And sure enough, Irving Sesame again hearing the magic word opened the moun- 11 tain. Ali Baba walked in and 10 and behold! Everywhere he looked he saw jewels, furs, and gorgeous fabrics. He said to himself, "Gee, I didn't know Saks Fifth Avenue had a place u here." Then>he loaded up -his m- le with as many treasures as he could carry and he took them home. His wife asked, "Where'd you get the stuff?" And Ali rep lied, "I just used my Visa card." But she was very upset because he didn't get any green stamps. When Ali's brother Kaseem heard about the fortune his brother found, he figured he would do the same bit. So he went to the mountain. He yelled " Open Sesame!" and walked into the glittering cave. However, the mountain slammed shut behind him. Kaseem loaded down forty-seven donkeys with all the loot they could carry, and wanting to open the cave, he called > out, "Open Pumpernickel! Open Whole-wheat! Open Rye!" But he just couldn't think of Sesame, so he was stuck. While he was knocking his head against the wall trying to get it into the shape he wanted, the forty thieves came back and found him there! Needless to say, they were not too choked up about this discovery, so they drew their swords and cut Kaseem up into little pieces. The forty thieves now knew that besides themselves, only Ali Baba knew where the magic cave was, so they decided to murder him, which was pretty drastic as we all know that murder can be fata\. The chief thief, whose real name was Ivan (Ivan Offulitch), disguised himself by putting on a clean shirt and rang Ali Baba's doorbell. "Ivan calling." When the door was opened by Ali Baba's wife, the chief said, "Allah be with you, Allah be with you, Allah be with you in apple blossom time." Thinking he was one of the Andrews Sisters, she invited him in to have dinner with Ali Baba. This time Ali Baba didn't recognize the thief so they sat down together for a sumptuous feast. What a tongue-tempting menu! Crabapple soup with real crabs and real apples floating around in it. Broiled brisket of babboon gizzard with gorilla gravy. Yum, yum! Python pie with monkey marmalade and whipped caterpillar juice, and other nauseating tidbits. Luckily, Ali Baba had hired a dancer named Morgana to dance for his guest. She was a chewin g gum dancer (Wrigley all over).' When she danced ' she would shiver and shake like the license plate on an old used car. Morgana recognized the thief chief and excused herself by saying she ate something that didn 't agree with her and she cou ldn't do her belly dance on a sour stomach. She rushed out into the garden where there were forty huge jars. Each one contained one of the forty thieves. She poured scalding safflower oil into each of the jars, and although they were boiled in oil, their doctor was happy to report that they were polyunstaturated. 12 Then Morgana ran back into the house, grabbed a sword, cut off the thief 's head and threw it in his face. When Ali Baba found out that Morgana had saved his life, he said to her, "Nothing I do would be good enough for you, so I will be good enough to do nothing for you." She was tired of being a belly dancer so she turned in her belly button and quit danCing. However, she wanted to keep a hand in the business so she opened a small stand and sold naval oranges. Then she met Ali Baba's nephew, Ali Katz, and they moved to Arizona where they run a dude ranch f,or old belly dancers called Stomach Acres. On The Death of a Friend Dogs bark back and forth Across the neighborhood. Water drips from a diluted glass of iced tea. My fingers stick To the onion skin pages of a book. It's been two weeks. I can't believe Those kids outside Have nothing better to do Than throw that damn frisbee around all day. My back hurts from slouching in this old chair. I know I've read this part before And I still don't know what it means. The church bells interrupt, " . . . suffered to redeem our loss ... " My loss. Gina Grimsley 13 Champagne, Orchids and Cavier You are Bachelor button mornings of twinkling blue skies. Sun glittering gold through windows of white. Breakfast for two in drifts of eider-down, croissants with jam and cinnamon tea. Daisy afternoons of plump feather pillows tossed in the sky over luscious green meadows waiting for two. Light wicker basket with crackers and brie, frosted green grapes and red cabernet. White gardenia evenings of 50ft velvet black. Parms, Casablanca and slow ceiling-fans nestled among them our table for twowhite linen island adrift from the room. Nibbling green lettuce, filet of sole, freshly baked bread and a glass of white wine. Red roses at sunrise as the night fades to gray flickering fire to embers- ' a setti ng for two. The day circles around us Like your arms round me. Life's touch of champagne, orchids and caviar. Joan Sandvick 22 The Final Battlefield Fire fell from the sky and was consumed by the blazing turf with the indifference of the sea swallowing rain. Liquid earth, red and righteous, meandered in streams to an unknown shore. Explosions of light disturbed the rhythm of night displaying a raging scene that wished to remain hidden. The flaring chaos was accompanied by quaking vibrations that unloosed stones tumbling in confusion among smouldering forests, falling heavily into· crimson flows, and the liquid splashed over the Earth, and the whole world was stained. Sandra Long 23 Requiem For Lulu Marcine Smith Lulu was sprawled like a fat X under the corner street light, on her stomach with her head turned to the side. Her face looked yellow in the light. And her mouth sagged open. It looked to me like she'd been eating dirt. She was drunk and stinking. And someone should pull her crumpled black dress from where it was rolled around her waist, down past her butt so her pink bloomers wouldn't show. And to cover the layer of fat that poked out below where the legs of the bloomers were too tight. "Drunk as a skunk," Murphy said. "Wonder that she made it this far." Hertha said nothing. Just looked at Lulu. I shook my head. The pool hall was only half a block down the street. East. Yet Lulu had gone the wrong way. Her house was south, at the edge of town. But this wasn't the first time Lulu'd gone the wrong way. There'd been times when Lulu wandered all over Westfield, trying to get home. The town was three blocks square. That included Main Street where we were standing looking down on Lulu. Drunk. One time she'd ended up in bed with Reverend Crandall and his Mrs. I'll bet they scrambled to get up, I thought. That is, if Lufu stunk then as bad as she was stinking now. "Looks dead," Hertha said. She had gone to stand over Lulu. Hertha bent at the waist and stared down into the old woman's face. "Do you think Lulu dyes her hair red?" "Gawd," Murphy groaned. "Who cares." "One of us should pull her dress down," I said. Really. Someone should. Or haul Lulu home. That's what someone should do. It would be only decent. Proper. Murphy snorted. "You want to pull her dress down? Do it. Not me. I ain't touchin' that ole drunk." Hertha was staring hard at Lulu. "Think she's breathing?" "You want to know, stick your nose down' closer," Murphy said. "Won't do it. She's got vomit all over herself. I can smell it from here. It's vomit." Hertha backed away. "Do you remember the time Lulu swallowed them live crawdads?" Murphy asked, then snickered himself into a tizzy. He'd been the one who'd got Lulu to do it. Supplied the crawdads. Seined them from the creek north of town and was on his way fishing when he came on Lulu. 24 "I heard rumors that Lulu's folks had money," I offered. Lulu wasn't one of us. She had just showed up in town one day. No one even saw her get off the train. She said that's how she'd come. She did housecleaning for women around town when the women could catch Lulu sober. Her own house never saw dusting or a mop, people said. And people said she ate out of cans. "I heard she said she was a teacher," Hertha said. "Ma says teaching is enough to drive a sane woman to drink. But Ma don't touch nothing at all, of course." "Shit. My ma says Lulu told her she had herself a boyfriend a long time ago. Then he got her in trouble. But the guy didn't marry her. Lulu said the bastard was already married." Murphy was shoving dirt around with his feet. "I don't believe that," Hertha said. Logical. "Lulu doesn't have a kid. Lulu ain't got nobody." "Gawd, Hertha. How'd you ever get into the sixth grade being so stupid. Ma says Lulu gave the kid away." Murphy smirked at Hertha. "Who to?" I wanted to know. "Gawd, Marcella, you're as stupid as hertha. How'd I know? Girls. You're all stupid." I doubled my fist and poked it into Murphy's stomach. He grunted and hit me back. I didn't let on I'd even felt it. I said, "Someone should pull Lulu's skirt down." Neither Murphy or Hertha answered. Not one of us moved. "It's a shame." I said. "The poor old woman." I couldn't help but think it was sad. Her laying there, like a fat X. Not moving. I'd seen Lulu drunk lots of times before, bobbing and weaving. Flat on her face in the dirt, spread-eagled. But before she was wiggling, trying to stand. Trying to get up and out of the dirt, trying to go somewhere. Wiggling on her stomach, Lulu looked like a fish swimming on dry land. Now, she looked like nothing. "What's a shame?" Murphy demanded. "Well ... the way she is," I tried to explain. "Shit. Like ma says, Lulu's enjoying herself," Murphy asserted. "I don't see how that can be true." "You callin' me a liar, Marcella?" Murphy'd rolled his hand into a fist, again. "Boy, I don't know," Hertha said. "Lulu sure is quiet. She ain't moved at all. Think maybe she really is dead?" "H ell. Who cares?" Murphy said. "Let's go play." Well, Lulu was dead and the county buried her. In the cemetery on the hill east of town. Reverend Crandall had the sermon. The Ladies Aid served coffee after. My ma said it was a nice funeral ... considering. I wanted to ask ma, When people die and get buried, does someone dress them proper? Did someone pull Lulu's dress 25 down? And wash her up good? Put clean bloomers on the body? Lulu needed clean bloomers bad. She'd shit the ones she was wearing. And somehow it seemed to me, she'd shit on the town. And, I guess, me too. Similes Like eating after having two teeth pulledthat's how it feels. Whatever tastes or distastes (squash, pea soup, stroganoff gone cold) tempt the palate, all senses concentrate on a nervous tongue fretting noth ingness. That's how I miss you ... who can surprise, the way a dancer, teasing men with flesh and baiting Eros by drawing finger tips across her nipples or along her thighs, might for a moment use her hands to speak another language and of other things with someone deaf and mute beside the stage. Jan D. Hodge 26 Easy As 1·2·3 He thunderbolted me when we metmy Beatles (Red, White, and Blue) harmonized with his Tchaikovsky (1812, swans, and the Sugar Plum Fairy). ' Thenhiding behind roses and the Blue Nunhe told me, "I'm married, and my wife wants to borrow the Beatles. She wants to become progressive. I picked up the Red, White, and Blue (he picked up his wife) and we headed for his place. His eyes commanded "Please" but I picked up 1812 and hurled it at the western wall. OneDefeat the British. His eyes demanded "Now" but I picked up the swans and hurled them at the southern wall. TwoPluck for stuffing. His eyes pleaded "Don't" but I picked up the Sugar Plum Fairy and hurled her at the eastern wall. 27 ThreePickle the fruit. I told him, " Now, I want to be progressive. " So I picked up his wife and together we wal kedwalked through the northern wall. His eyes were left flat in sharp progress, an d feel the chill. Deborah Craft Pantry Psychology I can't afford my coffee since the price went up, There's only one solutionhot water in a dark cup. Opal Noble Little girl dreams sit in a vase by the window: Indian princesses faded to aspirations of Miss America. By twelve, piano concerts in Carnegie Hall replaced all others. Scottie's wife and field lunches fell short. The innocent dreams of girlhood are vanished. The vase overflows with stars. Quincealea Brunk 28 Morning Eye s dark. from no sleep And stubborn mascara Stare into a mirror. No blush in the cheeks This morning. Hair sti ll damp in backFlattened on the right side , Frizzed and kinked on the other. My holey sweat pants And ripped blu e f lannel shirt My negligee of winter Kept me warm . As I head toward the bathroom. I try to puff the right side And flatten the left. Grab my toothbrush. From behind A hand touches and pulls me near For a hug . Gina Grims/e.v 29 Say Whatever Comes into Your Mind as I Count Slowly to Ten (a cardinal ideogram after May Swenson) o Maybe a target of some kind? 1 Mumblety-pega knife quivering at my foot 2 A hanger for the neckties I gave father for Christmas that he never wore 3 How my lips felt when they were chapped and I ate popcorn 4 The chair the acrobat balanced on just before he fell 5 The ball I hit went through a window. I cut my finger pickup up the glass. 6 Walking the dog with my yo-yo (the only dog I ever had) 7 I was tied to a giant wheel. It was spinning slowly. The hatchets came straight at me. My scream woke me up. 30 F 8 After he hit me my glasses hid under the table . 9 I took a balloon on a stick home from the circus but Kenny broke it. 10 That was close. Next time will be a bull's-eye. Jan D. Hodge Into The 80's I will be Virginia Woolf, You will be T.S. Eliot; Together, we will conquer The rotting jungles Of Rod McKuen And Jacqueline Susann-We wi II explore the Antarctica Of I iteratu re in the deep-freezeAnd we will triumph. Deborah Craft I read a book the other night the light was on 'til four. The dish heap grows beside the sink. there's laundry on the floor. Dust mice hide beneath the bed, your shoes rest by the door. And I'm afraid to touch the scene afraid you'll come no more. Rebekah Yates In The Valley of The Shadow Deb Freese Abby eyed the shadow of her pen fluttering on the wall while she wrote . She knew she was losing her concentration, and her fingers cramped. She laid the pen down. Eleven o'clock. Her eyes burned from the hours of reading. She hunched her sore shoulders and rolled her head. Time for a study break. She 'Nandered down the long hallway to the kitchen, improvising obscene dance movements to stretch her stiff muscles. Longfellow was sleeping on top of the refrigerator. She reached up to scratch his skin. "Lazy cat," she mumbled. He didn't even open an eye to acknowledge her presence. She looked inside the fridge. It was empty except for half a bottle of ketchup, a carton of sour milk, and a margarine bowl full of fuzzy tuna casserole. She fared no better in the freezerit contained an empty ice cube tray and The Social Integration of Lebanese-American Children in the Public Schools of Philadelphia. "Damn, it's overdue." She brushed the front of the cover and tossed it on the table. The cupboard was her last chance for the supper she'd skipped. She shoved aside cans of 9 Lives and boxes of Meow Mix and Tender Vittles to find a jar of peanut butter. Somehow. she couldn't face an encore of breakfast and lunch . She sighed. At least the rent was paid. Longfellow yawned and stretched. Abby tore open a packet of Tender Vittles. It was tempting her growling stomach, but it smelled worse than the eat's breath. " Here, kitty-kitty." The cat arched his back, then ieapt from the refrigerator to the counter to the floor beside his food dish. "Chow down, Fella." She got a drink of water and headed back to her room . On the way: she made a pitstop. It was strange. The bathroom seemed smaller than usual. Abby guessed it was the pile of dirty laundry and the t owels draped around the bathtub. No time to worry about that though. Her Soc term paper wasn't going to write itself. Back to work. She began reading what she had just written. 'The French sociologist Emile Durkheim classified suic ide JI three kinds of ways ." She nibbled ·:m the cap of her pen , "Emile DLirkeim classified suicides as either-shit. Durkheim distinguished three di'stinct types of suicide." She closed her eyes. "Damn." She crumpled the paper into a little ball. Longfellow galloped down the hall. "I knew you'd come." She tossed the paper to him. Sometimes she regretted having used him as a laboratory subject for Behavioral Psych. He batted the paper ball around with his paw, then he brought it to her. She threw it again. "Fetch." Longfellow fetched dutifully. Abby checked the clock . 11 :39. She was wasting time. "Okay. There are three reasons for killing yourself." She rubbed her forehead. "No food, headache, and term paper." The cat jumped up on the bed. He pressed his slimy nose against Abby's cheek. "Go away; Longfellow. There are three-scram, Fella. There are-dammit. There are three reasons for killing a cat." She crumpled up another paper and tossed it. "Potty break." she got up and went into the bathroom. The whole room seemed bright, even though she hadn't turned on the light. She looked around. Something was different. She couldn't pinpoint it, but something was different. She sat down on the toilet to relieve her weak bladder. Longfellow appeared in the doorway. "Voyeur." She leaned forward to stretch her back. Her feet dangled before her, a good six inches off the linoleum. She rubbed her eyes. "I'm farther gone than I thought." She got up and opened the medicine cabinet. She found what she was looking for. "What would I do without you?" she asked as she popped a No-Doz. Longfellow rubbed against her calf. "I'd like to try it without you." She went back to work. Her concentration was still lacking. Soon, her ears started ringing as the No-Doz took effect. She was getting buzzed. "Death-what a depressing subject. Death." She closed her eyes and dreamt of Sunday school and the special program she had starred in when she was seven years old. She had memorized the 23rd Psalm. That was the first time he had ever heard the word death. " Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death .... " She woke up. The term paper had to be finished. She chuckled. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of F, I will fear no evil, for I've got No-Doz." 33 She sorted t hrough her index cards, looking for a quote. Her eyelids were heavy. She wasn't going to make it. " Cold showe r;" she mumbled. She put her papers aside. She stumbled Into the bathroom with her eyes half closed and bumped into something hard , cold, and wet. She gasped and opened her eyes. "My God, it 's a giant toilet!" She couldn 't believe her eyes. The toilet stood six feet high. She stood on her tiptoes and peeked over the seat into the crystal white water. " My God , the toilet grew." She stumbled backwards into the hallway , staring at the sh iny porcelain-coated monstrosity. It was still growing. "Longfellow, you're not going to believe this. " she said, even though she didn't know where he had disappeared to . She went to the kitchen and picked up the phone and dialed the emergencv number. " Yes, please help me . I've got a giant to~let in my bathroom and it's still growing and I don't know what to do . . -Well, it's about six feet tall. Eight feet if you count the tank ... White. Yes, it 's white . . . Distinguishing features? Look, mister, will you just get somebody out here before my toilet explodes and drowns me ... Hello? Hello? Shit." She threw the receiver down . "What am I gonna do?" She went back to have another look at her problem. It was stili there . and it was bigger. "Man) what am I gonna do?" The toilet provided no answers. It just sat there, glistening and growing. "I've gotta pee. How the hell am I gonna get up there? " She looked around. The clothes hamper. She pulled it over next to the toilet and climbed up. The seat was five feet across. It was going to be some balancing act. She backed up to it and held herself suspended over the water. Her arms were weak. They started shaking. She knew she'd never hold herself long enough. Her muscles gave out and she fell splashing into the col d water. The crystal clear water was like ice. She was fully awake now . This was better than No-Doz anyday- She shivered in the wate r. How would she ever get out? The sides of the bowl were slicker than ice. She was stuck. There was no escape . She would have to stay there until morning when the pot shrunk back to its normal size. She knew her instructor would never believe that she didn't get her term paper done because she was stuck all night in the toilet. She sighed. " Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow . .. " 34 Right Down the Middle Please don't make me Make a choice, Form an opinion, Pick this over that; . I'd rather not. After years in med school I might find That Vo-Tech U Made more sense. I really like green better Now that I've painted the room Blue. A skirt and sweater would have been More appropriate But, I guess, My jeans were ... maybe ... more comfortable. Please don't make me Make a choice. I might be wrong. Allison Averill 35  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Kiosk: Volume 43 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Subject The topic of the resource Student Publications Description An account of the resource The Kiosk contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bobolz, Jana: Photographer Freese, Deb: Author Simmer, Scott: Author Yates, Rebekah: Author Cortez, Zine: Author Taylor, Beth: Author Bowitz, John: Author Wingfield, Rod: Author Grimsley, Gina: Author Sandvick, Joan: Author Long, Sandra: Author Smith, Marcine: Author Hodge, Jan D.: Author Craft, Deborah: Author Noble, Opal: Author Brunk, Quincealea: Author Averill, Allison: Author Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1981 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-19 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Craft, Deborah: Student Editor Bergeson, Brad: Student Editor Hulsebus, Jeanne: Student Editor Rosene, Cindy: Student Editor Simmer, Scott: Faculty Editor Breneisen, Frank: Faculty Editor Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical 39 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kiosk Manuscript Perspectives student publications http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/b4b2bb9b384a0c6c316f688534679cd8.pdf daaf8b56f5f6df7ef9eb1618da320f49 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Kiosk: Volume 42 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Kiosk contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ponder, Marcie Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2014-1-23 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. 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Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger PDF Text Text ��KIOSK Morningside College Sioux City, Iowa Spring, 1980 student Editors: Tim Orwig Cindy Rosene Mindy Nelson Erickson Faculty Editors: Scott Simmer John Bowitz Cover by John Bowitz �/ I �5 Tim Orwig A review of a performance of Samuel Beckett's "Waiting for Godot" directed by William Lacey and presented by the Uni versity of Nebraska at Omaha in Fischer Theater, Ames, Iowa. This review won first prize at the Region V South American College Theatre Festival and National Critics Institute on January .30 - February.3 , 1980 in Ames, Iowa. In Waiting for Godot, Samuel Beckett reduces the modern world to its simplest and most essential components and rhythms . It is a world of paradoxes; his characters represent man at both his simplest and most complex. Furthermore, their interactions represent society from the simplest personal relationships to the most complex international relations . Director William Lacey and the UNO company have reinforced Beckett's intentions and script with a sensitive and supportive production. Beckett plans his stage world carefully, eliminating anything non-essential. The simplest components are space and tinle . Space is a country road through a bog, with a tree . The road is, metaphorically, the perfect representation. It is concrete, unchanging, in contrast to the shifting bog . The road is man-made, the tree is natural. Finally, it is the path of life, which all people travel no matter where they started or what their destination . When Didi asks Gogo to tell him where they were yesterday , Gogo answers, "In another compartment. There 's no lack of void." Gogo recognizes that all space is essentially the same. In a similar manner, Beckett's concept of time is balanced between the cyclical and linear. Both acts share the same essential action. Didi and Gogo meet, embrace, and talk. Pozzo and Lucky pass through, followed later by the Boy. Night falls, and Didi and Gogo resolve to leave, but remain immobile. They cannot leave or escape the cyclical events. Gogo again, "Do? I suppose we blathered ... It's been going on for half a century." The linear progression of time is evidenced by the changes in detail from one day to the next: the tree grows leaves, Pozzo becomes blind, Lucky becomes dumb. Didi and Gogo are the simplest of men, and the most complex. �6 Like Chaplin 's little tramp , they are unique beings with a feeling for all humanity . Didi is more the dominant, the optimist, and the fighter , while Gogo is more the submissive, the pessimist, and accepts life; but both live the entire range of human conditions. Pozzo is the cruel, the oppressive, the vulgar, while Lucky is the complacent, the oppressed , the sensitive. Pozzo and Lucky are extreme characters , Didi and Gogo are modulated characters . They are archetypes, not stereotypes. Each has a distinct character, but represents a universal condition. Their relationships are also unique, but essential. Didi and Gogo share a supportive, mutual relationship ; love or friendship. Pozzo and Lucky share a destructive, polarized relationship; hate or oppression . Beckett also has an international level in mind. Pozzo represents the British , in their oppression of the Irish, Lucky . Lucky's thought bears an uncomfortable resemblance to the writing of Beckett's mentor and compatriot James Joyce . Any number of further historical parallels could be drawn; particularly the Nazis and Beckett's Vichy France . This dualistic interpretation is realized totally in UNO's production of Godot. The foreground is faithful to Beckett, a sparse wasteland . This is offset by an immense backdrop of intricately overlapping squares , conveying the complexity o f the work. Yet Keith Setterholm maintains the unity of his set through use of simple colors and textures. Similarly , Patt Moser's costumes appear , on first examination, to be drab , shapeless rags. Closer scrutiny reveals an unnoticed complexity to rival the most formal attire, through use of vests, pants, coats, ties , etc. , again unified by color and texture. This same unity is evident in Lacey 's expansive direction . Lacey handles equally well the tragic and comic scenes in the play. He gives his actors very specific tasks to accomp�ish ' but allows them to use their special talents for comedy in several well-placed bits of business , particularly Don Kinnison 's foetal posture and surprisingly effective snore during Gogo's naps. UNO's Gogo and Didi are the realization of Samuel Becl\ett 's paradoxical view of the essential complexity of modern life. 11istory becomes the story of men creating increasingly complex games to pass the time. Gogo observes, "We always find something, eh Didi, to give us the impression we exist." In one scene , they call each other vicious names until Gogo crumples Didi with the epithet, " Critic!" Beckett asks each of us to accept a work on its own terms, not to abuse it to pass the time. I'm happy to oblige. �7 Flashbacks to Mother Craig Moline The April sunlight crawled up to the window frame and grad ually snuck into the upstairs bedroom and down the wall un til it shone on Chuck Hannon 's bearded face. The seven o'clock sun has awal\ened Chuck every day for the last three weeks -ever since he moved away from Chicago and his mother. Chuck has always meant to close the drapes before he went to sleep, but he has forgotten . His mother would have made sure the drapes were drawn so Chuck could get his rest. Mother now, however, was twenty miles away. Mrs. Hannon asked Chuck, after twenty-seven years, to leave the house and start living on his own. They had driven a U-Haul out to the farm near Schumburg, a suburb of Chicago, and she assured Chuck that he would receive a wholesome check every week until he found a better job. He pulled the covers off and sat up on the edge of his bed, putting his feet on the floor. His red striped pajama shirl hung open -- unbuttoned . He didn 't like to wear it at aiL but he remembered his mother telling him to because it would keep him warm. Chuck rubbed his eyes and opened the drawers, but found that he had no clean clothes to wear. As he turned toward the bed he saw his dirty clothes strewn on the floor. They 'd have to do today until he could do his wash or talk his mother into doing it. He put on the pair of jeans he found under the bed because his Spiderman yo -yo was in the pocl\et. He'd let the kids that rode his bus play with it while he was driving. His shoes could not be found on, in, or beneath any thing. Chuck hoped he could find them somewhere in the mess downstairs . Then Chuck opened the door and walked down another cluttered hall to his left. There, under a Chicago Tribune he found one of his blue sneakers. He raised his left foot, dis covered it was his right shoe, balanced himself against the wall with his shoulder, and worked the shoe on with both hands. The untied shoelaces slapped against the thick rubber sole as he proceeded to the kitchen. A few feet before the two-way swinging kitchen door Chuck stopped, put his hands at his side and entered the kitchen strutting as if he were John Wayne. �10 Once Hannon was in his car, he made short time to Lundell's Bus Service in Schumburg. Within 5 minutes he pulled his Riviera into the bus station parking lot. Once parked, he tool, the keys from the ignition and put them in the ash tray . Then he wouldn't lose them on the bus. His bus (number 7) was parl,ed in the same place he had parked it yesterday afternnon at 5: 15. Hannon ran to the bus, stucl, his hand between the rubber stripping and forced the doors open . One large step got him into the dirver's seat. The engine roared and Hannon headed for the school. The school was only six blocks away from the station but it took him about as long to get from the station to the school in the bus, as it did to get from home to the station in his Riviera. Patrol boys flagged cars at every other intersection so the children could cross the streets. The signal light one block from the school seemed to be stuck on red . Finally, it did change and Hannon cautiously got onto Broadway Street and turned the orange machine again to the right onto the one way. As he made his way around the corner he noticed from 15 to 25 I,ids still waiting for their ride home. His bus was usually filled to capacity but evidently some of the parents had picked up their children already today . He hoped they had come to get their children because they wanted to start their Easter vacation, but he knew the parents had come because they thought Hannon was not. As he pulled close to the curb the children crowded, positioning themselves to get in first. t1annon noticed their pushing and locl,ed the door shut. Then he leaned across the aisle and opened the window. "If you guys don't stop pushing, you 'll never get home 'cause this bus ain 't gonna have no kids on it! " The children stopped pushing and Hannon shut the window and opened the door. They filed in. "About time, Mr. H . " said someone three or four people back. Hannon greeted each child individually. " Hi Kris! How's it goin ' Tom? Sorry I'm late today Tiger! How come so many of you have your sack lunches today?" The little blonde girl behind him said, "We forgot to tell our moms we got out ea r ly today ." " Ye ah , moms need t o I,now about important stuff lil\e t hat " stuttered Hannon. Chuck reach ed into his front pocl,et and pulled out his yoyo . " He re blondie , it 's your turn to play with the bus driver's yo-yo. �11 'Thanks Mr. H." she replied . Most of these kids were from the country, but two of them lived on the outskirts of town, so Hannon dropped them off on his way out. Today, though, these two kids were not on the bus. "Where are Jodi and Terry?" asked Hannon. "Their folks came and got 'ern because you didn't come!" blurted Jill, the girl across the aisle from blondie. Hannon tightened his lips and nodded his head as if to say 'I see.' "OK people," started H~nnon, "I know it's vacation and everything, but you still can't yell and scream . Don't stand up while the bus is moving and don't throw paper and stuff on the floor, OK? " "OK" a few loners replied. Hannon's left sneaker let off on the clutch, his ri.ght pushed ·' the accelerator. They were bound for home. The bus roared past Jodi's and Terry 's driveways and soon got onto the gravel roads they all were accustomed to. The first fifteen stops were routine. Chuck was glad to get his yo-yo back. By 1 :30 the day had become hot and Chuck longed to get the rest of the kids home and make some more Koolaide for himself. About a half mile from his next stop Mr. Hannon saw , in his rear view mirror, an apparent fight betwen two boys in the very back rowan his side. "(\nock it off you two back there!" yelled 11annon. "There's something wrong with Tommy. I-Ie can't breathe," bawled the boy next to him. Hannon immediately pulled off to the side of the road, habitually yanl\ed on the stop sign lever, and raced back to where Tommy was sprawled. Tommy's hands were clasped around his neck. His face was white. His eyes were rolled up inside his head. His eyelids fluttered uncontrollably . His feet searched desperately for support as he laid between his seat and the one in front of him. Chucky felt a finger sticking in his mouth and his mother preached, "You have to eat slower baby and chew it better. " Her fingernail cut him beneath his tongue but she withdrew her hand with a piece of mauled ham soon to fallow. Chucky's stomach and tongue heaved together Simultaneously and tears flowed down his pale cheeks onto tile table cloth . "You have to be more careful Chucky and eat more slowly �12 like an adult, " instructed his motller. "Do something , Mr. H . Do something! " screamed one of the eight left on the bus. Chuck knelt down on one knee as if to draw his pistol again, but stuck his finger into Tommy's convulsive mouth. Without warning Tommy's jaws snapped down on Chuck's finger instantly, but it dangled by a thread at thejoint. Blood sprayed on the vinyl seat covers and floor. Chuck anxiously wound his blue flannel shirt tail around his finger, but immediately noticed drops of blood forming at the bottom of the wrap. Everyone was screaming and crying . Jill threw up. Another girl fainted. Chuck reached for a seat and staggered to his feet. He promptly sat down and looked out the window as if to distract his mind from making him vomit. Tommy quit gasping and his limbs laid still at his side. "Call the doctor or an ambulance." Chuck heard the cry , but couldn 't make out the blurry face that said it. "Call the doctor or an ambulance, Mr. H. , " repeated the voice. Chuck stumbled to the wheel of the bus and raced for a half mile to the nearest phone . The bus 's rear wheels slid as the bus angled into the driveway of the farmhouse . The right half of the steering wheel was painted red. Chuck 'S shirt tail was soaked. Everyone braced themselves as the bus screeched to a halt. Its sudden movement threw Tommy's body under the seat in front of him. Hannon escaped the bus first and all the children , but Tommy, scrambled for the outdoors. The woman of the house had seen the hysteria in Hannon 's eyes and opened the door for his entrance. Her daughter hugged her waist, sobbing. Hannon asked, "Where's your phone?" She pointed down the hall. "Torn got choked and his finger got bit off. He's gonna call an ambulance," hollered the biggest boy, pointing to Hannon. Chuck paused in the corridor , turned around momentarily, gazed at the frightened children , and noticed the stop sign on the bus , still extended . Then he dashed for the phone. When he reached it he realized the trail he had made on the floor. Indifferent to the situation he raised his hand to dial -- reminding him again that his index finger was merely a stub. He dialed a number with his middle finger ... It rang twice . .. "Hello Mother?" �13 Dancing Lessons Mindy Nelson Erickson When I was seven years old my mom thought I should take dancing lessons because I was so clumsy. My uncle wou Id show the movie of my walking to Sunday school, falling down and skinning my knees, to embarrass me. 50 my mom took advantage of my firm childhood desire to be a ballet dancer, and sent me to dancing school. You see, I would spend hours listening to an old record of exerpts from The Nutcracker Suite and Swan Lake. Once at Christmastime I had seen the Nutcracker ballet on T.V., and I sympathized very much with Clara. And all of the dancers were so graceful and beautiful. For awhile it looked like there was hope. On my fifth birthday my parents had bought me a pink ballet costume -- complete with sequined tutu and slippers -- and also a Madame Alexander doll whose costume matched mine almost exactly . But, after that my sister was born, and, of course,ballet wasn't offered due to lack of interest, so my mom thought tumbling would be the best course for me to take. Marlena, my instructor, received special permission to use the Village Hall, which wasn't ideally suited, for giving lessons to about a dozen girls from Hampton. Marlena always wore the same black exercise shoes, fish-nets, leotard and short, satin, wrap-around dancing skirt. She had orange -brown hair, frecl,les, dull, brick-colored lips, and jiggled a lot when she danced. She ate lunch right before my lesson, and I always came in time to catch her eating the bar-b-que potato chips which left rusty-orange lines around her fingernails. My mother never let us have that kind of potato chip, so I thought they were something bad. At first, I didn't do very well in tumbling. But, one day I did a back-bend while nobody was looking -- and then could still do one while they were. The next week I could do a front wall,over and a round-off back-somersault better than anyone! After a few more weeks I was good enough to be scheduled in five dances for the next recital, and Marlena came up with the bright idea for me to do a dance with a partner. I came to find out my new partner was Marlena's brother Harry, who was not a little girl's dream. Bony and frecl,led �14 with blonde , greased-over hair, he had even flunked first grade -- the ultimate disgrace. My mother wouldn't let me play with his kind ordinarily, but to my disbelief she thought it was all right for me to touch him while dancing to a song with the lyrics: " Your mamma and your papa say you no can do . . .. " My father thought it the subject of much humor. Every week I hoped Harry would be gone so I wouldn't have to practice with him . I began to lose interest in dancing lessons. My mother began to find it difficult to persuade me to be ready on time Saturday afternoons. But, to my relief, my cousin had started taking dancing lessons in Moline from a more professional studio . She asked me to join her, and my mother decided that it was a good idea, a change would encourage my interest. My sister was old enough , so she started taking lessons, too. She was lucky she had never had to take from Marlena . Our instructors were Carol Lee and Harry , of all names . They were once a husband and wife dancing team , now aging and trying to mal,e ends meet, perhaps to win fame and fortune off one of the students they sent regularly to join the Rockettes. Carol Lee taught tap and Harry taught tumbling . I got to take lessons from each . Carol Lee always wore silver tap shoes that buckled , and she had bleached blonde hair. She also wore thick turquoise eye shadow . She was short, but Harry was tall. He was balding and grey, with a long nose, and he always wore his belt buckled on his left hip . I never did get to take ballet lessons . Nobody seemed to notice that I wanted to, and my pink tutu lay outgrown in my closet. Tap dancing was kind of fun , though . In the four years I danced my youth away there , I went from the basic "Gimme a Straw Hat and a Cane " with its shuffle-steps - to a full-fledged kick -line , with a chartreuse sequined , turquoise nylon-net costume and the opening number of the " show." The "shows, " generally known as recitals, were always three to four hours long, which my father did not enjoy . He was not the only one . I had to spend most of the time backstage in a room full of half-naked , screaming little girls. There was a time when we wore red sweaters and white pleated skirts for a tap dance , and I got such a headache from all the noise, I cried and didn 't have to go on for the " Gra nde Finale ," which we had rehearsed for months . A lady took m e to the bacl\ of the huge auditorium to watch it, and we were so far away I could just barely picl, out my sister and cousin . Th e re were so �15 many people on stage I wondered if my mom would notice I was missing. She did. It was impossible to explain to her whr __ I wasn't there since I hadn't been at the point of death, so I heard about it all the way home in the car, and for several months afterwards .... "But, Mom ... " "I don't care, we spend all that money on lessons for you, and sit through that terrible long thing, and you don't even come out on stage. And no, we are not stopping for ice cream .. " I still went every Saturday though -- I could almost do a backflip and could even do double wings on the taps. I even made cheerleading because I could do the splits, but I was really hoping to get in the newly opened ballet class. Anyway, it turned out that there weren't enough people to have ballet after all. At least, the new studio was nice until the boys in tumbling class got bored waiting for their turn and put scuff-marks all over the walls. After we moved to the new studio, Carol Lee could never remember my name right for some reason. I just pretended that my name was really what she called me, and nobody ever seemed to notice. Dirt accumulated again. We had to do cartwheels on the bare floor and came up with grey palms . The recitals got even longer -- and when I was thirteen I quit dandng lessons forever because Harry, then teaching me back -flips, touched me in places I didn't talk about. My mother never understood why I wouldn't go back anymore, she thought I was lazy, but my father was glad he didn't have to go to any more recitals. I read a book about ballet, and, one night, dreamed my sister learned how to be a ballet dancer. Just Dues Linda Ba~shaw Cold winter heart, No one grieves That you suffer Subtle stabs of spring; Compassionless, We watch your lifeblood Trickling down Ice-gutted streets. �Don's Place Robert Henry Scott I sit on this lonely bar stool, contemplating an empty glass, with the chemicals of the soul needing a catalyst for any reaction to anything. Pondering another scotch , I consider the populace of this quiet beach bar. For now and again in seeing a kind face, a warm smile, my soul oscillates between my need to love, and my fear to trust. But as always with finding a new friend, I disavow any knowledge · of the existence of loneliness . .. at least until tomorrow night. _. ~ �Pausing Chuck Whetzel Pausing perhaps Mid-green In the spectrum of doing Shifting slightly To the multiliferous cycles of going Bending my time To what is. �18 The Man at the End of the Aisle Marty Hansen I went to see the play, "The Man at the End of the Aisle," on Saturday afternoon in February . Almost all of my friends, except Pam and Cindy, had gone before, each going alone. Susan, who went three years ago in the summer after our senior year in high school, told me that I just had to go sometime. That I'd really be missing something if I didn't. She told me over and over that it changed her life, so I must go soon. Tammy said that she had gone three times and every time she went she saw it differently . Looking back on it, she said she only hated the ending the first two times -- she hasn't decided on her opinion of the play the third time. When I got to the theatre I was awed by the size of it. It had two large towers and windows made of thick glass, so thick that I could not see through them . I knew the view inside could not have possibly been close to the beautiful view outside. Upon entering, I was gree'ted by a man who must have been a member of the cast as he was dressed all in black except for what looked like a white bowtie with the bows chopped off. He handed me some type of registration book that everyone who had come to this play had signed. I wrote my name on the second line of a new page, right after a Brian somebody, a name I thought I recognized from somewhere. Maybe in high school? Just as I handed the book back to the man dressed in black, an elderly usher touched my arm. This man looked a bit Iil~e my father and I felt homesick for my home one hundred miles away. As we walked through the opened heavy wooden doors, the usher leaned towards me and said that he hoped I would enjoy myself. That I wouldn 't regret going when this play was over. When we got to the front, I asked him if the numbers on the ticket didn't say that I was to sit in a row back up the aisle. The usher, nervous by his obvious oversight, begged me not to hold anything against him and quickly handed me over to another usher. The curtain went up about this time but I could see that the new ush e r was in no hurry to get m e se a ted. �19 This usher was much younger, more my age . He was real talkative and he told me that he was only an usher here for that night. That working the theatre was fun but the uncertain ty of what it would be like when he came here again was too much for him to handle. The more he talked the more I thought that I had seen him somewhere before. So I asked 'him were he worl,ed . He told me that he built houses. He loved turning a vacant lot into a house where a family with children could live. Then I remembered that I had seen working on the house across the street from my apartment. It was almost finished then, all that it needed was a final coat of paint. I had been thinking all that week, that if I were to live in that house, white with brown shutters would look homey. The play was well in progress when we got to my seat. The black dressed man was up on the stage with an actress and an actor. he paused on the words love and honor and it seemed that the words were directed at me. The usher asked me if he could sit next to me as since the play had started all there was left for him to do was to watch the play . I then said that I didn't mind -- that I would enjoy his company . So he sat next to the aisle and we Quietly watched the play, vowing that we ;d both stay through the ending and not regret going in the first place. lago - Resurrected? Deborah Craft We smiled into each other's eyes Supposedly calm and serene, Thinking the other in disguise And watching Othello turn green. Accusations of telling lies; Eyes covered with a mirror's sheen, Snapping shut my once open eyes And watching Othello turn green. I felt my thoughts go lifeless, dead; I watched him move through a veiled screen; I watched my love turn bitter red On the day Othello turned green. �20 Rosie The Hamburger Cindy Rosene Hamburg, Iowa . Greyhound Bus , Line 861, destinations Savannah-St. Joe-Kansas City, is making a ten minute stop. Inside , Rosie Thompson , age 23, is perched on the edge of a brown and blue-striped , scratchy seat. She is waving goodbye through the window to her parents, whom minutes before she had wobbled away from on three-inch heels . Her mother, Mildred, is smiling and waving back excitedly. lier father, Bernard , looks on indifferently from the sidewalk. Rosie has a bag of chocolate chip cookies, a movie magazine , the National Enquirer, and a seventy-five cent romance novel. On the seat beside her is a red Samsonite suitcase, with the initials W.L .K . engraved in gold at the top. Inside it are her clothes, one-hundred and eighty dollars, and the number to call if she should happen to get lost between Hamburg and her sister Gracie in Kansas City . The suitcase , a graduation gift from her parents five years earlier (her mother had gotten it for a discount at Sears when someone ordered the initials for it and didn't pick it up), has never been used and Rosie is afraid the bus driver will scratch it if he puts it underneath with the other luggage . Few passengers are leaving from Rosie 's hometown, so the suitcase occupies the seat next to her. This will be the first time Rosie has ever been away fro m home (except for a weekend she spent at Girl Scout camp in the sixth grade , when she burnt her hand picking up a charred hotdog and fell into poison ivy) . Going to Kansas City isn't even her ide'a. It is another one of her older sis ter Gracie 's suggestions . Gracie has been making decisions for Rosie for as long as Rosie can remember. Not that Rosie, u ntil now , has ever minded. After all, who is she to question t h e wisdom of her worldly sister Gracie? You see, Gracie ha s everything one needs to get by in the world , or so Ro s ie thinks. Gracie is tall and slender , colors her hair a lovely copper shade, wears false eyelashes and fingernails, a nd buys her clothes through the Frederick 's of Hollywood catalog. Everything Rosie knows a bout life in general she has learned from Gracie. Through the years , Gracie has t aught her abou t lov e , c areers , and marriage . When Rosie was fourteen , Gracie was seventee n and had ~ ~ m ~ �21 dates every weekend . She had informed Rosie of two things. One that it was o.k. to kiss a boy on the first date, and two, that there are certain things you can do when a boy takes you to a drive-in movie. Something had gone wrong, though. When Rosie turned sixteen , she was overweight and had acne and never got the chance to use Gracie Thompson's Rules of Etiquette for the Drive-in. When ROSIe was eighteen, Gracie , age twenty -one, already had a career for herself. She had turned down numerous marriage proposals and moved to Kansas City (What she did there Rosie didn't really know.). Upon Rosie's graduation from high schooL Gracie had urged Rosie to do the same and follow her career ambitions. This had been easy for Rosie, since there were no proposals to consider. However, "following her career ambitions" had meant spending the next five years behind the counter at Dippy's Donuts, a bakery on Main Street in Hamburg. It had been at Dippy 's that Rosie met Harold Rogers, a used car salesman who stopped in for jelly rolls and cheese Danish. After three years of going to the show on Friday nights with Harold, Rosie had finally received a marriage proposal from him just last week. Thrilled, she had immediately phoned Gracie in Kansas City to give her the good news. "Don't be a fool, Rosie," Gracie had scoffed. "Think of the life you'll have with someone like thaL" "Whadda ya mean by that?" Rosie was stunned, and hurt that Gracie could refer to her Harold as "someone like that." "Oh, God, Rosie, can't you see? liarold Rogers is a used car salesman, not a doctor or an accountant. You'll live in a two room walkup, drive one of his beat-up station wagon specials, and eat Hamburger Helper to save money." "But Gracie, he's nice." "Listen, nice isn't going to get you very far in this world. Believe me, all you'll get from Happy Harold and His Used Heaps is a lifetime of compromises. Look at me. I'm still single only because I'll settle for nothing but the best." It had been this bit of wisdom from Gracie that led to the idea that Rosie should go to Kansas City, where "thousands of opportunities await anyone smart enough to grab them." "But Gracie, I can't do anything besides sell doughnuts, " Rosie had wailed. "That's o.k. You can start out doing that until something better comes along. Besides, Rosie Rogers sounds really tacky." At this point Rosie's mother had dragged the red suitcase down from the attic. Mildred thought Rosie's going to Kansas City was the best idea Gracie had had yet. After aiL Harold did �\ \ �23 smoke and drank way too much beer. " Gracie 's right, " she had told Rosie. "You're twenty-three and not getting any younger. It's time you found something more for yourself than Harold and the bakery." So the plans had been made by Gracie and her mother before Rosie had really known what was happening. Mildred sent a note to ttarold saying Rosie was moving to Chicago (in case he was persistent and followed her), and Gracie sent her the money for a bus ticket to Kansas City. Rosie's father, who never said much anyway, hadn't commented on the situation until this morning when, while putting Rosie's suitcase into the trunk of his Chevy (bought on credit from Harold), he sug gested that perhaps Rosie shouldn't go. After all, Harold's offer still stood, and he didn't see anything wrong with selling used cars. This had been enough to throw Rosie into a fit of tears so that her eyes were red and puffy, and her mother into a fit of rage (because her plans were almost spoiled and also because she had to find a pair of sunglasses to cover Rosie's eyes). By now, though , Rosie has regained her composu're, and as the bus pulls out of Hamburg, leaving her parents in a cloud of exhaust, Rosie sits back to eat a cookie, hoping to calm her nervous stomach . She is still unsure of Gracie's advice. Oh, she knows Gracie is right. Kansas City does hold great opportunities, but for someone like Gracie, not for herself. Why, even little things about the world still scare Rosie. Two years ago, Harold had taken her to see the "Exorcist." It had frightened her so much that she still had to sleep with the light on at night. Rosie looks down at her skirt and shoes. She bought them last week just for her trip, hoping to look as sophisticated in them as Gracie does in her Frederick originals. The heels are a little high, though, so that she has trouble walking in them. Her hair, fixed by the Powder Puff Salon, is hairsprayed in place. Two large Shirley Temple ringlets hang on each side of her chubby face. She blinks her eyes rapidly, unaccustomed to the weight of the false eyelashes she has glued on . Five miles outside of Hamburg and Rosie is wet and sticky with perspiration. She leans forward and her blouse sticks to the back of the seat. The air conditioner vent next to the window blows cold air up at her wet armpits and gives her the chills. Chewing her fingernails, Rosie 1001,s out the window. Gray haystacks , shaped like giant loaves of bread, sit in barren fields . Billboards flash by. Motel Six - Pool - Free TV - Seventeen Miles Ahead. AI's Automotive - Transmission and Muffler Repair - Rockport. Stop at Mama Pig's Homemade Pies - Chili - Mound City. The hypnotic passing �24 of fence posts and telephone poles puts Rosie to sleep. She wakes an hour later. Her head is buzzing from leaning against the vibrating window. The bus is making another stop. Orange neon drops chase each other around a large flashing arrow announcing Joe's Bar and Gill (someone has thrown a rock and knocked out the R). A two-story pink clap board cafe advertises steak and chicken. Rosie has to go to the bathroom, but she is afraid the bus will leave without her if she gets off to go into Joe's . She crosses her legs, and looks at the people coming out of the cafe. A man in a blue plaid leisure suit is getting on at this stop. He is carrying a large brief case, hair is thinning a bit on top, stomach hangs over his belt a little . .Not bad looking, otherwise, Rosie decides. He makes his way to the back of the bus and takes the seat across the aisle from her. Rosie stares at him over the red Samsonite suitcase. He lights a cigarette, inhales, and blows the smoke up into the air. Above him , a No Smoking sign is posted. Rosie coughs unconsciously. The man turns his head, smiles at Rosie, and winl,s . Embarrassed, she turns away , and looks down into her travel bag . The chocolate chip cookies are stale. Rosie wonders what to do next. As the bus pulls back onto the highway, she decides to read. Gracie has told her that she should read more magazines and books. That was the only way she would ever learn anything. Rosie takes out the paper back romance and turns to the last page (Gracie has also told her that you can always tell a good novel if there is a love scene in the last paragraph). Rosie skips down to the last sentence and reads "Then, as if he could resist the luring temptation no longer, his searching lips came wildly down on hers, arousing fire and passion within her." Rosie sighs. This must be what Gracie wo'uld call good love scene. Sh-e really no ~ idea what it would be like to have fire and passion aroused within her (Harold had certainly never done that to her), but she assumes Gracie would know and turns back to the first chapter. After reading the first three pages , Rosie discovers the girl in the book has " satiny smooth skin, velvety, honeycolored hair, and large dew-drop sapphire blue eyes fringed with long, dark lashes ." Such beauty only depresses her so she puts down the novel and turns to the movie magazine. " Farrah Leaves Lee For Young Tennis Player " is emblazoned across the cover . Rosie thumbs through the pages and comes to the horo scopes. A friend at the bakery lives according to the stars. Perhaps astrology is what she needs Rosie decides . "Family makes excessive demands. Ignore them . Consider a dreamy proposition with travel and romance possibilities . Look for money and career ambitions to be blessed. For your complete a ha's I,J �25 i,1 forecast for this month, send $2.50 to Astro-graph, P.O. Box 415, Lake Taho, Nev." Well, Rosie thinks, no one is making excessive demands on me, but I am traveling and Gracie did promise that my career will be better. I guess maybe I am doing the right thing. She rips the horoscope out of the magazine and puts it in her pocket. On the next page, she sees an article entitled "The Three Most Alluring Ways To Attract A Man's Attention" and glances through it. First they suggested that you cross your legs and swing one foot. Or, you could run your fingers through your hair, then, if that doesn't work, run the tip of your tongue across the front of your teeth. These sound like good suggestions to Rosie so she begins simultaneously practicing all three. No wonder Gracie reads so much, she decides. You can really learn a lot from these magazines. If only she can remember all this when she gets to Kansas City. Meanwhile, one of Rosie's eyelashes has come loose and is dangling over one eye. She rummages through her suitcase for a few minutes, but can't find a mirror. She has to go to the bathroom anyway, so she decides to fight her phobia of using the closet-sized facilities on the back of the bus. (Once on a band trip in high school she had been locked in a Greyhound bus bathroom while changing into her band uniform.) If she gets locked in this time she won't have her clarinet with her to signal for help. Rosie gets up and staggers down the aisle on her shakey heels. Inside the bathroom she wants to take a drink, but a sign above the sink says "Water not meant for drinking." Otherwise, her trip to the restroom is uneventful, and Rosie returns thirsty, but with her eyelash in place. The moving bus is too much competition for her shoes, and she stumbles as she reaches her row. Rosie falls, and knocks into the man in the blue plaid leisure suit, who has moved across the aisle during Rosie's absence, and now occupies the adjoining seat. (The red suitcase has been moved to the floor.) "Excuse me" she mumbles. Rosie blushes and steps over his feet to her place. My god, she thinks, I had no idea that alluring routine would work like this. "1 hope you don't mind , Miss. The sun was in my eyes on that side." The man flashes yellow, stained dentures at Rosie. "No, of course not." Rosie wishes he would leave. She is beginning to perspire again. Talking to strangers makes her nervous, especially if they're male. "Nice day, don't you think?' The man keeps up a polite conversation. "Yes, very nice." "Where ya headed, honey?" �26 I " Kansas City," Rosie answers. She turns her head so she doesn't have to meet his gaze. "Oh, yeah. I'm headed for Denver myself. Then on to Las Vegas . I'm I"ind of in show business you might say. What 's in Kansas City?" ''I'm meeting my sister there." "I see . You plan on staying long?" ''I'm not sure yet." Rosie can 't imagine why he's talking to her. She remembers the magazine article and runs her tongue over her teeth. "Well listen, cutie, if you ever get tired of K.C. and need a job - Boy - I sure could use someone like you in Vegas." Rosie is amazed. " What could I do in Las Vegas? I don't sing or dance." "Who cares . With looks like yours , sweetheart, who needs talent. All you really need is a good agent. That 's where I could do you some good ." "Really? ' Rosie can't believe her ears . This is incredible. Thoughts of Harold and the girl in her paperback flash through her mind. Fire and passion , that was it. She remembers her horoscope. Travel and romance possibilities. Maybe this is the dreamy proposition. "Sure . I find girls like you all the time in unknown places, and make 'em into stars . Did you know Cheryl Ladd was discovered on a bus headed for Cleveland?" "No, I didn't realize . It 's really that easy?" "You bet. All ya gotta do is know the right people ." The bus is entering Kansas City . Rosie is frantic, wondering what to do . What a chance this could be . My God, what am I thinking, she suddenly realizes what she's considering . I just can 't take off for Las Vegas. Gracie's waiting for me here . She 's going to help me find a job. "This is my stop, " she tells the man. " Look , I'll have to think about this." "Sure, I understand . This could be your big chance , though honey. Let me give you my card and you can call me if you ever get to Vegas. I'm tell'n ya, you've really got potential." The man winks and hands Rosie a small white business card. "Nice talkin' to you. " he winks and squeezes Rosie 's knee. Rosie takes the card and puts it in her purse . She picks up the red suitcase , the National Enquirer, and her movie magazine, and makes her way to the front of the bus . She searches for Gracie. Wait til I tell her about my offer, Rosie thinks. He really thought I was good looking . Gracie 's gonna just flip . She spots Gracie standing by the revolving doors leading from the passenger unloading zone into luggage claims. Rosie waves ex citedly . Things aren't going to be so bad here after all, she decides. Funny, though, Gracie seems a little �plumper than she remembers. A roll of fat is beginning to develop around her middle, rather like an inner tube she'd wear swimming. Her hair, rolled up in pink sponge curlers, is peeking out from under a black and yellow, safari print headscarf. This really doesn't matter to Rosie, though. She is thinking about what she'll do tomorrow. Maybe Gracie will help her find a talent agency. With looks like hers, there's got to be more to life than selling doughnuts. After aiL that is why she came to Kansas City. Lawrence, Kansas, Greyhound Bus, Line 861, destinations Topeka-Junction City-Abilene, is making a ten minute stop. Inside, Lewis Turner, age 54, is leaning back in a blue and brown striped reclining seat, laughing to himself. With him, he has a large brown, imitation alligator-skin case. Inside are his Fuller Brush items. He tal\es his billfold out of the back pocket of his blue-plaid leisure suit, and recounts the money. One hundred and eight dollars. Dumb broad, he thinks. Some of em are dingey enough to fall for anything. The bus pulls out onto the highway. Lewis lool\s out the window. Brown sunflowers lay winter-flattened in barren fields. Billboards pass. Dick's Diner - 24 Hour Trucl\ Stop Good Food To Go - Alma. Don's Texaco - Car Wash - Next Gas 25 Miles. Ten Minutes To Downtown Fort Riley. American Express Travelers Checks - Don't Leave Home Without Them! The hypnotic passing of fence posts and telephone poles puts Lewis Turner to sleep ...... . �28 Brad Bergeson Above leaf-bare trees the moon, presiding, guiding melancholy geese. Waterscape In Twilight Judy S. Olson for Nancy's Gramma Swimming.on the wall above the tub A chipped goldfish chases Three bubbles toward the crack Beside the pinl, flowered company towels. The almost used up slivers of soap Pile upon each other like centuries Of pink and green and blue limestone. Cloudy denture brushes hang perched Like herons with frizzled topknots, Their beaks both pointed toward One blackened lightbulb Too painful to replace, Making twilight for the fish And for the herons And for her. �29 Allison Averill I loved from period one shorthand to last period math; seven different beaus across the aisles, and had as many notebooks each with "his" name etched on the cover. Then you started carrying my books to class So I left my notebooks open feeling awkward and maybe wanting to carry them myself ... Were they this heavy? From "Reactions to a Frog Poet" Pic-an -ear Chuck Pick an ear Anyear And place it in a bowl of water Now, tall\. carefully It's listening: Help, I'm drowning. W~etzel �30 Come Slowly - Eden Mike Nord White seclusion wrote itsjustice for us austere, mysterious, pale; Christ's Rose understood my celibate female's lust where passion's drained by pain of air reposed, and books; was a kiss endured. For the world looks westward - satisfied to never bless; too ignorant to dread the night's black pearl, to see self damned ridicule of the rest east bound alienated who had loved, as a spear in your side. That only word the great more shared with prostitutes who of nothing gained what welldressed ladie 's dreams were. Come slowly - Eden! Leaves have withered sorne. We've lived for years beside your rising sun. Widow I have no one to talk .with me tonight. The better years of conlpany have gone, or passed away, is how they say, polite; who afterward had lingered - not too long, to give their sympathy and eat the grief of casseroles, made conversations quick. (Reprieve from loneliness is all too brief.) I'd like to have them stay until the thick of ticks had brought me through this valley stained, and pain as well had passed away to brood. But no such luck. Although their presence strained into their friendship awkwardly renewed, without a thing to say; I'd have them stay, and love thenl if they'd never go away. �31 Julie's story Christie J. Sease Julie looked at her watch and read 10:47 PM - Dec. 24. I wonder if Carl has the kids in bed yet, she thought. Probably not, he never was very good at remembering to do such things. Since, after all, the children were her responsibility . She did feel bad about leaving them alone with him, but today had been more than she could take. So Julie drove on down the quiet county highway . Following the curves without bothering to slow down for them or even worry if the car skidded a bit on the snowy patches where the wind had not reached the road to clear it. Christmas Eve was the perfect time to run away, she thought. It 's my present to myself. Certainly not as dramatic as Maryl's had been when she slit her wrists beneath the Christmas tree two years ago , she decided. But shocking people had never been Julie's style. Everyone had been so upset when Maryl killed herself. 'She remembered so clearly Carl's reaction. "That Maryl, she never did have enough brains to be satisfied with a good thing. Look at all she had, a husband bringing home 45,000 dollars a year, a beautiful new house, and three perfect kids. I wonder why she wanted to go and ldll herself? What a crazy lady!" At the time Julie hadn't bothered to argue with him . But inside, she too was considering suicide. It would be so easy to just forget everything . Still, she couldn't bear to think of the kids hearing all the stories about their crazy mother. So Julie went on, until today when Carl had pushed this whole affair too far. Shejust couldn't take it anymore, so she simply got in the car and drove away . As Julie approached the bridge she noticed the patch of ice . But she somehow knew it couldn 't stop her. She was going to make it this time. She accelerated, feeling for once in control. But the ice pulled the car from her. It slid into the left guard rail and the steering wheel was snapped from her hands, catching her fingers. She watched it all in a slow motion dream. The car bounded across the bridge into the opposite rail, and past. She saw wood splinter and felt her life slip away as the car flew from the bridge, rolling, falling toward the river 's edge below. " I don't want to die," she pleaded. "Not now!" Then the car struck . She watched metal �32 fold and heard glass shatter and felt the tremendous pressure as the steering wheel began to crush her chest. She gave up. When Julie came to she was confused. But the warm dampness of the blood on her cheek brought it all back. She tried to regain some sense of direction but the world was upside down and she was pinned to the car 's rooL unable to move. How strange, she thought, nothing hurts. It was as if her body was dead, yet her mind would live on forever. She tried to think clearly, but her thoughs wandered. Time seemed to cease to exist. She was twelve years old again, in her mother's kitchen. "You've got to learn to cook, dear," her mom instructed. "Good cooks always catch the best husbands." Julie wondered if her mother was serious. In any case, she would rather be outside playing work-up with the guys. "But Mom," Julie whined, "I don't want to get married. I want to be a doctor and help mal,e people well." "Julie, I don't want you even thinking like that!" her mother snapped. "The only way a woman can succeed in this world is to marry the right man and raise a family. Anyone can see that those 'career women' are just trying to make up for not being married. I don't want you to end up working for a living." Julie frowned, but something told her not to argue. Maybe Mom's right, she thought,just maybe. The night was cold and Julie's entire body was beginning to ache. She tried to remember exactly where this bridge was. Somewhere east of Stanzel, she thought. No one will be driving past here this late on Christmas Eve. But maybe ... what if someone does come this way, they won't be able to see the car down here. I've got to get away from it. She tried to move her right arm and reach the door, but it refused to obey. Concentrate harder, she thought, stare at your hand and mal,e it move. She looked down her arm for her hand. She saw her fingers, bloody and mangled. Her scream echoed through the small valley. Julie was getting dressed in the locker room after a Junior High basketball game . All of her friends were excited about the sock hop that evening. "Am I the only one who's gonna stay home and study for that history test tomorrow?" she asked. "You 've got to be kidding, Jules," her best friend, Angie, said. " Tom's taldn me to the hop and maybe even for a pizza after. That is more important than any test!" "Yeah, but . . . my grades. " " But nothing. Don 't tell me you'd rather spend your time with a book than with a guy? Take it from a friend, next time Carlton Davenport asks you out - go. What I'd give for him ... now there's a man with a future!" Julie didn't know how long she had been crying, but there were no tears left. Snap out of it, she thought. If only Carl were here, he'd know what to do. He had always taken such �33 good care at her. She remembered how he used to try to teach her to tell time by the stars. "See Julie," he said, "How the North Star never moves. You just watch the other constellations like the hands of a clock. It's easy!" ''I'll never catch on," Julie sighed . She really didn't care anyway. It was the night of her Senior Prom and all Carl could do was watch the stars. Christ she thought is this the way I'm supposed to spend my life? Listening to some idiot ramble on about clocks? "Well Julie," Carlton said as he slipped a ring on her left hand. "I guess I'm just going to have to stay around til you learn!" "But Carl ... I don't know what to say," Julie stammered. She wanted to give the ring back. But he'd probably already told his friends, she'd have to explain to everyone why she'd turned him down. After all, Carl had already been voted most likely to succeed for the class of 1963. My friends will think I'm crazy, she thought. And Mom, she'd just die. "What's the frown for, Babe?" Carl asked. "Don't you like it?" "No , Carl. I mean no, I don't not like it. I mean ... Yes, of course I'll marry you." A light snow had started to fall. Well, Julie thought I guess we'll have a white Christmas after all. She wanted to laugh ... or cry. What am I doing here? I should be at home with my family. Why? What brought me to this place? "But Carl, it's Christmas Eve, can't you at least make it home for dinner and then go back to work?" Gee, Babe," he tried to explain. ''I'd like to be with you. But you know about this Wilson deal, its gotta go through." "Right Carl. I know about the 'Wilson deal.' Now, let me see, that's Rosemary Wilson, isn't it? Well ... 1 hope you enjoy yourselfl" Julie cried as she slammed down the phone. She'd known about Carl's affair for months now, but had never fought it. Ever since Maryl's death she hadn't really cared. Maybe, if she'd taken Maryl's advice and gotten out when she still could ... How well she remembered Maryl asking her to run away with her two years ago. But no, Julie had made a commitment when she got married and she never broke her word. Then on that Christmas day two years ago, when Carl told her of Maryl's suicide, something inside her had died. Until today, when it all came back to life. She was so tired of living for Carl and the kids. Trying to keep busy, pretending not to know about his affair. At first she'd been able to ignore it. But her mood changed quickly to one of bitterness. Until now she told Carl stories or tried to trick him into coming home to her. But he wasn't going to corne horne, not even for �34 Christmas Eve . She'd had enough. So she got into the car and drove away from it all. Making one last move to save yourself. Julie felt her heart flutter, the breath caught in her throat. Each breath is so hard, she thought. Then it came, the sharp pain through her chest. I'm dying, she thought calmly . After all this time trying to hold on to Carl. Now I've finally given up and I'm dying for it. Her breath caught again and stopped. At least I did make this move for myself, she thought. I tried. For Conni Deb Clinton You with your lust for musicians, any musician, all musicians (guitar players are so sensitive) sit on the edge of your seat, your fingernails digging canals into your hands as you hold yourself back. Your gaze as you dream of tonight (first introduce, then seduce). Of course he will love you and there will be no others. You will be enough. He is finished playing and you rush forward to tell him how wonderful he is, how good his music made you feel. He pushes you away and heads for the bleached blonde with the bucl~ teeth and breasts. �35 Lawn War Scott Simmer My neighbors cannot understand why I doze in this hammock, my yard a kingdom of weeds, while they contest for greenest lawn the air filled with the rackettackety of their machines. I am hated because what I cultivate thrives on neglect; because I lead an invasion of their plush green. I spread a chaos of spiderwort, cudweed, and wild bergamot. I command phalanxes of pokeweed, nimblewill, and nodding beggarticks. My hordes parachute seed far behind enemy hedges, set up distant outposts in sidewall~ cracks, attack with infinite bravery the decadent empires of Kentucky blue. My neighbors can only leer, while I dream myself hipdeep in acres of stinkgrass, yellow nutsedge, pricklepoppy, noxious weeds everywhere choking out the last spluttering lawnmower forever. �36 Tails You Lose JanD. Hodge When Marilyn died , he overdosed on aspirin and water, served time under glass at St. Luke's Psychiatric, met two who tried Darvon cocktails, one whose gauzed wrists flashed as a badge of honor, another who totalled three cars unsuccessfully against an elm, a bridge, and (missing a curve) a downhill roll. Scorned as an amateur, he knew he nlust find another way to try the dark and chose Harvard Divinity . �37 Corn Lori Wessels Little Roxy has s w a I I o w e d her mashed potatoes and pork chops and is ready for fifty kernels of corn she call s ducks. She slides four tarnished prongs under eight ducks. Her lips close as the fork goes in and OUT of her mouth. In unison, her teeth bite d o w u for the next attack. n and rise p feathers and bits of duck bills sca t t e r and some lodge spaces in the teeth, only to be pr ed out by her tongue. ob Mutilated quackers Slide dOwn her throat to her stomach . five more times ROxy carries out the fork -lips -teeth -tongue -throat process until only two ducks remain. :.~ ht~' She waverS over the survivors. Which should she let live longer? Does one lay golden eggs? ebbed toes. One tiny duck chews itswebbed toes. ebbed toes. "Don't be scared, little duckie. I won't eat you." This one will live . Mother will scrape it into the wastebasket on top of banana peels and dirty kleenex. Wyatt the garbage man will bury it in his landfill. �38 Mindy Nelson Erickson A review of a performance of Wim Coleman 's "A Gentleman of Property" co-directed by Wim Coleman and Gary Hobbs and presented by Drake University Theatre in Fischer Theatre, Ames, Iowa. This review won the alternate 's prize at tile Region V South, American College Theatre Festival and National Critics Institute on January .30 - February.3, L980 in Ames, Iowa. A Gentleman of Property begins with Thomas Jefferson much as any school-child would know him - a Renaissance man of the Eighteenth century, the epitome of "Reason, Memory, and Imagination, " in France aiding the leaders of the French Revolution. The princples of politics and revolution on an international level pale beside the passions wound throughout this drama of Jefferson's personal life. Three women, whom he "owns" to various degrees, flirt with his sense of order, love, and freedom . And there is tension when this man who is " swift and unmerciful when confronted by imperfection " realizes his own state is far from perfect. Maria Cos way as played by Gail Uhler is the woman of society, learned in "women's" arts, successful in terms of her class and century. She comes the closest to being an "equal" to Jefferson in terms of intellect, but he does not consider her as such. Though the necessary stiffness of her character may have' caused some stiffness as an actress, the fact emerges that this woman's freedom as an individual is less than Jefferson 's or even his slavewoman 'so Donna Nicholson's portrayal of Sally Hemings, Jefferson's black slave, is characterized by an essence of tragedy. This woman who is labeled "slave" is considered by Maria and Jefferson as being more free than either of them . She is the object of Jefferson's passion for she is natural compared to the coquetry of Mme . Cosway . Yet, she is determined that she will be free from slavery, and if that is not possible - her child will be freed. A sixteen year old, Sally is the same age as Jefferson's daughter Patsy , played by Susan Udermann. The women are friends but the price of Sally's maturity is too great for Patsy, just back from five years at a convent school. This girl eases some of the drama's tension with wit learned from her father. She also wants freedom , the Idnd of freedom her father once thought he might have . She has no choice in fact, and is the least free of any of the characters, to great degree affected by how her father chooses or needs to influence her behavior. Though Thomas Jefferson, portrayed by Gary Hobbs, looks like the ideal man, he is troubled by his women and their �39 need s .No one could want order , reason, and freedom more than he does, and no one could pursue it more rationally. It is to hi s unparalleled disappointment that he knows his life is mu ch different from what he had ever wished it to become. An d as he has aged, so have his desires to have his own way. He finds that you cannot always choose peace without sacrifi ce , that fear is essential if revolution will be accomplished, _ _f!fl d th'!'_ property equals debts. This does not destroy him. Thntyl(lS Jefferson retains a hope in human love. Through this n i ay De considered trite or sentimental elsewhere - it is not here . The choice of love, that can never be socially acknowledged or accepted , is not, in this context, a "soap -opera" love, for scandal's sake . It is the one real love that Jefferson has which is reciprocated. The passions on which this play is based are the passions that everyone experiences as they mature. There are inherent paradoxes in this process which might be better understood after experiencing this production, and with enjoyment. The powerful dialogue between these characters overshadows any flaws of set or direction which might have- occurred. Though it begins in a comic manner, this play ends with a feeling that is tragic, with Jefferson holding the hand of Sally, his temptress and his love. Take My Word for it Jan D. Hodge No (and if you don't, I, when you would, won 't). Yes (and if you dare, beware, beware). I �J ��� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College. Through its several titles—Manuscript, Perspectives, and Kiosk—the magazine has a long history of celebrating creative writing and art on campus. It began publication in 1938 under the title of Manuscript before changing its name to Perspectives in 1953. Then in 1971 it took another name that it is known by currently: Kiosk. It is still published annually by the Morningside College English Department. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1938- Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Morningside College Library Morningside College English Department Ponder, Marcie: Digital Creator Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical PDF Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Title A name given to the resource Kiosk Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource "The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children," (The Kiosk, 2003). Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. KIOSK Morningside College Sioux City, Iowa Spring, 1980 student Editors: Tim Orwig Cindy Rosene Mindy Nelson Erickson Faculty Editors: Scott Simmer John Bowitz Cover by John Bowitz / I 5 Tim Orwig A review of a performance of Samuel Beckett's "Waiting for Godot" directed by William Lacey and presented by the Uni versity of Nebraska at Omaha in Fischer Theater, Ames, Iowa. This review won first prize at the Region V South American College Theatre Festival and National Critics Institute on January .30 - February.3 , 1980 in Ames, Iowa. In Waiting for Godot, Samuel Beckett reduces the modern world to its simplest and most essential components and rhythms . It is a world of paradoxes; his characters represent man at both his simplest and most complex. Furthermore, their interactions represent society from the simplest personal relationships to the most complex international relations . Director William Lacey and the UNO company have reinforced Beckett's intentions and script with a sensitive and supportive production. Beckett plans his stage world carefully, eliminating anything non-essential. The simplest components are space and tinle . Space is a country road through a bog, with a tree . The road is, metaphorically, the perfect representation. It is concrete, unchanging, in contrast to the shifting bog . The road is man-made, the tree is natural. Finally, it is the path of life, which all people travel no matter where they started or what their destination . When Didi asks Gogo to tell him where they were yesterday , Gogo answers, "In another compartment. There 's no lack of void." Gogo recognizes that all space is essentially the same. In a similar manner, Beckett's concept of time is balanced between the cyclical and linear. Both acts share the same essential action. Didi and Gogo meet, embrace, and talk. Pozzo and Lucky pass through, followed later by the Boy. Night falls, and Didi and Gogo resolve to leave, but remain immobile. They cannot leave or escape the cyclical events. Gogo again, "Do? I suppose we blathered ... It's been going on for half a century." The linear progression of time is evidenced by the changes in detail from one day to the next: the tree grows leaves, Pozzo becomes blind, Lucky becomes dumb. Didi and Gogo are the simplest of men, and the most complex. 6 Like Chaplin 's little tramp , they are unique beings with a feeling for all humanity . Didi is more the dominant, the optimist, and the fighter , while Gogo is more the submissive, the pessimist, and accepts life; but both live the entire range of human conditions. Pozzo is the cruel, the oppressive, the vulgar, while Lucky is the complacent, the oppressed , the sensitive. Pozzo and Lucky are extreme characters , Didi and Gogo are modulated characters . They are archetypes, not stereotypes. Each has a distinct character, but represents a universal condition. Their relationships are also unique, but essential. Didi and Gogo share a supportive, mutual relationship ; love or friendship. Pozzo and Lucky share a destructive, polarized relationship; hate or oppression . Beckett also has an international level in mind. Pozzo represents the British , in their oppression of the Irish, Lucky . Lucky's thought bears an uncomfortable resemblance to the writing of Beckett's mentor and compatriot James Joyce . Any number of further historical parallels could be drawn; particularly the Nazis and Beckett's Vichy France . This dualistic interpretation is realized totally in UNO's production of Godot. The foreground is faithful to Beckett, a sparse wasteland . This is offset by an immense backdrop of intricately overlapping squares , conveying the complexity o f the work. Yet Keith Setterholm maintains the unity of his set through use of simple colors and textures. Similarly , Patt Moser's costumes appear , on first examination, to be drab , shapeless rags. Closer scrutiny reveals an unnoticed complexity to rival the most formal attire, through use of vests, pants, coats, ties , etc. , again unified by color and texture. This same unity is evident in Lacey 's expansive direction . Lacey handles equally well the tragic and comic scenes in the play. He gives his actors very specific tasks to accomp
ish ' but allows them to use their special talents for comedy in several well-placed bits of business , particularly Don Kinnison 's foetal posture and surprisingly effective snore during Gogo's naps. UNO's Gogo and Didi are the realization of Samuel Becl\ett 's paradoxical view of the essential complexity of modern life. 11istory becomes the story of men creating increasingly complex games to pass the time. Gogo observes, "We always find something, eh Didi, to give us the impression we exist." In one scene , they call each other vicious names until Gogo crumples Didi with the epithet, " Critic!" Beckett asks each of us to accept a work on its own terms, not to abuse it to pass the time. I'm happy to oblige. 7 Flashbacks to Mother Craig Moline The April sunlight crawled up to the window frame and grad ually snuck into the upstairs bedroom and down the wall un til it shone on Chuck Hannon 's bearded face. The seven o'clock sun has awal\ened Chuck every day for the last three weeks -ever since he moved away from Chicago and his mother. Chuck has always meant to close the drapes before he went to sleep, but he has forgotten . His mother would have made sure the drapes were drawn so Chuck could get his rest. Mother now, however, was twenty miles away. Mrs. Hannon asked Chuck, after twenty-seven years, to leave the house and start living on his own. They had driven a U-Haul out to the farm near Schumburg, a suburb of Chicago, and she assured Chuck that he would receive a wholesome check every week until he found a better job. He pulled the covers off and sat up on the edge of his bed, putting his feet on the floor. His red striped pajama shirl hung open -- unbuttoned . He didn 't like to wear it at aiL but he remembered his mother telling him to because it would keep him warm. Chuck rubbed his eyes and opened the drawers, but found that he had no clean clothes to wear. As he turned toward the bed he saw his dirty clothes strewn on the floor. They 'd have to do today until he could do his wash or talk his mother into doing it. He put on the pair of jeans he found under the bed because his Spiderman yo -yo was in the pocl\et. He'd let the kids that rode his bus play with it while he was driving. His shoes could not be found on, in, or beneath any thing. Chuck hoped he could find them somewhere in the mess downstairs . Then Chuck opened the door and walked down another cluttered hall to his left. There, under a Chicago Tribune he found one of his blue sneakers. He raised his left foot, dis covered it was his right shoe, balanced himself against the wall with his shoulder, and worked the shoe on with both hands. The untied shoelaces slapped against the thick rubber sole as he proceeded to the kitchen. A few feet before the two-way swinging kitchen door Chuck stopped, put his hands at his side and entered the kitchen strutting as if he were John Wayne. 10 Once Hannon was in his car, he made short time to Lundell's Bus Service in Schumburg. Within 5 minutes he pulled his Riviera into the bus station parking lot. Once parked, he tool, the keys from the ignition and put them in the ash tray . Then he wouldn't lose them on the bus. His bus (number 7) was parl,ed in the same place he had parked it yesterday afternnon at 5: 15. Hannon ran to the bus, stucl, his hand between the rubber stripping and forced the doors open . One large step got him into the dirver's seat. The engine roared and Hannon headed for the school. The school was only six blocks away from the station but it took him about as long to get from the station to the school in the bus, as it did to get from home to the station in his Riviera. Patrol boys flagged cars at every other intersection so the children could cross the streets. The signal light one block from the school seemed to be stuck on red . Finally, it did change and Hannon cautiously got onto Broadway Street and turned the orange machine again to the right onto the one way. As he made his way around the corner he noticed from 15 to 25 I,ids still waiting for their ride home. His bus was usually filled to capacity but evidently some of the parents had picked up their children already today . He hoped they had come to get their children because they wanted to start their Easter vacation, but he knew the parents had come because they thought Hannon was not. As he pulled close to the curb the children crowded, positioning themselves to get in first. t1annon noticed their pushing and locl,ed the door shut. Then he leaned across the aisle and opened the window. "If you guys don't stop pushing, you 'll never get home 'cause this bus ain 't gonna have no kids on it! " The children stopped pushing and Hannon shut the window and opened the door. They filed in. "About time, Mr. H . " said someone three or four people back. Hannon greeted each child individually. " Hi Kris! How's it goin ' Tom? Sorry I'm late today Tiger! How come so many of you have your sack lunches today?" The little blonde girl behind him said, "We forgot to tell our moms we got out ea r ly today ." " Ye ah , moms need t o I,now about important stuff lil\e t hat " stuttered Hannon. Chuck reach ed into his front pocl,et and pulled out his yoyo . " He re blondie , it 's your turn to play with the bus driver's yo-yo. 11 'Thanks Mr. H." she replied . Most of these kids were from the country, but two of them lived on the outskirts of town, so Hannon dropped them off on his way out. Today, though, these two kids were not on the bus. "Where are Jodi and Terry?" asked Hannon. "Their folks came and got 'ern because you didn't come!" blurted Jill, the girl across the aisle from blondie. Hannon tightened his lips and nodded his head as if to say 'I see.' "OK people," started H~nnon, "I know it's vacation and everything, but you still can't yell and scream . Don't stand up while the bus is moving and don't throw paper and stuff on the floor, OK? " "OK" a few loners replied. Hannon's left sneaker let off on the clutch, his ri.ght pushed ·' the accelerator. They were bound for home. The bus roared past Jodi's and Terry 's driveways and soon got onto the gravel roads they all were accustomed to. The first fifteen stops were routine. Chuck was glad to get his yo-yo back. By 1 :30 the day had become hot and Chuck longed to get the rest of the kids home and make some more Koolaide for himself. About a half mile from his next stop Mr. Hannon saw , in his rear view mirror, an apparent fight betwen two boys in the very back rowan his side. "(\nock it off you two back there!" yelled 11annon. "There's something wrong with Tommy. I-Ie can't breathe," bawled the boy next to him. Hannon immediately pulled off to the side of the road, habitually yanl\ed on the stop sign lever, and raced back to where Tommy was sprawled. Tommy's hands were clasped around his neck. His face was white. His eyes were rolled up inside his head. His eyelids fluttered uncontrollably . His feet searched desperately for support as he laid between his seat and the one in front of him. Chucky felt a finger sticking in his mouth and his mother preached, "You have to eat slower baby and chew it better. " Her fingernail cut him beneath his tongue but she withdrew her hand with a piece of mauled ham soon to fallow. Chucky's stomach and tongue heaved together Simultaneously and tears flowed down his pale cheeks onto tile table cloth . "You have to be more careful Chucky and eat more slowly 12 like an adult, " instructed his motller. "Do something , Mr. H . Do something! " screamed one of the eight left on the bus. Chuck knelt down on one knee as if to draw his pistol again, but stuck his finger into Tommy's convulsive mouth. Without warning Tommy's jaws snapped down on Chuck's finger instantly, but it dangled by a thread at thejoint. Blood sprayed on the vinyl seat covers and floor. Chuck anxiously wound his blue flannel shirt tail around his finger, but immediately noticed drops of blood forming at the bottom of the wrap. Everyone was screaming and crying . Jill threw up. Another girl fainted. Chuck reached for a seat and staggered to his feet. He promptly sat down and looked out the window as if to distract his mind from making him vomit. Tommy quit gasping and his limbs laid still at his side. "Call the doctor or an ambulance." Chuck heard the cry , but couldn 't make out the blurry face that said it. "Call the doctor or an ambulance, Mr. H. , " repeated the voice. Chuck stumbled to the wheel of the bus and raced for a half mile to the nearest phone . The bus 's rear wheels slid as the bus angled into the driveway of the farmhouse . The right half of the steering wheel was painted red. Chuck 'S shirt tail was soaked. Everyone braced themselves as the bus screeched to a halt. Its sudden movement threw Tommy's body under the seat in front of him. Hannon escaped the bus first and all the children , but Tommy, scrambled for the outdoors. The woman of the house had seen the hysteria in Hannon 's eyes and opened the door for his entrance. Her daughter hugged her waist, sobbing. Hannon asked, "Where's your phone?" She pointed down the hall. "Torn got choked and his finger got bit off. He's gonna call an ambulance," hollered the biggest boy, pointing to Hannon. Chuck paused in the corridor , turned around momentarily, gazed at the frightened children , and noticed the stop sign on the bus , still extended . Then he dashed for the phone. When he reached it he realized the trail he had made on the floor. Indifferent to the situation he raised his hand to dial -- reminding him again that his index finger was merely a stub. He dialed a number with his middle finger ... It rang twice . .. "Hello Mother?" 13 Dancing Lessons Mindy Nelson Erickson When I was seven years old my mom thought I should take dancing lessons because I was so clumsy. My uncle wou Id show the movie of my walking to Sunday school, falling down and skinning my knees, to embarrass me. 50 my mom took advantage of my firm childhood desire to be a ballet dancer, and sent me to dancing school. You see, I would spend hours listening to an old record of exerpts from The Nutcracker Suite and Swan Lake. Once at Christmastime I had seen the Nutcracker ballet on T.V., and I sympathized very much with Clara. And all of the dancers were so graceful and beautiful. For awhile it looked like there was hope. On my fifth birthday my parents had bought me a pink ballet costume -- complete with sequined tutu and slippers -- and also a Madame Alexander doll whose costume matched mine almost exactly . But, after that my sister was born, and, of course,ballet wasn't offered due to lack of interest, so my mom thought tumbling would be the best course for me to take. Marlena, my instructor, received special permission to use the Village Hall, which wasn't ideally suited, for giving lessons to about a dozen girls from Hampton. Marlena always wore the same black exercise shoes, fish-nets, leotard and short, satin, wrap-around dancing skirt. She had orange -brown hair, frecl,les, dull, brick-colored lips, and jiggled a lot when she danced. She ate lunch right before my lesson, and I always came in time to catch her eating the bar-b-que potato chips which left rusty-orange lines around her fingernails. My mother never let us have that kind of potato chip, so I thought they were something bad. At first, I didn't do very well in tumbling. But, one day I did a back-bend while nobody was looking -- and then could still do one while they were. The next week I could do a front wall,over and a round-off back-somersault better than anyone! After a few more weeks I was good enough to be scheduled in five dances for the next recital, and Marlena came up with the bright idea for me to do a dance with a partner. I came to find out my new partner was Marlena's brother Harry, who was not a little girl's dream. Bony and frecl,led 14 with blonde , greased-over hair, he had even flunked first grade -- the ultimate disgrace. My mother wouldn't let me play with his kind ordinarily, but to my disbelief she thought it was all right for me to touch him while dancing to a song with the lyrics: " Your mamma and your papa say you no can do . . .. " My father thought it the subject of much humor. Every week I hoped Harry would be gone so I wouldn't have to practice with him . I began to lose interest in dancing lessons. My mother began to find it difficult to persuade me to be ready on time Saturday afternoons. But, to my relief, my cousin had started taking dancing lessons in Moline from a more professional studio . She asked me to join her, and my mother decided that it was a good idea, a change would encourage my interest. My sister was old enough , so she started taking lessons, too. She was lucky she had never had to take from Marlena . Our instructors were Carol Lee and Harry , of all names . They were once a husband and wife dancing team , now aging and trying to mal,e ends meet, perhaps to win fame and fortune off one of the students they sent regularly to join the Rockettes. Carol Lee taught tap and Harry taught tumbling . I got to take lessons from each . Carol Lee always wore silver tap shoes that buckled , and she had bleached blonde hair. She also wore thick turquoise eye shadow . She was short, but Harry was tall. He was balding and grey, with a long nose, and he always wore his belt buckled on his left hip . I never did get to take ballet lessons . Nobody seemed to notice that I wanted to, and my pink tutu lay outgrown in my closet. Tap dancing was kind of fun , though . In the four years I danced my youth away there , I went from the basic "Gimme a Straw Hat and a Cane " with its shuffle-steps - to a full-fledged kick -line , with a chartreuse sequined , turquoise nylon-net costume and the opening number of the " show." The "shows, " generally known as recitals, were always three to four hours long, which my father did not enjoy . He was not the only one . I had to spend most of the time backstage in a room full of half-naked , screaming little girls. There was a time when we wore red sweaters and white pleated skirts for a tap dance , and I got such a headache from all the noise, I cried and didn 't have to go on for the " Gra nde Finale ," which we had rehearsed for months . A lady took m e to the bacl\ of the huge auditorium to watch it, and we were so far away I could just barely picl, out my sister and cousin . Th e re were so 15 many people on stage I wondered if my mom would notice I was missing. She did. It was impossible to explain to her whr __ I wasn't there since I hadn't been at the point of death, so I heard about it all the way home in the car, and for several months afterwards .... "But, Mom ... " "I don't care, we spend all that money on lessons for you, and sit through that terrible long thing, and you don't even come out on stage. And no, we are not stopping for ice cream .. " I still went every Saturday though -- I could almost do a backflip and could even do double wings on the taps. I even made cheerleading because I could do the splits, but I was really hoping to get in the newly opened ballet class. Anyway, it turned out that there weren't enough people to have ballet after all. At least, the new studio was nice until the boys in tumbling class got bored waiting for their turn and put scuff-marks all over the walls. After we moved to the new studio, Carol Lee could never remember my name right for some reason. I just pretended that my name was really what she called me, and nobody ever seemed to notice. Dirt accumulated again. We had to do cartwheels on the bare floor and came up with grey palms . The recitals got even longer -- and when I was thirteen I quit dandng lessons forever because Harry, then teaching me back -flips, touched me in places I didn't talk about. My mother never understood why I wouldn't go back anymore, she thought I was lazy, but my father was glad he didn't have to go to any more recitals. I read a book about ballet, and, one night, dreamed my sister learned how to be a ballet dancer. Just Dues Linda Ba~shaw Cold winter heart, No one grieves That you suffer Subtle stabs of spring; Compassionless, We watch your lifeblood Trickling down Ice-gutted streets. Don's Place Robert Henry Scott I sit on this lonely bar stool, contemplating an empty glass, with the chemicals of the soul needing a catalyst for any reaction to anything. Pondering another scotch , I consider the populace of this quiet beach bar. For now and again in seeing a kind face, a warm smile, my soul oscillates between my need to love, and my fear to trust. But as always with finding a new friend, I disavow any knowledge · of the existence of loneliness . .. at least until tomorrow night. _. ~ Pausing Chuck Whetzel Pausing perhaps Mid-green In the spectrum of doing Shifting slightly To the multiliferous cycles of going Bending my time To what is. 18 The Man at the End of the Aisle Marty Hansen I went to see the play, "The Man at the End of the Aisle," on Saturday afternoon in February . Almost all of my friends, except Pam and Cindy, had gone before, each going alone. Susan, who went three years ago in the summer after our senior year in high school, told me that I just had to go sometime. That I'd really be missing something if I didn't. She told me over and over that it changed her life, so I must go soon. Tammy said that she had gone three times and every time she went she saw it differently . Looking back on it, she said she only hated the ending the first two times -- she hasn't decided on her opinion of the play the third time. When I got to the theatre I was awed by the size of it. It had two large towers and windows made of thick glass, so thick that I could not see through them . I knew the view inside could not have possibly been close to the beautiful view outside. Upon entering, I was gree'ted by a man who must have been a member of the cast as he was dressed all in black except for what looked like a white bowtie with the bows chopped off. He handed me some type of registration book that everyone who had come to this play had signed. I wrote my name on the second line of a new page, right after a Brian somebody, a name I thought I recognized from somewhere. Maybe in high school? Just as I handed the book back to the man dressed in black, an elderly usher touched my arm. This man looked a bit Iil~e my father and I felt homesick for my home one hundred miles away. As we walked through the opened heavy wooden doors, the usher leaned towards me and said that he hoped I would enjoy myself. That I wouldn 't regret going when this play was over. When we got to the front, I asked him if the numbers on the ticket didn't say that I was to sit in a row back up the aisle. The usher, nervous by his obvious oversight, begged me not to hold anything against him and quickly handed me over to another usher. The curtain went up about this time but I could see that the new ush e r was in no hurry to get m e se a ted. 19 This usher was much younger, more my age . He was real talkative and he told me that he was only an usher here for that night. That working the theatre was fun but the uncertain ty of what it would be like when he came here again was too much for him to handle. The more he talked the more I thought that I had seen him somewhere before. So I asked 'him were he worl,ed . He told me that he built houses. He loved turning a vacant lot into a house where a family with children could live. Then I remembered that I had seen working on the house across the street from my apartment. It was almost finished then, all that it needed was a final coat of paint. I had been thinking all that week, that if I were to live in that house, white with brown shutters would look homey. The play was well in progress when we got to my seat. The black dressed man was up on the stage with an actress and an actor. he paused on the words love and honor and it seemed that the words were directed at me. The usher asked me if he could sit next to me as since the play had started all there was left for him to do was to watch the play . I then said that I didn't mind -- that I would enjoy his company . So he sat next to the aisle and we Quietly watched the play, vowing that we ;d both stay through the ending and not regret going in the first place. lago - Resurrected? Deborah Craft We smiled into each other's eyes Supposedly calm and serene, Thinking the other in disguise And watching Othello turn green. Accusations of telling lies; Eyes covered with a mirror's sheen, Snapping shut my once open eyes And watching Othello turn green. I felt my thoughts go lifeless, dead; I watched him move through a veiled screen; I watched my love turn bitter red On the day Othello turned green. 20 Rosie The Hamburger Cindy Rosene Hamburg, Iowa . Greyhound Bus , Line 861, destinations Savannah-St. Joe-Kansas City, is making a ten minute stop. Inside , Rosie Thompson , age 23, is perched on the edge of a brown and blue-striped , scratchy seat. She is waving goodbye through the window to her parents, whom minutes before she had wobbled away from on three-inch heels . Her mother, Mildred, is smiling and waving back excitedly. lier father, Bernard , looks on indifferently from the sidewalk. Rosie has a bag of chocolate chip cookies, a movie magazine , the National Enquirer, and a seventy-five cent romance novel. On the seat beside her is a red Samsonite suitcase, with the initials W.L .K . engraved in gold at the top. Inside it are her clothes, one-hundred and eighty dollars, and the number to call if she should happen to get lost between Hamburg and her sister Gracie in Kansas City . The suitcase , a graduation gift from her parents five years earlier (her mother had gotten it for a discount at Sears when someone ordered the initials for it and didn't pick it up), has never been used and Rosie is afraid the bus driver will scratch it if he puts it underneath with the other luggage . Few passengers are leaving from Rosie 's hometown, so the suitcase occupies the seat next to her. This will be the first time Rosie has ever been away fro m home (except for a weekend she spent at Girl Scout camp in the sixth grade , when she burnt her hand picking up a charred hotdog and fell into poison ivy) . Going to Kansas City isn't even her ide'a. It is another one of her older sis ter Gracie 's suggestions . Gracie has been making decisions for Rosie for as long as Rosie can remember. Not that Rosie, u ntil now , has ever minded. After all, who is she to question t h e wisdom of her worldly sister Gracie? You see, Gracie ha s everything one needs to get by in the world , or so Ro s ie thinks. Gracie is tall and slender , colors her hair a lovely copper shade, wears false eyelashes and fingernails, a nd buys her clothes through the Frederick 's of Hollywood catalog. Everything Rosie knows a bout life in general she has learned from Gracie. Through the years , Gracie has t aught her abou t lov e , c areers , and marriage . When Rosie was fourteen , Gracie was seventee n and had ~ ~ m ~ 21 dates every weekend . She had informed Rosie of two things. One that it was o.k. to kiss a boy on the first date, and two, that there are certain things you can do when a boy takes you to a drive-in movie. Something had gone wrong, though. When Rosie turned sixteen , she was overweight and had acne and never got the chance to use Gracie Thompson's Rules of Etiquette for the Drive-in. When ROSIe was eighteen, Gracie , age twenty -one, already had a career for herself. She had turned down numerous marriage proposals and moved to Kansas City (What she did there Rosie didn't really know.). Upon Rosie's graduation from high schooL Gracie had urged Rosie to do the same and follow her career ambitions. This had been easy for Rosie, since there were no proposals to consider. However, "following her career ambitions" had meant spending the next five years behind the counter at Dippy's Donuts, a bakery on Main Street in Hamburg. It had been at Dippy 's that Rosie met Harold Rogers, a used car salesman who stopped in for jelly rolls and cheese Danish. After three years of going to the show on Friday nights with Harold, Rosie had finally received a marriage proposal from him just last week. Thrilled, she had immediately phoned Gracie in Kansas City to give her the good news. "Don't be a fool, Rosie," Gracie had scoffed. "Think of the life you'll have with someone like thaL" "Whadda ya mean by that?" Rosie was stunned, and hurt that Gracie could refer to her Harold as "someone like that." "Oh, God, Rosie, can't you see? liarold Rogers is a used car salesman, not a doctor or an accountant. You'll live in a two room walkup, drive one of his beat-up station wagon specials, and eat Hamburger Helper to save money." "But Gracie, he's nice." "Listen, nice isn't going to get you very far in this world. Believe me, all you'll get from Happy Harold and His Used Heaps is a lifetime of compromises. Look at me. I'm still single only because I'll settle for nothing but the best." It had been this bit of wisdom from Gracie that led to the idea that Rosie should go to Kansas City, where "thousands of opportunities await anyone smart enough to grab them." "But Gracie, I can't do anything besides sell doughnuts, " Rosie had wailed. "That's o.k. You can start out doing that until something better comes along. Besides, Rosie Rogers sounds really tacky." At this point Rosie's mother had dragged the red suitcase down from the attic. Mildred thought Rosie's going to Kansas City was the best idea Gracie had had yet. After aiL Harold did \ \ 23 smoke and drank way too much beer. " Gracie 's right, " she had told Rosie. "You're twenty-three and not getting any younger. It's time you found something more for yourself than Harold and the bakery." So the plans had been made by Gracie and her mother before Rosie had really known what was happening. Mildred sent a note to ttarold saying Rosie was moving to Chicago (in case he was persistent and followed her), and Gracie sent her the money for a bus ticket to Kansas City. Rosie's father, who never said much anyway, hadn't commented on the situation until this morning when, while putting Rosie's suitcase into the trunk of his Chevy (bought on credit from Harold), he sug gested that perhaps Rosie shouldn't go. After all, Harold's offer still stood, and he didn't see anything wrong with selling used cars. This had been enough to throw Rosie into a fit of tears so that her eyes were red and puffy, and her mother into a fit of rage (because her plans were almost spoiled and also because she had to find a pair of sunglasses to cover Rosie's eyes). By now, though , Rosie has regained her composu're, and as the bus pulls out of Hamburg, leaving her parents in a cloud of exhaust, Rosie sits back to eat a cookie, hoping to calm her nervous stomach . She is still unsure of Gracie's advice. Oh, she knows Gracie is right. Kansas City does hold great opportunities, but for someone like Gracie, not for herself. Why, even little things about the world still scare Rosie. Two years ago, Harold had taken her to see the "Exorcist." It had frightened her so much that she still had to sleep with the light on at night. Rosie looks down at her skirt and shoes. She bought them last week just for her trip, hoping to look as sophisticated in them as Gracie does in her Frederick originals. The heels are a little high, though, so that she has trouble walking in them. Her hair, fixed by the Powder Puff Salon, is hairsprayed in place. Two large Shirley Temple ringlets hang on each side of her chubby face. She blinks her eyes rapidly, unaccustomed to the weight of the false eyelashes she has glued on . Five miles outside of Hamburg and Rosie is wet and sticky with perspiration. She leans forward and her blouse sticks to the back of the seat. The air conditioner vent next to the window blows cold air up at her wet armpits and gives her the chills. Chewing her fingernails, Rosie 1001,s out the window. Gray haystacks , shaped like giant loaves of bread, sit in barren fields . Billboards flash by. Motel Six - Pool - Free TV - Seventeen Miles Ahead. AI's Automotive - Transmission and Muffler Repair - Rockport. Stop at Mama Pig's Homemade Pies - Chili - Mound City. The hypnotic passing 24 of fence posts and telephone poles puts Rosie to sleep. She wakes an hour later. Her head is buzzing from leaning against the vibrating window. The bus is making another stop. Orange neon drops chase each other around a large flashing arrow announcing Joe's Bar and Gill (someone has thrown a rock and knocked out the R). A two-story pink clap board cafe advertises steak and chicken. Rosie has to go to the bathroom, but she is afraid the bus will leave without her if she gets off to go into Joe's . She crosses her legs, and looks at the people coming out of the cafe. A man in a blue plaid leisure suit is getting on at this stop. He is carrying a large brief case, hair is thinning a bit on top, stomach hangs over his belt a little . .Not bad looking, otherwise, Rosie decides. He makes his way to the back of the bus and takes the seat across the aisle from her. Rosie stares at him over the red Samsonite suitcase. He lights a cigarette, inhales, and blows the smoke up into the air. Above him , a No Smoking sign is posted. Rosie coughs unconsciously. The man turns his head, smiles at Rosie, and winl,s . Embarrassed, she turns away , and looks down into her travel bag . The chocolate chip cookies are stale. Rosie wonders what to do next. As the bus pulls back onto the highway, she decides to read. Gracie has told her that she should read more magazines and books. That was the only way she would ever learn anything. Rosie takes out the paper back romance and turns to the last page (Gracie has also told her that you can always tell a good novel if there is a love scene in the last paragraph). Rosie skips down to the last sentence and reads "Then, as if he could resist the luring temptation no longer, his searching lips came wildly down on hers, arousing fire and passion within her." Rosie sighs. This must be what Gracie wo'uld call good love scene. Sh-e really no ~ idea what it would be like to have fire and passion aroused within her (Harold had certainly never done that to her), but she assumes Gracie would know and turns back to the first chapter. After reading the first three pages , Rosie discovers the girl in the book has " satiny smooth skin, velvety, honeycolored hair, and large dew-drop sapphire blue eyes fringed with long, dark lashes ." Such beauty only depresses her so she puts down the novel and turns to the movie magazine. " Farrah Leaves Lee For Young Tennis Player " is emblazoned across the cover . Rosie thumbs through the pages and comes to the horo scopes. A friend at the bakery lives according to the stars. Perhaps astrology is what she needs Rosie decides . "Family makes excessive demands. Ignore them . Consider a dreamy proposition with travel and romance possibilities . Look for money and career ambitions to be blessed. For your complete a ha's I,J 25 i,1 forecast for this month, send $2.50 to Astro-graph, P.O. Box 415, Lake Taho, Nev." Well, Rosie thinks, no one is making excessive demands on me, but I am traveling and Gracie did promise that my career will be better. I guess maybe I am doing the right thing. She rips the horoscope out of the magazine and puts it in her pocket. On the next page, she sees an article entitled "The Three Most Alluring Ways To Attract A Man's Attention" and glances through it. First they suggested that you cross your legs and swing one foot. Or, you could run your fingers through your hair, then, if that doesn't work, run the tip of your tongue across the front of your teeth. These sound like good suggestions to Rosie so she begins simultaneously practicing all three. No wonder Gracie reads so much, she decides. You can really learn a lot from these magazines. If only she can remember all this when she gets to Kansas City. Meanwhile, one of Rosie's eyelashes has come loose and is dangling over one eye. She rummages through her suitcase for a few minutes, but can't find a mirror. She has to go to the bathroom anyway, so she decides to fight her phobia of using the closet-sized facilities on the back of the bus. (Once on a band trip in high school she had been locked in a Greyhound bus bathroom while changing into her band uniform.) If she gets locked in this time she won't have her clarinet with her to signal for help. Rosie gets up and staggers down the aisle on her shakey heels. Inside the bathroom she wants to take a drink, but a sign above the sink says "Water not meant for drinking." Otherwise, her trip to the restroom is uneventful, and Rosie returns thirsty, but with her eyelash in place. The moving bus is too much competition for her shoes, and she stumbles as she reaches her row. Rosie falls, and knocks into the man in the blue plaid leisure suit, who has moved across the aisle during Rosie's absence, and now occupies the adjoining seat. (The red suitcase has been moved to the floor.) "Excuse me" she mumbles. Rosie blushes and steps over his feet to her place. My god, she thinks, I had no idea that alluring routine would work like this. "1 hope you don't mind , Miss. The sun was in my eyes on that side." The man flashes yellow, stained dentures at Rosie. "No, of course not." Rosie wishes he would leave. She is beginning to perspire again. Talking to strangers makes her nervous, especially if they're male. "Nice day, don't you think?' The man keeps up a polite conversation. "Yes, very nice." "Where ya headed, honey?" 26 I " Kansas City," Rosie answers. She turns her head so she doesn't have to meet his gaze. "Oh, yeah. I'm headed for Denver myself. Then on to Las Vegas . I'm I"ind of in show business you might say. What 's in Kansas City?" ''I'm meeting my sister there." "I see . You plan on staying long?" ''I'm not sure yet." Rosie can 't imagine why he's talking to her. She remembers the magazine article and runs her tongue over her teeth. "Well listen, cutie, if you ever get tired of K.C. and need a job - Boy - I sure could use someone like you in Vegas." Rosie is amazed. " What could I do in Las Vegas? I don't sing or dance." "Who cares . With looks like yours , sweetheart, who needs talent. All you really need is a good agent. That 's where I could do you some good ." "Really? ' Rosie can't believe her ears . This is incredible. Thoughts of Harold and the girl in her paperback flash through her mind. Fire and passion , that was it. She remembers her horoscope. Travel and romance possibilities. Maybe this is the dreamy proposition. "Sure . I find girls like you all the time in unknown places, and make 'em into stars . Did you know Cheryl Ladd was discovered on a bus headed for Cleveland?" "No, I didn't realize . It 's really that easy?" "You bet. All ya gotta do is know the right people ." The bus is entering Kansas City . Rosie is frantic, wondering what to do . What a chance this could be . My God, what am I thinking, she suddenly realizes what she's considering . I just can 't take off for Las Vegas. Gracie's waiting for me here . She 's going to help me find a job. "This is my stop, " she tells the man. " Look , I'll have to think about this." "Sure, I understand . This could be your big chance , though honey. Let me give you my card and you can call me if you ever get to Vegas. I'm tell'n ya, you've really got potential." The man winks and hands Rosie a small white business card. "Nice talkin' to you. " he winks and squeezes Rosie 's knee. Rosie takes the card and puts it in her purse . She picks up the red suitcase , the National Enquirer, and her movie magazine, and makes her way to the front of the bus . She searches for Gracie. Wait til I tell her about my offer, Rosie thinks. He really thought I was good looking . Gracie 's gonna just flip . She spots Gracie standing by the revolving doors leading from the passenger unloading zone into luggage claims. Rosie waves ex citedly . Things aren't going to be so bad here after all, she decides. Funny, though, Gracie seems a little plumper than she remembers. A roll of fat is beginning to develop around her middle, rather like an inner tube she'd wear swimming. Her hair, rolled up in pink sponge curlers, is peeking out from under a black and yellow, safari print headscarf. This really doesn't matter to Rosie, though. She is thinking about what she'll do tomorrow. Maybe Gracie will help her find a talent agency. With looks like hers, there's got to be more to life than selling doughnuts. After aiL that is why she came to Kansas City. Lawrence, Kansas, Greyhound Bus, Line 861, destinations Topeka-Junction City-Abilene, is making a ten minute stop. Inside, Lewis Turner, age 54, is leaning back in a blue and brown striped reclining seat, laughing to himself. With him, he has a large brown, imitation alligator-skin case. Inside are his Fuller Brush items. He tal\es his billfold out of the back pocket of his blue-plaid leisure suit, and recounts the money. One hundred and eight dollars. Dumb broad, he thinks. Some of em are dingey enough to fall for anything. The bus pulls out onto the highway. Lewis lool\s out the window. Brown sunflowers lay winter-flattened in barren fields. Billboards pass. Dick's Diner - 24 Hour Trucl\ Stop Good Food To Go - Alma. Don's Texaco - Car Wash - Next Gas 25 Miles. Ten Minutes To Downtown Fort Riley. American Express Travelers Checks - Don't Leave Home Without Them! The hypnotic passing of fence posts and telephone poles puts Lewis Turner to sleep ...... . 28 Brad Bergeson Above leaf-bare trees the moon, presiding, guiding melancholy geese. Waterscape In Twilight Judy S. Olson for Nancy's Gramma Swimming.on the wall above the tub A chipped goldfish chases Three bubbles toward the crack Beside the pinl, flowered company towels. The almost used up slivers of soap Pile upon each other like centuries Of pink and green and blue limestone. Cloudy denture brushes hang perched Like herons with frizzled topknots, Their beaks both pointed toward One blackened lightbulb Too painful to replace, Making twilight for the fish And for the herons And for her. 29 Allison Averill I loved from period one shorthand to last period math; seven different beaus across the aisles, and had as many notebooks each with "his" name etched on the cover. Then you started carrying my books to class So I left my notebooks open feeling awkward and maybe wanting to carry them myself ... Were they this heavy? From "Reactions to a Frog Poet" Pic-an -ear Chuck Pick an ear Anyear And place it in a bowl of water Now, tall\. carefully It's listening: Help, I'm drowning. W~etzel 30 Come Slowly - Eden Mike Nord White seclusion wrote itsjustice for us austere, mysterious, pale; Christ's Rose understood my celibate female's lust where passion's drained by pain of air reposed, and books; was a kiss endured. For the world looks westward - satisfied to never bless; too ignorant to dread the night's black pearl, to see self damned ridicule of the rest east bound alienated who had loved, as a spear in your side. That only word the great more shared with prostitutes who of nothing gained what welldressed ladie 's dreams were. Come slowly - Eden! Leaves have withered sorne. We've lived for years beside your rising sun. Widow I have no one to talk .with me tonight. The better years of conlpany have gone, or passed away, is how they say, polite; who afterward had lingered - not too long, to give their sympathy and eat the grief of casseroles, made conversations quick. (Reprieve from loneliness is all too brief.) I'd like to have them stay until the thick of ticks had brought me through this valley stained, and pain as well had passed away to brood. But no such luck. Although their presence strained into their friendship awkwardly renewed, without a thing to say; I'd have them stay, and love thenl if they'd never go away. 31 Julie's story Christie J. Sease Julie looked at her watch and read 10:47 PM - Dec. 24. I wonder if Carl has the kids in bed yet, she thought. Probably not, he never was very good at remembering to do such things. Since, after all, the children were her responsibility . She did feel bad about leaving them alone with him, but today had been more than she could take. So Julie drove on down the quiet county highway . Following the curves without bothering to slow down for them or even worry if the car skidded a bit on the snowy patches where the wind had not reached the road to clear it. Christmas Eve was the perfect time to run away, she thought. It 's my present to myself. Certainly not as dramatic as Maryl's had been when she slit her wrists beneath the Christmas tree two years ago , she decided. But shocking people had never been Julie's style. Everyone had been so upset when Maryl killed herself. 'She remembered so clearly Carl's reaction. "That Maryl, she never did have enough brains to be satisfied with a good thing. Look at all she had, a husband bringing home 45,000 dollars a year, a beautiful new house, and three perfect kids. I wonder why she wanted to go and ldll herself? What a crazy lady!" At the time Julie hadn't bothered to argue with him . But inside, she too was considering suicide. It would be so easy to just forget everything . Still, she couldn't bear to think of the kids hearing all the stories about their crazy mother. So Julie went on, until today when Carl had pushed this whole affair too far. Shejust couldn't take it anymore, so she simply got in the car and drove away . As Julie approached the bridge she noticed the patch of ice . But she somehow knew it couldn 't stop her. She was going to make it this time. She accelerated, feeling for once in control. But the ice pulled the car from her. It slid into the left guard rail and the steering wheel was snapped from her hands, catching her fingers. She watched it all in a slow motion dream. The car bounded across the bridge into the opposite rail, and past. She saw wood splinter and felt her life slip away as the car flew from the bridge, rolling, falling toward the river 's edge below. " I don't want to die," she pleaded. "Not now!" Then the car struck . She watched metal 32 fold and heard glass shatter and felt the tremendous pressure as the steering wheel began to crush her chest. She gave up. When Julie came to she was confused. But the warm dampness of the blood on her cheek brought it all back. She tried to regain some sense of direction but the world was upside down and she was pinned to the car 's rooL unable to move. How strange, she thought, nothing hurts. It was as if her body was dead, yet her mind would live on forever. She tried to think clearly, but her thoughs wandered. Time seemed to cease to exist. She was twelve years old again, in her mother's kitchen. "You've got to learn to cook, dear," her mom instructed. "Good cooks always catch the best husbands." Julie wondered if her mother was serious. In any case, she would rather be outside playing work-up with the guys. "But Mom," Julie whined, "I don't want to get married. I want to be a doctor and help mal,e people well." "Julie, I don't want you even thinking like that!" her mother snapped. "The only way a woman can succeed in this world is to marry the right man and raise a family. Anyone can see that those 'career women' are just trying to make up for not being married. I don't want you to end up working for a living." Julie frowned, but something told her not to argue. Maybe Mom's right, she thought,just maybe. The night was cold and Julie's entire body was beginning to ache. She tried to remember exactly where this bridge was. Somewhere east of Stanzel, she thought. No one will be driving past here this late on Christmas Eve. But maybe ... what if someone does come this way, they won't be able to see the car down here. I've got to get away from it. She tried to move her right arm and reach the door, but it refused to obey. Concentrate harder, she thought, stare at your hand and mal,e it move. She looked down her arm for her hand. She saw her fingers, bloody and mangled. Her scream echoed through the small valley. Julie was getting dressed in the locker room after a Junior High basketball game . All of her friends were excited about the sock hop that evening. "Am I the only one who's gonna stay home and study for that history test tomorrow?" she asked. "You 've got to be kidding, Jules," her best friend, Angie, said. " Tom's taldn me to the hop and maybe even for a pizza after. That is more important than any test!" "Yeah, but . . . my grades. " " But nothing. Don 't tell me you'd rather spend your time with a book than with a guy? Take it from a friend, next time Carlton Davenport asks you out - go. What I'd give for him ... now there's a man with a future!" Julie didn't know how long she had been crying, but there were no tears left. Snap out of it, she thought. If only Carl were here, he'd know what to do. He had always taken such 33 good care at her. She remembered how he used to try to teach her to tell time by the stars. "See Julie," he said, "How the North Star never moves. You just watch the other constellations like the hands of a clock. It's easy!" ''I'll never catch on," Julie sighed . She really didn't care anyway. It was the night of her Senior Prom and all Carl could do was watch the stars. Christ she thought is this the way I'm supposed to spend my life? Listening to some idiot ramble on about clocks? "Well Julie," Carlton said as he slipped a ring on her left hand. "I guess I'm just going to have to stay around til you learn!" "But Carl ... I don't know what to say," Julie stammered. She wanted to give the ring back. But he'd probably already told his friends, she'd have to explain to everyone why she'd turned him down. After all, Carl had already been voted most likely to succeed for the class of 1963. My friends will think I'm crazy, she thought. And Mom, she'd just die. "What's the frown for, Babe?" Carl asked. "Don't you like it?" "No , Carl. I mean no, I don't not like it. I mean ... Yes, of course I'll marry you." A light snow had started to fall. Well, Julie thought I guess we'll have a white Christmas after all. She wanted to laugh ... or cry. What am I doing here? I should be at home with my family. Why? What brought me to this place? "But Carl, it's Christmas Eve, can't you at least make it home for dinner and then go back to work?" Gee, Babe," he tried to explain. ''I'd like to be with you. But you know about this Wilson deal, its gotta go through." "Right Carl. I know about the 'Wilson deal.' Now, let me see, that's Rosemary Wilson, isn't it? Well ... 1 hope you enjoy yourselfl" Julie cried as she slammed down the phone. She'd known about Carl's affair for months now, but had never fought it. Ever since Maryl's death she hadn't really cared. Maybe, if she'd taken Maryl's advice and gotten out when she still could ... How well she remembered Maryl asking her to run away with her two years ago. But no, Julie had made a commitment when she got married and she never broke her word. Then on that Christmas day two years ago, when Carl told her of Maryl's suicide, something inside her had died. Until today, when it all came back to life. She was so tired of living for Carl and the kids. Trying to keep busy, pretending not to know about his affair. At first she'd been able to ignore it. But her mood changed quickly to one of bitterness. Until now she told Carl stories or tried to trick him into coming home to her. But he wasn't going to corne horne, not even for 34 Christmas Eve . She'd had enough. So she got into the car and drove away from it all. Making one last move to save yourself. Julie felt her heart flutter, the breath caught in her throat. Each breath is so hard, she thought. Then it came, the sharp pain through her chest. I'm dying, she thought calmly . After all this time trying to hold on to Carl. Now I've finally given up and I'm dying for it. Her breath caught again and stopped. At least I did make this move for myself, she thought. I tried. For Conni Deb Clinton You with your lust for musicians, any musician, all musicians (guitar players are so sensitive) sit on the edge of your seat, your fingernails digging canals into your hands as you hold yourself back. Your gaze as you dream of tonight (first introduce, then seduce). Of course he will love you and there will be no others. You will be enough. He is finished playing and you rush forward to tell him how wonderful he is, how good his music made you feel. He pushes you away and heads for the bleached blonde with the bucl~ teeth and breasts. 35 Lawn War Scott Simmer My neighbors cannot understand why I doze in this hammock, my yard a kingdom of weeds, while they contest for greenest lawn the air filled with the rackettackety of their machines. I am hated because what I cultivate thrives on neglect; because I lead an invasion of their plush green. I spread a chaos of spiderwort, cudweed, and wild bergamot. I command phalanxes of pokeweed, nimblewill, and nodding beggarticks. My hordes parachute seed far behind enemy hedges, set up distant outposts in sidewall~ cracks, attack with infinite bravery the decadent empires of Kentucky blue. My neighbors can only leer, while I dream myself hipdeep in acres of stinkgrass, yellow nutsedge, pricklepoppy, noxious weeds everywhere choking out the last spluttering lawnmower forever. 36 Tails You Lose JanD. Hodge When Marilyn died , he overdosed on aspirin and water, served time under glass at St. Luke's Psychiatric, met two who tried Darvon cocktails, one whose gauzed wrists flashed as a badge of honor, another who totalled three cars unsuccessfully against an elm, a bridge, and (missing a curve) a downhill roll. Scorned as an amateur, he knew he nlust find another way to try the dark and chose Harvard Divinity . 37 Corn Lori Wessels Little Roxy has s w a I I o w e d her mashed potatoes and pork chops and is ready for fifty kernels of corn she call s ducks. She slides four tarnished prongs under eight ducks. Her lips close as the fork goes in and OUT of her mouth. In unison, her teeth bite d o w u for the next attack. n and rise p feathers and bits of duck bills sca t t e r and some lodge spaces in the teeth, only to be pr ed out by her tongue. ob Mutilated quackers Slide dOwn her throat to her stomach . five more times ROxy carries out the fork -lips -teeth -tongue -throat process until only two ducks remain. :.~ ht~' She waverS over the survivors. Which should she let live longer? Does one lay golden eggs? ebbed toes. One tiny duck chews itswebbed toes. ebbed toes. "Don't be scared, little duckie. I won't eat you." This one will live . Mother will scrape it into the wastebasket on top of banana peels and dirty kleenex. Wyatt the garbage man will bury it in his landfill. 38 Mindy Nelson Erickson A review of a performance of Wim Coleman 's "A Gentleman of Property" co-directed by Wim Coleman and Gary Hobbs and presented by Drake University Theatre in Fischer Theatre, Ames, Iowa. This review won the alternate 's prize at tile Region V South, American College Theatre Festival and National Critics Institute on January .30 - February.3, L980 in Ames, Iowa. A Gentleman of Property begins with Thomas Jefferson much as any school-child would know him - a Renaissance man of the Eighteenth century, the epitome of "Reason, Memory, and Imagination, " in France aiding the leaders of the French Revolution. The princples of politics and revolution on an international level pale beside the passions wound throughout this drama of Jefferson's personal life. Three women, whom he "owns" to various degrees, flirt with his sense of order, love, and freedom . And there is tension when this man who is " swift and unmerciful when confronted by imperfection " realizes his own state is far from perfect. Maria Cos way as played by Gail Uhler is the woman of society, learned in "women's" arts, successful in terms of her class and century. She comes the closest to being an "equal" to Jefferson in terms of intellect, but he does not consider her as such. Though the necessary stiffness of her character may have' caused some stiffness as an actress, the fact emerges that this woman's freedom as an individual is less than Jefferson 's or even his slavewoman 'so Donna Nicholson's portrayal of Sally Hemings, Jefferson's black slave, is characterized by an essence of tragedy. This woman who is labeled "slave" is considered by Maria and Jefferson as being more free than either of them . She is the object of Jefferson's passion for she is natural compared to the coquetry of Mme . Cosway . Yet, she is determined that she will be free from slavery, and if that is not possible - her child will be freed. A sixteen year old, Sally is the same age as Jefferson's daughter Patsy , played by Susan Udermann. The women are friends but the price of Sally's maturity is too great for Patsy, just back from five years at a convent school. This girl eases some of the drama's tension with wit learned from her father. She also wants freedom , the Idnd of freedom her father once thought he might have . She has no choice in fact, and is the least free of any of the characters, to great degree affected by how her father chooses or needs to influence her behavior. Though Thomas Jefferson, portrayed by Gary Hobbs, looks like the ideal man, he is troubled by his women and their 39 need s .No one could want order , reason, and freedom more than he does, and no one could pursue it more rationally. It is to hi s unparalleled disappointment that he knows his life is mu ch different from what he had ever wished it to become. An d as he has aged, so have his desires to have his own way. He finds that you cannot always choose peace without sacrifi ce , that fear is essential if revolution will be accomplished, _ _f!fl d th'!'_ property equals debts. This does not destroy him. Thntyl(lS Jefferson retains a hope in human love. Through this n i ay De considered trite or sentimental elsewhere - it is not here . The choice of love, that can never be socially acknowledged or accepted , is not, in this context, a "soap -opera" love, for scandal's sake . It is the one real love that Jefferson has which is reciprocated. The passions on which this play is based are the passions that everyone experiences as they mature. There are inherent paradoxes in this process which might be better understood after experiencing this production, and with enjoyment. The powerful dialogue between these characters overshadows any flaws of set or direction which might have- occurred. Though it begins in a comic manner, this play ends with a feeling that is tragic, with Jefferson holding the hand of Sally, his temptress and his love. Take My Word for it Jan D. Hodge No (and if you don't, I, when you would, won 't). Yes (and if you dare, beware, beware). I J  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Kiosk: Volume 42 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Subject The topic of the resource Student Publications Description An account of the resource The Kiosk contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bowitz, John: Artist Orwig, Tim: Author Moline, Craig: Author Erickson, Mindy Nelson: Author Bagshaw, Linda: Author Scott, Robert Henry: Author Walker, W.: Artist Whetzel, Chuck: Author Hansen, Marty: Author Craft, Deborah: Author Rosene, Cindy: Author Bergeson, Brad: Author Olson, Judy S.: Author Averill, Allison: Author Nord, Mike: Author Scase, Christie J.: Author Clinton, Deb: Author Simmer, Scott: Author Hodge, Jan D.: Author Bitsy: Artist Wessels, Lori: Author Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1980 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-19 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Orwig, Tim: Editor Rosene, Cindy: Editor Erickson, Mindy Nelson: Editor Simmer, Scott: Faculty Editor Bowitz, John: Faculty Editor Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical 40 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kiosk Manuscript Perspectives student publications http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/bbf89b49e550b7a72fbb54d4ca0eb8bf.pdf 3649296e12633db203d14b6202fe91b0 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Perspectives: Volume 26, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Kiosk Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource This PDF file of the Perspectives contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ponder, Marcie Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2013-01-13 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-12-11 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-11 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF 5.71 MB 54 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Perspectives-Vol26-No01_KDC_1967_01-01_01.pdf Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger PDF Text Text ��PERSPECTIVES VOLUME XXVI SPRING 1967 NUMBER 1 Editorial Committee L. William Bower, Jr. J. Gregory Clark Janet Cunningham Margot Fall Rebekah Stone Art Consultants ............... ___ .......... _ _ .... ................ __ ............ Mr. William Zimmerman Mr. Stanley Sutter Faculty Advisor _ ............................... __ _ _ .. ..... .... .................. Dr. Carrol McLaughlin This volume of PERSPECTIVES is published by the Departments of Art and English, Morningside College, Sioux City, Iowa ��New Laws, Old Racism from Krokodil, September 1966 Translated from the Russian by B'Ann Bowman One-hundred years ago, after President Lincoln signed the law freeing the Negroes, a Negro in a southern town went up to a white man and said to him in just one sentence, "Hello, brother." From surprise, the white man became even whiter than the sheet in which he was wrapped at his birth. It seemed to him that the judgement day had arrived. He ran to the nearest tavern and told all of his friends, white men like himself, about it. And then the whites, in order to restore the established order, went to the home of the Negro who said to the white man, "Hello, brother," and lynched him in the presence of all the Negroes who had just read the law of the President and expected that something would come of it. After this the white southerners burned the first edition of the Constitution of the United States of Americ'a and the new law and-satisfied-dispersed to their homes. They say that thus was born the Ku Klux Klan which last year marked its one-hundred-year anniversary from the day of its foundation. One hundred years after Lincoln, who was killed by slave owners several months after the signing of the civil rights law, the 36th President of the U. S. A., Lyndon Baines Johnson, enacted not one but three laws on the civil right of Negroes, and a Negro from a southern town went up to a white Southerner 'and said to him that same sentence which once his great-great-grandfather had said. The same thing happened to him that happened to his great-great-grandfather. But unlike their ancestors, this generation of co-nationals calmly went out onto the street and began to demand that they should be treated as the laws giving them human rights stated-those written 100 years ago and those signed not long ago by the 36th President of the U. S. Not long ago in the Alabama county of Lowndes, where out of 15,417 people, 12,425 are Negroes, the registration of voters began. According to these laws which were signed 100 years ago, and according to the last three laws of President Johnson, Negroes had all the rights to register to vote; and they registered in order 3 �to elect their candidate in the local municipal council. Two thousand Negroes, the first ones in 100 years, registered. Among the whites in this county were 1,900 people with suffrage, but no less than 2,500 whites registered (is it really possible for the Ku Klux Klan to register twice as many as were actually in the county?). Indeed the law of the KKK by which from time immemorial the white people of Lowndes county have lived, s'a ys that black men may not govern white men even on the level of a municipal council. Lowndes is a small county, but all America knew that the Negroes attempted to force their way to power. Then from the pages of even the most respectable pUblications on the Negro leadership, which demanded (according to the laws passed 100 years ago and the last three) that the Negroes be granted the possibility to participate in the electoral process, rivers of dirt were poured. The reasoning of the organizers of this verbal dirt eruption was very simple-slander the leaders of the movement for civil rights and at the same time close the eyes of world opinion: look, the racist is not guilty of the program in the Negro ghetto, but rather the Negroes who demand that they be granted power. Not long ago fascist youth in Chicago following the example of their great-great-grandfathers dashed onto a peaceful demonstration of Negroes with sticks and brass knuckles. And then, satisfied that the established order had been restored, they burned in front of the city hall the latest publication of the Constitution of the U. S. A. along with the just-printed laws of the present President. �Gray Morning Roger Hardy The morning was gray. The hanging mist fused the color of spring into a neutral unfocused realm. Tires rolling on the wet pavement droned up and down the broad avenue. The sparrows of the early morning cowered on the telephone wires refusing to fly. The morning was muted and dull and there was no hope of sun. Edmund stood stoically by a large brown telephone pole with the words "bus stop" carelessly painted in an off-orange. As he leaned against the pole he felt a moist layer of decaying wood on his fingers. Realizing what he had done, he frowned in distaste. He removed his hand and examined the soft fibers of dead wood and proceeded to wipe it on his colorless jacket. The foul taste of hurried breakfast haunted his mouth with an unsavory taste. He blinked his eyes momentarily, reacting to the cold morning droplets of mist hitting his face. Bowing his head, he dug the crystals ·of sleep implanted in his eyes. The hissing of air brakes broke the monotony of the morning as the large yellow and green vehicle came to a halt before him. Mechanically, Edmund hurried into the dim light and warmth of the interior. Just as mechanically the driver gave him a smile of indifference. To secure his balance, Edmund grasped a chrome vertical bar as he felt the uneasy acceleration of the machine. He grimaced as he fumbled in his pocket for the necessary coin. He held the coin pinched in his fingers until it was directly over the slot and then released it into the grinding machinery below. After staggering to the back of the bus, he bounced onto a seat. Just as he had secured his seat and carefully placed his lunch bucket on the floor, the bus came to a halt. The doors folded open and the head of an old man popped into Edmund's view. Switching his lunch bucket fron1 one hand to the other, the old man dug in his small black leather purse, produced the coin, and then snapped it shut. After wishing the driver a good morning and carefully depositing his coin in the metal box, he started for the end of the bus. Edmund almost smiled as he watched the old man sway from the uneasy acceleration. The old man ge.stured to Edmund and bounced onto the seat opposite him. "Good morning," the old man said with a smile as he carefully placed his lunch bucket in his lap. "Morning," Edmund replied mechanically. There was a 5 ------ .. �pause as they sat there and looked at each other; then Edmund broke eye contact by looking out the speckled window. He noticed how much more unfocused the morning seemed with the droplets of mist on the window. As he peered out the window, he could feel the old man's eyes watching him. That old man insists on staring at me . . . every morning he sits across from me and even when I pay no attention to him he still is there ... I can feel his eyes on me and I can see him without looking ... sitting there like a lump on a log ... always the same . . . the same goofy smile and the same line of bologna to hand out. God I hate to talk to that man; he's just like a child ... those kids ... standing there ... bundles in the morning mist waiting for a school but ... books and lunch buckets ... Catholic kids, yeah, only Catholic kids wait for a bus, other kids live close enough . . . .speckled windows. "Looks like a little bad weather out there." the old man reported to Edmund's profile. "Yeah, · otten weather," Edmund grunted as he wiped r his nose with his finger. There was a pause as they looked at each other. The old man turned and looked out the window. That smile, that's what bugs me; every morning that same dumb smile ... bib overalls ... leather watch fob . . . his hands over his lunch bucket like he had something valuable in there . . . bologna ... smell of bologna every morning and that lunch bucket with the shiny bare spots of metal ... how many years does it take to wear the paint off like that ... shiny spots ... his hand over his lunch bucket, his hands look swollen and glossy and so red. a finger gone, second finger on his right hand ... no finger. "Poor kid, look 'a t that poor kid - - bus passed him right up," reported the old man as he pointed at the boy standing in the mist making an obscene gesture at the bus. The morning was gray and there was no hope of sun. Edmund returned to staring out the speckled window. Goofy old man ... that old man ... he never changes . . . same clothes, same shoes, same little smile, same smell of bologna, same lunch bucket . . . over and over and it never changes . . . screwing a nut on a bolt, hundreds of bolts, hundreds of screws . . . one bolt to one screw . . . the pounding of the machines . . . the sound. "How are things at United Castors?" the old man broke out. "Ahhh, it's going okay ... ahhh got a raise in pay ... ahhh starts today," Edmund spoke mechanically. "Yup, a guy's gotta have a good steady job, you've gotta 6 �earn that bread, that's what makes the world go round," returned the old man with his eyebrows arched. "You got a real good job there, they're good people to work for." "Good, bad or indifferent, a job is a job and somebody has to do it, but it'll do 'til I find out exactly what I want" "What you want 1" "Yeah, what I want to do." Well, what do you want to do 1" "If I knew that I would do it," Edmund replied in a matterof-fact manner. A look of disdain came over his face as he turned his head to the window. "Well, this moisture is just what we need - -" the old man spoke in an apologetic tone. His eyes, they're strange . . . waxen 'a nd all . . . just like Uncle Louis looked in the casket at the funeral parlor. The morning is gray ... my heart, I can feel it pumping my blood ... a pump ... a machine ... out the speckled window trees weep and children walk ... it's been so long since I was that age; not really - it really doesn't seem that long . . . waiting for the bus - books and lunch bucket, waiting in the mist of morning . . . time goes so quickly ... yet I can't imagine it moving ... in me it doesn't seem to be change ... it only moves outside me ... only things out there change. "Well it won't be long now. Nope it won't be long at all," the old m'a n grinned ear to ear as he patted his lunch bucket. Edmund paused as he noticed how the old man's face wrinkled into so many cracks and fissures; it reminded him of leather that had spent too much time in the sun and rain. "Ah, won't be long for what?" Edmund finally spoke. Vacation, yes sir, two weeks of vacation - -" the old man grinned with pleasure; there was a far away look in his eyes. This smile was different from his other little complacent smile he carried with him constantly. "Yes sir, two weeks of fishing. I hear they are really gettin' big up there. Fishing's a great sport - - great." The old man settled back in his ,s eat and took a deep breath. There was a pause as they sat there and looked 'at each other. "Where do you fish?" Edmund finally inquired. "Lake Lathucato up near Nicetown - - a great lake ... some Indian named it I guess. Do you know what it .means - - lake of the dead. That old Indian sure was not talkin' about fish, no sir," chuckled the old man. 7 �"Lake of the dead," Edmund repeated; "you're joking?" "No, no that's the truth, Heaven help me," added the old man, still grinning. "You see it's an old Indian story - - old as the hills. This big Indian a long time ago said that the lake would be inhabited by ghosts - - well not exactly ghosts - - you know, those kind of people who look like they're alive but really they're dead?" "Zombies - -" "Yeah, sort of like Zombies." The morning was gray and the sun would not shine. Edmund stared out the speckled window again. That old man ... there he is sitting there on the bank of a blue-green lake, basking himself in the sun like a lizard ... He's got that half-grin, just sitting there waiting, maybe for the big catch ... look at him now; his eyes are blank. The hissing of the air brakes broke the spell. "Yup, just three more years and I can retire; JOIn my retired friends up at Lathucato and fish everyday, yes sir, everyday." As the old man spoke his eyes were ,still far away. "Forty years, yup, I served my time on the work list and now comes the cream, when time is my own and I can fish - - forty years at the same job and now I can fish - - forty years at the same job and noW I can be free to do as I please - - oh, oh, here's my stop - -" spoken in a note of finality. The old man slowly stood up and moved cautiously to the first step, exchanged the lunch box from one hand to the other, grasped the chrome vertical bar, and turned around to Edmund. "Good day." "Yeah, goodbye - -" There he goes with his baggy pants and his lunch bucket ... his head hanging down ... what 'an old fool ... fool that amounts to nothing but a pension ... he's an old nothing who doesn't know it. "There is a world full of things to do," Edmund said to himself as he saw his stop approaching. "Well, I better get in gear, Edmund muttered as he picked up his lunch bucket with a swing of his arm. He rubbed the bucket and felt the bare spots of metal that were beginning to form. "In gear?" Edmund inquired silently. He felt strange. There was no hope of sun on that gray morning. "Time to go to work," he muttered to himself. lt had begun to rain. o 8 �The Legacy Janice Hill Usually I didn't visit Inez on days when the green curtains were drawn. Experience had taught me that these were the days when she wanted to' be alone. But I was even lonelier than usual that day, so I rang her doorbell anyway, knowing that if she truly didn't want company she, wouldn't answer the door. As I stood there shivering in my brother's old blue jeans and a torn T-shirt I could hear Inez playing her mandolin in accompaniment to her husky Spanish voice. She came to the door wearing a white sashed tunic over black leotards. Her black hair glistened softly off her brow, flowing smoothly down her slender back; her skin was a pale contrast to the blackness of the leotard and her hair. Her green eyes, the most startling of her features, gave her a feline look, but they spoke of more than animalistic grace. They spoke of disappointment and, to some extent, defeat and disgust. . She smiled softly as she let me in and we silently made our way to the back of the house. I was only eight that fall, but I understood that any conversation must wait until we reached the room Inez called her studio. The studio was a large room with two walls of glass which were now enclosed with heavy draperies of olive green burlap. These were the curtains I had checked so heedlessly before I rang the doorbell. The other two walls, on which were hung Inez's paintings, were stark white. There was little furniture in the room. In one corner was the low table on which Inez did her sculpturing, in another stood her easel, under the paintings was a row of bookshelves filled with her books. In the very center of the room, over some olive green cushions, a low lam, gave out a yellow cone of p light. Inez motioned for me to sit on a cushion. She kneeled beside me and continued playing her mandolin. After a time she stopped. Her eyes pierced mine and she said, "Priscilla, I think you and I are the mistakes of Blair Street." Leaving me to ponder on that, she jumped up and pulled the easel and her paints into the cone of light and began to dab at a halffinished picture. It was a green painting, as were all of Inez's yet it was un9 �like any of those hanging on the walls around us. The background was a dull mottled olive green. Over this was a lattice of beige. There were two figures struggling to climb the lattice. The first was a woman with flowing black hair, the other was that of a child. The woman was struggling to maintain her position with her feet and one hand. In the other hand she held that of the child, whom she seemed to be dragging along. I couldn't understand the meaning of the painting but I knew that Inez must mean for the figures to be her and me, and I felt sad because her hand was bleeding in the picture. I stood looking over her shoulder for awhile, then I went back to my cushion and broke the silence that was the general rule of our visits. "Inez, why is everything green for you ?" She paused for a moment and gazed deeply at me. It was a look I'd seen often; 'adults always used it when they were trying to decide if I could understand what they were going to tell me. Evidently she decided that she could make me understand, because she smiled faintly and rested her brush carefully on the tray of the easel. Again she pau.sed, as though planning her words very carefully. Outside the wind blew menacingly 'a nd it was beginning to rain, but I felt very safe sitting there in that cone of light with Inez. When she finally spoke, her words were so soft that at first I couldn't hear them over the wind. " ... supposing that there is a god, I think his favorite color must be green. Everything of importance that he surrounds us with is green. The grass is green, trees are green, the largest parts of the flowers are green, with their petals serving as a gentle complement. "A very famous Spanish writer once said that blue was the color of God. To him the blue of the sky and sea meant spring and youth and beauty. But I disagree. Yes, the sky and the sea are blue; but, you see, Priscilla, the sky is just a big blue nothing and the sea is just a reflection of this blue nothing. "A young and very good poetess wrote: 'God, I can push the grass apart And lay my finger on Thy heart.' 10 �That's what I think, too. If there is a god his very pulse beats in the green of this world. "Green is the color of spring, of hope and strength and fertility. At the same time green is the color of reality, the reality of pain and weakness and death. Green is illusion and reality at once. "Do you know what color most of the world is today? There are some pastel pinks and blues and a few washed out lavenders, but most of it is beige. I'll bet that nine out of ten living rooms on Blair Street have beige walls and carpets, with brown couches and either turquoise or orange accents. Bejge is conformity. Think of it, Priscilla! What in nature is beige? Nothing, except m'a ybe some sand or rocks, which produce nothing. "The world today is beige; but, you and I, Priscilla, we've got to be gr een. Green like the shady forest, the fertile meadow. We've got to find enough reality in us to change at least a little of the beige to green. This was the legacy I meant to leave to my daughter, but you're the daughter that I won't have, so I leave it to you." There was nothing to say. I wondered if I should thank her for the legacy, but I didn't know what the word meant so I kept still. Inez didn't seem to expect any response from me. She picked up her mandolin and strummed 'a few chords of the Spanish song. Her eyes which had flashed so when she told me about the green were muted behind her long black lashes. I felt that Inez was no longer aware of my presence so I quietly got up and let myself out of the house. When I got home I walked into my mother's comfortable living room and, for a long time, I stared at the beige walls and carpet. I think that that was when I first understood a little of what Inez had meant. The next day my mother wouldn't let me go over to Inez's house. She said that Inez was gone. In all these years I've never asked what happened to Inez, because I know that wherever she is she still has her world of green. 11 �Bread For The Day Ruth H. Larson The habit of years would not be broken; the woman woke early. In those last moments of semi-consciousness the raucous chatter of starlings in the trees across the ,s treet impressed upon her mind. Her first glance was toward the window. The sun was not yet up, but the pre-dawn light was dim; she knew it would be cloudy again today. A gust of wind sent a shower of yellow leaves against the window. The dampness in the 'a ir made the bare branches black against the sky. Involuntarily she shivered and pulled the blanket around her shoulders. "That was silly," she thought, "I'm not really cold. This house has always been warm, even in the wildest winter storms." She thought with pride of her home. "I love it; it's part of me. Sure it's old, just like me, but it keeps me comfortable. And it looks nice." There was pride in her eyes as she inspected once again the glistening window, the crisp folds of the newly laundered curtains, the gleam of the polish on the floor. "I like it, and I like taking care of it." She sighed, "I just wish Kate wouldn't fuss so about me doing my work." She chuckled, "Wouldn't she have had a conniption if she knew I changed that light bulb myself?" Without hurrying, she dressed for the day. Always, in the morning she moved a bit slow and stiff. "It isn't so much that I hurt, though; it's just that I don't have anything to hurry about." The warm washcloth felt good, and she talked to her mirror, "So Kate thinks I'm too old to work. Five yea'r s younger she is. You'd think it was twenty. Can't say that her not working has kept the wrinkles out of her face." She peered more closely. "No sir, I just don't believe I have any more wrinkles than I did twenty years ago." She chuckled again. "Least I can't see 'any more without my glasses on!" At the dresser she picked up the photo of young Jim in uniform. No matter how many times a day she looked, she always felt this quick stab: he looked so much like his dad, only the uniform was different. "Don't reckon it's cold and damp where you are, boy. More likely so hot you can hardly bear it." Her head bowed briefly as she returned the photo to its place. At each of the other bedrooms she stopped briefly. 12 All �was in order. No one had slept here for many weeks, but "just in case" they were 'r eady. Maybe Gladys would come with her girls for the weekend. Or maybe Joe would have to sell out this way next week. "It doesn't matter why they come, we're ready, aren't we, house?" Downstairs, she took the long way through, stopping to greet the other grandchildren photographically arrayed on the piano. She patted straight the doily covering the arm of the big old overstuffed chair. Dad had been pretty' careful with his pipe, but that one day he and Hans had been so excited about "that 'dumkopf' in the White House giving away our good tax money"! It was a wonder the whole chair hadn't burned before they noticed it. "Kate thinks that chair is terrible, too. Of course I never sit in it- my legs wouldn't even touch the floor. But Joe and Rich and Jim like it when they come. And last summer little Jeanie loved to sit there with her dolls and things all spread out round her. This room wouldn't look the same without it. That Kate. always knows what's best for other people." Breakfast was a simple affair- a glass of juice, an egg fried sunny side up, a piece of toast with apple butter, a hot cup of coffee with cream and sugar. But she lingered at the table. The humming of the teakettle, the click-elick-click of the toaster, and the sputtering of the frying egg had been comforting. The simple blue plate and cup contrasted with the white oilcloth, and the embroidery on the toaster cover gave the colorful warning that hot toast will make the butter fly. Bertha smiled as she .spread the rich brown apple butter over the warm toast. "Mmm- it even smells good." The red-checked curtains further warmed the room, but outside a few splatters of rain hit the window. The leaves scurried down the gutter. A truck shifted gears on the big hill on the highway outside town. Children called to each other as they met on the corner to go to school. Across the street, the appliance shOop truck pulled up just as the front door flew open and a tall young man dashed out the door. She smiled as the door opened again and Karen called shrilly, "Mark, Mark! You forgot your horn. And zip up your jacket- it's cold this morning." Bertha's wave was answered by the boy with a grin and by his mother with a quick wave as she led the repair man inside. "Well, at last he's come to fix her washing machine." She reached to turn on the little radio, noticing as she turned that a light .shone in Hans' kitchen. "That means he's up and around okay. Wouldn't he think I was a nosey old biddy if he knew how I watched him!" 13 I . I �She finished clearing the table just ·as t he news began, so she sat down again to listen. It ,seemed like the same things: heavy fighting in Viet Nam, a platoon surrounded, light to moderate casualties ("Oh, Jim, are you there ?"); demonstrations in Chicago and Omaha; tragic car accident-two teen-agers killed; price index going up-a prediction for a rise in the cost of bread; weather outlook-continued cloudy and cool, occasional showers. She snapped the dial off. "That sure don't cheer a body up." The phone rang just as the little cuckoo came out of his house to say it again and again-nine times. Kate was right on schedule. "It took you so long to answer. Don't you feel good this morning?" "Nonsense, I feel perfectly fine. It's just that I was sitting and thinking about Jim." "The news didn't sound good today, did it? Nothing but troubles, troubles, troubles. Law, I don't know what this old world is coming to. Things didn't used to be this bad." "Oh, I suppose we always had troubles, too. Now it just seems so bad because we can't think of anything to do about it. How's John this morning?" "About the same- so slow to get around. Then when I ask him if he has pain and shouldn't he go to the doctor he gets grumpy. Says it's just old age. I'm always kind of glad when he leaves to go down town to get the mail. He doesn't seem to notice that I might need a little help." "Oh, don't you feel good today?" "Now you know I never feel good. I get that pain in my bones when it's so damp and chilly. And my hands are so stiff I'm afraid I'm going to drop the dishes. I'm just glad when I'm through cleaning up so I can go sit down a while. You ought to do a little more sitting around. What are you going to do today - clean the basement?" "Now Kate, you don't have to be sareastic. I'll bake bread." No- I think "Bake bread! That's ridiculous. It'.s too much work- and besides you'll never eat it all before it molds." "I always did like to make bread. It's been awhile since I've done it- all summer in fact. This is 'a good day for baking14 �it might take some of the chill out of the air. Besides, didn't you hear that the price of bread might go up. Yessir, that's just what I'm going to do today-bake bread. I always did like to bake bread." "I sure don't know what to make of you. I do my best to watch over you and then you do these foolish things. You ought to just sit and take it easy today. - Oh, oh, John's ready to go and I want him to stop for some rolls at the bakery." The receiver clicked sharply. "That's funny. I wonder how I ever thought of making bread. But it's a real good idea." The recipe was soiled and wrinkled from much use. Actually, she hardly glanced at it as she scalded the milk, set out the bowls, and started the yeast in warm water. "And just a spoonful of sugar to staTt the yeast. How was it Joe explained that from chemistry class? Can't remember that-I just know a little leaven can make 3 loaves of bread light and good. -It will have to be white bread today. Wish I had some of that cracked wheat John used to make when he and Kate were on the farm. John likes home-made bread; I'll just take him some this afternoon. I wonder if that cracking machine isn't still in his old garage. I bet if he could still make that cracked wheat there'd be plenty of people who would buy some. It would give him something to do. Oh, maybe notthese young girls don't know how to make bread anymore. Who knows, maybe it only tasted good because we hadn't tasted any store-bought bread!" The dough was stiff now, so she scraped it onto the bread board. "Now we'll just cover you with this nice clean towel, and you have a little nap. A little rest is good for bread and little girls." It seemed as if she could reach out with her floury hands and hug the little Gladys on a chair beside her, eyes shining, pigtails bobbing, nose covered with flour 'a s she "helped Mommy make bread." There was one young woman who knew how to make bread! There was a good yeasty smell in the kitchen now and the dough felt good as she started to knead it-fold over, push down, turn it around-fold over, push down, turn it around. It was an automatic process for her, and she found herself humming as she worked. "That's the way my mother told me- you don't need to watch the clock; it should be well-kneaded by the time you sing all three verses: What a friend we have in Jesus, All our sins and griefs to bear; 15 �vVhat a privilege to carry, Everything to God in prayer- " She took the corneT of her apron to wipe her eyes. "My goodness, Bertha, you must be getting old to be so sentimental." Into the big bowl went the pliant dough; covered again, it was set at the corner of the cupboard near the hot-air register. This was the best place in the house for bread to rise. "I'll just do up these dishes and then I'll sit down like Kate says I should. It's no use trying to hurry bread- just like raising kids- you put your loving in and do a little kneading to help them shape up and then you have to sit hack and watch and wait to see how they come out." As she went to hang her dishtowel on the line "to air out a bit" Hans was coming across the alley with a pail of apples. "These are the last ones. Just can't throw them out if somebody can use them. When I eat an apple, my teeth muve all over my mouth. I guess apples are for kids." Bertha laughed sympathetically. "Tell you what. I'll make a bargain with you. You get my mail for me and I'll make you some applesauce. Then your teeth won't fall out!" Just before noon, Hans came in with her mail, "Well, here you are- I've kept my part of the bargain, but there's nothing much today. An ad from a lumber yard- did you want to build a new house tomorrow? Oh, and let's see, I guess there is a letter here- from Des Moines- you know anybody in Des Moines- besides Gladys that is?" It was an old joke, but still good for a smile. "Say, is that my apple.sauce smells so good ? Nellie, she used to make a lot of applesauce. Somehow it kinda smells like home when applesauce is cooking. Hey, now, is that bread rising in those pans? You really are an old-timer today. What's got into you?" "I don't 'r eally know what's got into me. Kate thinks it's silly, but I like to make bread. Say, now, you could help me out. She thinks it will mold before it's all eaten up, but if you came over for supper and we had fresh bread and 'applesauce, that much wouldn't spoil anyway." "Well, now, as long as it would be helping you out, I guess I could spare the time from my social calendar. I don't believe I'm dated up tonight." "Good. I hope it turns out as nice as Nellie's always did." 16 �So the day went. Her noon meal was her dinner: a meat patty, fried potatoes, a bit of green beans left from yesterday, the last tomato from the garden, sliced, and applesauce. The bread baked as she cleaned up the apple peels and cores and washed up the dishes and kettles. The loaves were formed perfectly, light and well-rounded, and baked with a crisp brown crust. The feeling of having done something important very well was so great as she placed the loaves on the rack to cool that once again she had to wipe away a tear. The kitchen was warm with the oven-heat and filled with the aroma of fresh bread. As she sat in her rocker waiting for the bread to cool, she dozed and dreamed so vividly of days gone by when baking was a routine part of her week that it took a moment to come back to the reality of the quiet, empty house. Carefully, she wrapped one of the loaves in a clean white towel and took it to Kate and John. Kate of course protested; she had known she would; but John was delighted. It was he who put on the teakettle, set out the flowered cups and plates, knives 'a nd spoons, and the plate of butter. "What we ought to have is freshchurned butter to go with this. But that's sure a thing of the past." Handing Bertha the knife and the loaf, he joked, "If you want lady-like slices, I guess you'll have to cut it." It was a feast -tea and bread and butter. Even Kate admitted, "I know you shouldn't have done all this work, but I guess I'm glad you did." The sun was shining as she left Kate's to walk home, but the sharp wind soon sent the clouds over the sun. She watched as they sped across the sky, racing against each other to shut off the warmth of the sun. Leaves crackled under her feet; occasionally she stopped to pick up one of especially bright or interesting coloring. She didn't hear the boy coming until he was almost up to her, "Hi, Neighbor, are you going my way?" "Sure thing, young man. And what makes you so late? Teacher keep you after school again?" "Aw, now, Mrs. Schmidt, you know I'm always a good little boy. No, we had football practice after school. Sure hope Mom made cookies today. I'm starved." "You and your hollow leg- and I bet your Mom has been washing clothes all day. Say, do you like homemade bread? Why don't you stop at my house for a snack?" "Homemade bread?! That's great. fresh bread since I visited Grandma." 17 Gee, I haven't had �She watched with pleasure as he sat with his legs curled around the chair, leaning 'a n arm on the table as he told her of his day. She cut the bread thick this time; it had an even texture under the crisp crust, so that the butter spread smoothly. With a glass of milk, two slices were soon gone. His voice lacked conviction as he politely refused more, "No thanks, honest. I'd better not eat any more. It sure is good though. Will you tell Mom how to make bread like that?" "Here, you take this loaf home for supper. If your Mom thinks she wants the recipe, you tell her I'll be real glad to give it to her." Gladys' letter had said Jeanie was home with a sore throat; the) certainly wouldn't be able to come this weekend. She wrote a note to Jeanie, telling her how her Mother had liked to help her make bTead when she was young, wondering if they made bread together, hoping she would soon feel fine again and that she would bring her dolls and stay with Grandma soon. Supper with Hans was simple, maybe too plain-bread and butter, applesauce, and tea. The thick slices of bread were filling; the applesauce was not too sweet, the tea warmed them almost as much as the rose-colored memories of days gone by, when the simple things of life had been treasured. They had been friends a long time, the Schmidts and the Muellers; they talked on and on, remembering. When Hans left for home, he carried his bowl of applesauce and two slices of bread for breakfast toast. That left two slices for Bertha in the morning; she laughed as she thought of Kate worrying that the bread would mold before it was gone. It was too good for that! The wind swept the clouds away in the night; the morning sun gave a luminous quality to the autumn leaves and sparkled on the window pane. Once more the phone rang just as the cuckoo finished his ninth call. Today it rang ten, eleven, twelve times and was silent again. For today the woman lay in bed, and the 'room glowed with the light from the sun and the leaves. 18 �Birth And Death John Rothfork It was strange, very odd. It wasn't even Sunday, yet the people, in their Sunday clothes - white shirts too tight at the collars and funny hats - were all going to St. John's. Stephen didn't want to go: he went enough. Besides, the robins chirped at him, but he couldn't chase them today. He trudged obediently with his fanlily on to the brick church, walking consciously because his sister had scolded him for tramping on Mrs. Clark's tulips. Stephen didn't like to walk on sidewalks. He usually skipped on the new grass at the edge of the concrete. He wished that now he could be skipping lightly with David on that dewy grass instead of going to church. That was odd too; instead of loitering on the sandy steps as his father always did, today he bl'isked on past them and into the dark church. Stephen wished he had stopped, for when his father stopped to talk with Mr. George or Mr. Clark, Stephen knew what would happen. He would soon get red in the face even though he would have loosened his broad tie; then poke his short, fat finger at his listeners while his other hand was busy sliding up and down the brown faded suspenders. When Stephen saw that his father's attention was completely absorbed in such arguments, then he and Mr. Clark's boy, David, would steal a few yards away, behind the high, white pillars of the entrance, and have their own discussions. They would imitate their fathers, chewing on im'a ginary pipes and thrusting their yet unformed stomachs out in a ludicrous manner, discussing vital political questions they overhe'ard: - Tell me Mr. Clark, do you think it was the communists or the protestants who started that demonstration at St. John's? -Well, Mr. Suraci, I think it was both; the communists started it and the protestants ... But, today they didn't stop. His father ushered Stephen and his sister ahead of him and into the church. His sister stopped at the small marble dish and delicately tapped the sponge with her fingernails, then brought her hand slowly close to her forehead and both shoulders. Stephen followed, plunging his dark hand into the wet sponge with 'a squelch and touched his forehead and shoulders with the wet hand while silently moving his lips. 19 �Then, he turned half around to see if his father would follow. They stopped at a dark, thickly varnished pew far from the altar. Stephen and his sister genuflected and quickly filed into the narrow pew. Their father laboriously m'a de a curtsy, holding onto the next pew, and followed. Stephen felt a little strange kneeling .so far from the front. Every day he and David and the rest of their class sat in the sixth and seventh pews. On Sunday his father always had them sit near the back, but today wasn't Sunday; it was strange, for his father and the rest of the grownups were h ere in church bringing with them their noisy rosaries and prayer books. Stephen knelt on the hard green strip of vinyl and peered over the high pew at the dark altar. Outside he could still hear the birds calling, but they sounded far away and strange in the silent darkness of the church. The altar boys, Tom Larson and Jimmy Stone, came out of the sanctuary, each carrying in one hand a lighted taper and holding the other hand over their hearts. They lit the six tall candles and blew theiT own tapers out as they receded from the tabernacle and went back into the sanctuary. Stephen noticed that the tarnished golden sunlight broke through the high, circular, stained glass window and spilt past the altar and onto the opposite wall. The glass, the East window, contained the figure of Christ ascending from the charnel. He held his punctured limbs out to the people and, Stephen thought, looked sad. The old, limping priest entered, following the two slow walking boys, dressed in a long shiny black chasuble with a large golden cross on either side. Stephen and the people stood, the altar boys stopped, and the priest hobbled up to the altar. After fussing with the burse and the book, he again descended and began to mumble some prayers in a Latin monotone. Stephen started to follow the priest's drone, to pray, to talk with God, but soon his attention began to wane and was caught by the noisy birds who still tittered happily outside in the sunlight. He and David used to pass notes on the back of holy cards, but the nun soon caught them and made them sit on the floor in the basement of the convent after school and write down their own prayers for those they hadn't said in church. So, he and David then sat quietly in church, their eyes barely noticeable in their wanderings to the side doors, to the flowers, to the windows. But, today David wasn't here. So, alone Stephen turned his eyes to the stained window slightly opened, allowing the sounds of the street to sift in. 20 �Stephen stood mechanically at the gospel and caught scraps of what the bent priest said: "I am the living bread ... if anyone eat of this hread he shall live forever . . ." Stephen brought his gaze from the bright window to the dark altar, but could see nothing other than the light from the window. He and the others sat while the priest bent over the stone altar and mumbled more unheard prayers. The bench was hard, and Stephen squirmed in a vain effort to find a comfortable position. One day David and he had been sitting through another long Mass, squirming and shifting to find a soft spot, when suddenly, during the Communion, David got up and walked out the back door, right past the nuns without even folding his hands. Stephen was so su:r.prised that he forgot the uncomfortable pew and left his mouth open in a vague wonder and horror of the action. At recess Stephen asked David how he ever found the courage to march out of the church. "I don't know," said David, "I was thinking of how hard the bench was and I just kept thinking and thinking and thinking and then, I got up and walked out. It felt good." Stephen almost wished he could get up now and leave, but he knew he couldn't. Suddenly, his attention was drawn back to the dim altar by a strange action of the priest. The old man was descending the altar and coming down to the people instead of retreating back into the sanctuary where he belonged. Two more boys came from the sanctuary, one bearing a small gold bucket and the other swinging a golden thurible. But why? The four boys and the old man formed a small huddle, and though Stephen couldn't see what was happening he knew the thurible was being filled by the old man. Then, the boys dropped the chasuble and sank behind the black-clad priest while he mumbled some prayers from a small black book. Stephen thought it like a Mass for the Dead, but there were no big candles towering above the priest or a coffin. Yet, it must be; the tabernacle was adorned with black lace. Stephen felt certain for he had served one last month with David. He wished David were here, he would know. But, David wasn't here. Stephen quickly tired of the man's mumbles and slow known gestures. Again, he turned to the blue crack at the window and the sounds of the happy birds outside. He could see a robin on a dewy green lawn not far from the church. It chirped gayly and lightly, cocking its head in a peculiar fashion and pecking at the ground 21 .. �sometimes. Wouldn't it be wonderful to fly, to soar free and happy, to escape so easily the drab, dull existence and live, to spire to the scintillating blue heavens, to fly ... to be a brilliant bird-creature, finely plumed with downy white feathers, a breast scarlet as blood, a beak sharp, talons sure, golden and deadly~wouldn't it be heaven? Stephen longed to be that free, to soar away from ... from everything he knew. And he would. He felt that he could do it, even alone. He knew his pinfeathers would one day turn to ... Stephen's sister pushed against him as she stood to leave, and Stephen, startled back into the church, saw that the priest had left the alta'r. Quickly, he rose and filed out of the narrow pew. He turned and strode past the font to the sunshine outside. �Margaret Gors "Shoel" "The Fall" Renee Nassif Ken Lewis "Black and White Flowers" Phil Jones �"Night Scape" "Lamps" Colleen Rowse Helen Anderson Thomas Truby �"Composition" Diane Smith Karen Brenner -- 4-. -----;"j - ---- -------r-- -..\..--~\ .. ,----. I -- I / i I I l 1 ~ "Study" -- Lanida Bielenberg Nancy Villem �1,- ( "Out of Chaos" Ken Lewis ;1 ./ ( \ "Portrait of Larry" Bradley Boe "Still-life" Andree Tracey �, "For Everything There Is A Season" "Boy With the Guinea Pig" Andree Tracey ~ . Joanne Volga "Visions of Johanna" Jean Andersen I �"Blue Landscape" "Summer Vacation" "Erosion" Joanne Volga Diane Smith Joanne Volga �"Still-Life With Music Stand" Jean Andersen Left to Right- Dave Hauff, Helen Anderson Jean Andersen, Kathy Gast, Jean Andersen, Dave Hauff �Gary N ashleanus "Separation" "October Country" Ken Lewis Roger Hardy �October Country Roger Hardy October country-a windy twilightCrusts of leaves crest among the trees, a primordial dead sea; Trees move Now skeletons, memories of the warm green mask of summer. Death moves in October and deliberates its one, without concern With 'a chill in a changing wind-the subtle death(like a hanging cloud in a pool of urine) Shows trees for what they are The wind in the t-rees wheezes a death rattle. And the sad refrain fills the biting twilight air. And October inside: That splendid crystal inner glow of ochre in a glass of beer And a woman of yellow-blonde hair 'a nd black eyes sits alone on her stool and sings her song; Distant music, (a song no one will hear). She sits in her own excrement and tries to reach a sad foul place of the heart-a world beyond her world. The Bartender smiles "what good am I without both hands?" And a phlegm-eyed, swollen red-faced man laughs "that dumb son of a bitch" as he salts his yellow beer, And young men with eyes intent as eagles, look for the thing only eyes can see. Songs a.r e sung and songs will be sung. But thoughtless wind buffs and laughs In October country. 31 ��Ain't Gonna Give Nobody None Of My Jelly Roll James M. Stephens "It sure is hot down here, Momma." "It always is, son. That's one of the things you'll have to get used to. That and many other things." The place is Rebecca, Georgia, the cUlminating point of a long two-day bus ride from Chicago. When we- my black family -got there, it was night time and the temperature was in the Upper 70's. On the way down, below the border I noticed many changes-changes in the attitudes of the passengers on the bus, changes in the weather (yes, the temperature really had a bad effect on me-i.e., my two week stay in the South left me ten pounds underweight- ten pounds of constant perspiration), and most important of all a change in my mother. The change in the attitude of the passengers was to be expected and it really didn't upset me much. In cities like Chicago, Indianapolis, and Cleveland the attitude of the passengers was a philosophical open-mindedness; but when we arrived in places like Memphis, Lexington, and Nashville this philosophical open-mindedness changed to the narrowness of racial bigotry. I guess this was due in part to the coming and going of the passengers. All of the Northern passengers departed in Northern cities taking along with them their philosophical open-mindedness; and the Southern passengers buarded in Southern cities bringing along with them their racial bigotry. This was to be expected, but "man it so put a hurt on me!" The change in my mother was something totally unexpected, and one can imagine the shock which gripped me when I saw a strong domineering woman change to one of a lesser magnitude. The South with its Jim Crowism and segregation has many effects upon a Negro. This was one of them. But let me tell you a little about my stay. After we arrived and got settled in at the house of one of my cousins- I later found out that an entire block in the city housed relatives of mine- I fell exhausted into bed. The next day I met some of my cousins for the first time. To them I was 33 �the big city slicker. To me they were a bunch of "lelnons"people who don't know what the happenings are. My aunt made the introductions. "Tommie Lee, come here boy. I wants you to meet your cousins from Chicago. Tommie Lee!" Thomas Lee Jones was a boy of impressive physical stature. He was a six-footer with weight and muscle. "Tommie this 'ere is your cousin, Melvin. I wants you to show him around 'ere and meet some of our people." "Yes'm," said Tommie to her. To me he said nothing, not even the customary "How are you?" I later found out Tommie was somewhat suspicious of me. It seemed all Negroes from Chicago raised hell when they hit Georgia. I quickly assured him nothing of the kind would happen with me. After we got to know each other, I found we had a great deal in common. At the time I had a big crush on a girl back honle- Tommie was engaged to be married in late August; we both played baseball and the same club had looked at us as prospective big leaguers; and we both were born on the same day hours apart! "Hey Melvin," asked Tommie as we were driving along a long straight section of highway- which one can compare to the highways in Iowa, but instead of the traditional rows and rows of corn in Iowa this highway was lined with cotton- "have you ever played '2 + 2= 0' before?" Puzzled by what he meant by '2 + 2= 0' I said, " No, I can't say that I have, but I'm game." Right away with my quick calcultivating mind I thought '2 + 2= 0' fool." "I'm gaIne! That's cool talk for I'll go along if you go too, isn't it?" "Ya, man. That's about what it means," I said somewhat amazed. (I took a lot for granted with my cousin- I kept forgetting I was a big slicker and he was a little country boy.) Anyway, I found out what he meant by '2 + 2= 0'. No sooner had I uttered "means" that Tommie had stomped on the accelerator and we were doing 115. Needless to say I was scared and in a few seconds I had more reason to be so. A highway patrol car hidden in some bushes along the highway came busting out with sirens wailing and guns firing. I said "What in the hell is goin' on?" 34 �Tommie, glancing into the rear view mirrow, answered calmly, "Oh, them's the police. You see they are the other part of the game. If they catches us we lose, '2 + 2= 4' and then we go to jail, but if they don't catches us~ we is the winners '2 + 2= 0'. How do you like that cousin Melvin ?" Tommie- us-Iet's make it. I've heal'd what they do- " a bullet whizzed by and scraped the front door- do to the blood from the North. I don't want to end up out of it man, so let's make it!" Tommie was a good man. We went into the back country and eluded the "man." I wanted to leave the state of Georgia and in a hurry, but I stayed and enjoyed myself. This game we played is only one of the several weird things that happens everyday in the South. Negroes are jailed for looking "with a gleam in their eyes" at white girls; shows are strangely integrated- Negroes go into the alley- a dirty, stinky, pissed-in alley- and pay their show fare and gO upstairs into the balcony to view the show while the white kids participate in this integ'r ation by going through the front door and viewing the show from the best seats in the house. "Hey, black boy!" and "Nigger" are the customary greetings a white boy gives to a Negro who is fortunate enough to be his friend, and the back of the bus station has its "Whites Only" signs. I viewed these circumstances with a somewhat humor ous attitude. I could not help but think "Is this for real?" Every insult from a white boy was tucked away in my mind and answered with "Wait till I get back home. You white bastar ds will be sorry." Well, we got home safely and those white bastards were .sorry. My brothers, Tony and Gene, and I were coming from downtown Chicago one day and some white boys made the mistake of forgetting where they were. "Hey, look at them niggers. They think they're some cool duds." They were trying to be complimentary. I could tell it, but my brothers could not, especially the younger one, Tony. That Tony is something. Although he is the baby boy of the family he will be the toughest. He has the physical stature, 5'11' and 160 pounds, and the mental conditioning- meanness combined with the love of family. If I hadn't stopped him, he would have jumped that poor, blushing, grinning blond on the bus. The incident passed, or so I thought. As we got off at our stop, I noticed Gene and Tony were not with me anymore. They had slipped back and 35 �were dusting those white boys something awful. and grabbed both of them. I went back "Come on man! Be cool. You've already did them in. Leave 'em be. The dirty bastards'll know who to mess with next time. And they'll remember this ain't no Mississippi or Alabama." After that little incident, things changed drastically; or better yet they went back to the old routine- going to school, playing basketball, and living. I don't mean living in the literal sense either, but figuratively speaking. Man, that semester was out of sight! Parties, girls, and parties! (And I might add: in that order.) It all came to an end in January when I graduated. Yeah, party life was over for the hard life of working, but that illusion was put to an end. My first job was at the Post Office. Working at the Post Office was quite an experience. I really should say not working at the Post Office was quite an experience because that is just what I did. This was a job made possible by one of the government's many Youth Opportunity Centers. It was really an attempt to maintain a status quo of nearly full employment during the summer months and thus keep the standard of living at a high level. My first day at the job I was taken aside by some of the veteran employees- one was an alumnus of my high schooland told: "Well, looka ' ere. We've got a new one!" "You'd better be cool 'cause I ain't takin' no jive off of nobody," I said after sizing the vets up. I knew now was the time to let them know I was regular. "Ah, we wa.s only playing with you. Don't be a sourpuss." After giving them the usual lowdown I was accepted quite readily, to my surprise, and taken aside and given some advice on how to succeed in business without really trying. "Looka 'ere Jim baby. There's one thing you've got to do around here. Stick with the boys no matter what the c'ause or reason. We've got to show them- 'them' is the white man, the boss- that we ain't gonna take no jive." "Ya," added Maxey my fellow alumnus, "If we can show him the blood sticks together we've gone a long, long way in doing what we want." 36 �"And if we do that," added some character in tints and wearing a goatee, "we can do as much or as little work as we want. But remember-we got to stick man. Don't be a big shot. Know your limits." After messing around in the adult world for a little over a year, I decided I wanted to go to college. I figured that by getting a college education I could make a little money, be my own boss, and help my people. The decision was not one reached by careful analysis, but one arrived at by an outside stimulus. The stimulus was a gang fight. I had had enough of the bloodshed, seeing my boys go to jail, and the people. This was not the life for me. I was tired of the "Black Power," "Burn, Baby, Burn," and "Kill Whitey" .slogans. Ghetto life was beginning to get unbearable so I came to ... Morningside College. It is a beautiful place outwardly. There is an intermingling of the old with the new. The buildings are covered with vines and the roads rise gracefully to a peak at each hilltop. The grass turns beautifully green in the spring. The girls in their bright summer dresses polka-dot the campus, their skins a nice burnt brown. That's outwardly. Inwardly, there is a lot of trouble. In the liberalism of a small college, one naturaly assumes that this liberalism would boil over into racial compatibiity; but alas, this is not the case. A Negro with a white girl walking across the campus-a strange phone call at night saying-"and leave that white girl alone Nigger!"; a white girl with a Negro-social ostracism; and Negro with N egro-"Don't they want to be accepted?" College life is beginning to be unbearable. After being here a while I realize this is not the answer. I only realized this a couple of weeks ago while talking to one of my f.riends. "You know something Bobby. This school, the people in it, and this city can 'all go to hell. I was prejudiced to a certain extent before I came here but now I am more so. Why- if I had a choice between saving a black life and a white one, I'd save that black one and try to help kill that white one." "But, Jim-you should look on the bright side of things." "Are you kidding me?" "There are a lot worse places than here. You could be in a rat-hole of a college. I agree with you on some aspects about this place, but it can't be that bad. Your college life is, what you 37 �make it. The only difference between you and I is: You are black and I am white." "I see you've noticed too." "Oh, come on now! Don't give me a hard time." "0. K., Bobby. But listen! Do you know what it is to have so much and then not to have anything? Dig- this city doesn't have a boss radio station- a station that plays some boss sides and sounds. I hear a jam here three months after it has left the big city. There ain't nobody I can talk a little jive to. The girls here are stuck up and besides, who would talk to a boot, anyway? Damn-I was here three months before I found a Negro barber and that is a shame." "Gee-I didn't know the situation was that bad." So now you know. What are you going to about it?" 38 �Fog Of Still Morning Randall J. Gate.s Why do you say I can't love the fog? All you damned sun-lovers! You are the incurable romantics, Not me who you claim is lost. I love (and hope for) fogIts mystic mystery Its clouds, its night, Its intrigue . . . You practical idiots and your sun! You can't afford To close your eyes And see.... An Admonition Marj orie Beasley The raspberries of summer can be saved, but they grow cold, or are stifled in ajar of preservatives. Our love my love your love like raspberries, should be taken while fresh off the bush and enjoyed in the hot .sweat heat of summer. Kept too long it may turn stale, mold, or simply lose the flavor causing us to treasure it as now. I offer you my raspberries, dew wet and natural sweet. Why therefore let tartness or retrogradation part us? 39 �A Ride On A Candle Randall J . Gate.s Once, riding on a candle, A flame glistening against the dim background of Blue walls (dark blue), A watchword that said Lonely, Said it not in word, Not in the confines Of picky poor meaningless meanings, Rang- but not sangThrough that drifty chasm That was Mind, formless, A fervor of unknowing. Beckoning in its voiceless mystery, The word which was not a word Said in all its inability to "say": "This is Being." In reply, stumbling through Formless thoughts of non-phrase, Just a gaze at that Delirious, yet somehow unruffled flame. 40 �Rain Rebekah Stone The rain fills my brain Like the longing fills my soul. The soil is pelted by the rain So it is not unfulfilled; While I, in my tragic tearlessness, Sit alone and envy the innocent soil. Fruit trees thrust their roots in the earth, And bear fruit and bright leaves. Nothing is anchored in me, I be'ar only lonelines.s and selfless sorrow And straddle my nameless nothing world With only rain to watch. I dare not look at trees. Alone Rebekah Stone I rush the day, hurrying each second and hour, Waiting for dark, and sometimes only silence. Then, I sleep; awaking, dreaming, worried sleep, Full of hopes for the next day or the next. The lazy dropping rain of time Cannot be the sudden storm I long for, desperately. But even a gentle rain will sometime end. Still, then should also be a time Of soft slow showers, with every Second slightly suspended. How often time is meaningless Until we are alone. 4:1 �H'e Looks At The Water Kathryn Bauman He wears in his heart A salty tongue. He tastes his words and is still. Bars and oranges. What do you seek, old fisherman, With your beard to the wind? I seek, sir, the water Of the seas. And the salt tears, From where do they come? I weep, sir, the water Of the seas. And this grave bitterness, Where was it born? Very bitter is the water Of the seas! The sea Smiles from far off, Teeth of foam, Lips of sky. 42 �Song To My Age Of Love: S'o mething Not Of A Season Randall J. Gates Give me light that I may see your beauty, For your beauty is power of itself. In other than face and shape Do I see your charms: You live in mood, In soft word, And in prayerful silence. There lies your beauty. I have seen your light and Now I see your beauty. It grows in me as it has grown for you; For now as I am witness To your mood and word and stillness; Now I live in your charms: Seeking the beauty that is you, And loving your beauty, hoping it's mine. hand in hand Douglas V . Johnson the wind through the trees dropping walnuts green; pungent in odor, smell them. the rhubarb ( bitter grows with rain-catching leaves. those green apples on trees forbidden, with hidden desires to eat them eat them. while hand in hand through the park we walk we've hidden desires to eat them. they will make you sick, those green apples43 �Please Don't Stop The Carnival Marj orie Beasley Please don't stop the carnival just because the carousel refuses to turn. For a moment we shall dismount from stucco steeds, and wait by a cottonwood tree. Against future appetites shall we partake of lemon- frosted camels and chocolate buffalo. Pink lemonade may serve as our wine. Keep the barker crying to come see marvels or learn the secrets of a twisted hall. . Give children popcorn and a thousand thrills and chills in imaginary rocket rides. Make live the kaleidoscope of reality in helium balloons or lights of ferris· wheels. Soon the carousel shall race again - Live for this cotton-candy hour, harmonize with the rising calliope tune. As life must go on, even though love has stopped temporarily, Carnivals go on in their noisy way, even when carousels refuse to turn. 44 �Carnivals Marj orie Beasley One doesn't go to carnivals alone. They are a place for two and many. A game of sharing, crazy-dreaming is a carnival. And lights. Carnivals are cheap toys-on-sticks at not cheap prices and prizes for that eager girl at her hero's side. They are cotton-candy at the monkey show, or lemonade, or mustard-on-the-chin. They are meant to be footlongs eaten at both ends till the center meets; the whirled breeze of the carousel with a tight arm on one's waist; from the conquest of a kaleidoscope world held but temporarily, be swept down to reality. Carnivals are all electric lights, a kiss in the dark. One shouldn't go to carnivals alone. To SM Harley Rye Johnson Why I let it remain, why I didn't carefullly pare it away, I'll never know. Perhaps a knowledge greater than mine, a power of thought more perceptive than mine, made me know the curtain was not to be removed - Indeed, was a very part of the one who stood behind it. 45 �The Sun Loved Down Douglas V . Johnson Feel for light with sight lacking distance. Pupils enlarged you grope in the dark. Dreaming of fight; wanting of night; exclaiming in bold revelations, and the light blinded the sight. Drunk and fed we lie in bed; groping, the dark loving, the dark, secure, the dark, the sight blinded with light. The sun shone down, beat down, loved down; the light, the light, the light, the light, the beautiful, beautiful, beautiful blasphemous light ... blinded the sight. 46 �1964 Rebekah Stone I was beautiful once, But only that one summer When the pain and joy of being Forced itself through my body Like a butterfly pushing through the Shallow walls of its cocoon. Running down the beach in the rain Was as natural then As opening my eyes to wake, Or walking barefoot through the park. People watched and wondered, And never seemed to know; As if they'd never been alive. I never wondered. The sky, the sun, the fog, Were friends who laughed with me, And ran, and sometimes cried Tears just to form an oasis in the sand, Or add a ,p art of ourselves to the tide; Or just the thrill of being sad. 47 �Escape From Reality: The Aftermath Of Death Glenda Tanksley Dark hysteria explodes the sun, Smashing youth upon the rocks of life. The wounds lay open to salt and dirt. The pain escapes the grasps of reason, The mind fights only to survive it. Life becomes a bitter race to escape It. Gospel, friends, philosophy, loving arms, All turn to stone at the touch; Comfort cannot be given nor received, The desperation of loneliness rips the heart The exhausted mind screams in a vacuum, as Dark hysteria explodes the sun. 48 �Listen! Rebekah Stone Listen! What am I? I am neither male nor female, Nor anything else known, or unknown In the world. I am the spirit of something That never existed. I am all the unreached goals, Unaspired for hopes, unanswered dreams, And forgotten stars, of all who ever lived, And some who never shall. I speak to you But you hear only memories; You look at me And see an empty mirror. I tell you that now Is the time for greatness, World. I don't expect you'll listen; You never have. 49 .. �Windowpane Boy Kathryn Bauman Windowpane boy, Your childhood now a legend of seagulls Dashing the sky With icicles of the moon and fish of China. Growing on seas of clouds And on the shore of your dreams You linger on stained glass shadows, Yourself lost in restless solitude. Love, love the flight of sand Through the endless heart of whiteness And your childhood-love your childhood Lone boy in the murmuring ocean and color Of the old hours, Your childhood now a legend of sea gulls. 50 ��� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College. Through its several titles—Manuscript, Perspectives, and Kiosk—the magazine has a long history of celebrating creative writing and art on campus. It began publication in 1938 under the title of Manuscript before changing its name to Perspectives in 1953. Then in 1971 it took another name that it is known by currently: Kiosk. It is still published annually by the Morningside College English Department. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1938- Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Morningside College Library Morningside College English Department Ponder, Marcie: Digital Creator Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical PDF Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Title A name given to the resource Kiosk Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource "The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children," (The Kiosk, 2003). Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. PERSPECTIVES VOLUME XXVI SPRING 1967 NUMBER 1 Editorial Committee L. William Bower, Jr. J. Gregory Clark Janet Cunningham Margot Fall Rebekah Stone Art Consultants ............... ___ .......... _ _ .... ................ __ ............ Mr. William Zimmerman Mr. Stanley Sutter Faculty Advisor _ ............................... __ _ _ .. ..... .... .................. Dr. Carrol McLaughlin This volume of PERSPECTIVES is published by the Departments of Art and English, Morningside College, Sioux City, Iowa New Laws, Old Racism from Krokodil, September 1966 Translated from the Russian by B'Ann Bowman One-hundred years ago, after President Lincoln signed the law freeing the Negroes, a Negro in a southern town went up to a white man and said to him in just one sentence, "Hello, brother." From surprise, the white man became even whiter than the sheet in which he was wrapped at his birth. It seemed to him that the judgement day had arrived. He ran to the nearest tavern and told all of his friends, white men like himself, about it. And then the whites, in order to restore the established order, went to the home of the Negro who said to the white man, "Hello, brother," and lynched him in the presence of all the Negroes who had just read the law of the President and expected that something would come of it. After this the white southerners burned the first edition of the Constitution of the United States of Americ'a and the new law and-satisfied-dispersed to their homes. They say that thus was born the Ku Klux Klan which last year marked its one-hundred-year anniversary from the day of its foundation. One hundred years after Lincoln, who was killed by slave owners several months after the signing of the civil rights law, the 36th President of the U. S. A., Lyndon Baines Johnson, enacted not one but three laws on the civil right of Negroes, and a Negro from a southern town went up to a white Southerner 'and said to him that same sentence which once his great-great-grandfather had said. The same thing happened to him that happened to his great-great-grandfather. But unlike their ancestors, this generation of co-nationals calmly went out onto the street and began to demand that they should be treated as the laws giving them human rights stated-those written 100 years ago and those signed not long ago by the 36th President of the U. S. Not long ago in the Alabama county of Lowndes, where out of 15,417 people, 12,425 are Negroes, the registration of voters began. According to these laws which were signed 100 years ago, and according to the last three laws of President Johnson, Negroes had all the rights to register to vote; and they registered in order 3 to elect their candidate in the local municipal council. Two thousand Negroes, the first ones in 100 years, registered. Among the whites in this county were 1,900 people with suffrage, but no less than 2,500 whites registered (is it really possible for the Ku Klux Klan to register twice as many as were actually in the county?). Indeed the law of the KKK by which from time immemorial the white people of Lowndes county have lived, s'a ys that black men may not govern white men even on the level of a municipal council. Lowndes is a small county, but all America knew that the Negroes attempted to force their way to power. Then from the pages of even the most respectable pUblications on the Negro leadership, which demanded (according to the laws passed 100 years ago and the last three) that the Negroes be granted the possibility to participate in the electoral process, rivers of dirt were poured. The reasoning of the organizers of this verbal dirt eruption was very simple-slander the leaders of the movement for civil rights and at the same time close the eyes of world opinion: look, the racist is not guilty of the program in the Negro ghetto, but rather the Negroes who demand that they be granted power. Not long ago fascist youth in Chicago following the example of their great-great-grandfathers dashed onto a peaceful demonstration of Negroes with sticks and brass knuckles. And then, satisfied that the established order had been restored, they burned in front of the city hall the latest publication of the Constitution of the U. S. A. along with the just-printed laws of the present President. Gray Morning Roger Hardy The morning was gray. The hanging mist fused the color of spring into a neutral unfocused realm. Tires rolling on the wet pavement droned up and down the broad avenue. The sparrows of the early morning cowered on the telephone wires refusing to fly. The morning was muted and dull and there was no hope of sun. Edmund stood stoically by a large brown telephone pole with the words "bus stop" carelessly painted in an off-orange. As he leaned against the pole he felt a moist layer of decaying wood on his fingers. Realizing what he had done, he frowned in distaste. He removed his hand and examined the soft fibers of dead wood and proceeded to wipe it on his colorless jacket. The foul taste of hurried breakfast haunted his mouth with an unsavory taste. He blinked his eyes momentarily, reacting to the cold morning droplets of mist hitting his face. Bowing his head, he dug the crystals ·of sleep implanted in his eyes. The hissing of air brakes broke the monotony of the morning as the large yellow and green vehicle came to a halt before him. Mechanically, Edmund hurried into the dim light and warmth of the interior. Just as mechanically the driver gave him a smile of indifference. To secure his balance, Edmund grasped a chrome vertical bar as he felt the uneasy acceleration of the machine. He grimaced as he fumbled in his pocket for the necessary coin. He held the coin pinched in his fingers until it was directly over the slot and then released it into the grinding machinery below. After staggering to the back of the bus, he bounced onto a seat. Just as he had secured his seat and carefully placed his lunch bucket on the floor, the bus came to a halt. The doors folded open and the head of an old man popped into Edmund's view. Switching his lunch bucket fron1 one hand to the other, the old man dug in his small black leather purse, produced the coin, and then snapped it shut. After wishing the driver a good morning and carefully depositing his coin in the metal box, he started for the end of the bus. Edmund almost smiled as he watched the old man sway from the uneasy acceleration. The old man ge.stured to Edmund and bounced onto the seat opposite him. "Good morning," the old man said with a smile as he carefully placed his lunch bucket in his lap. "Morning," Edmund replied mechanically. There was a 5 ------ .. pause as they sat there and looked at each other; then Edmund broke eye contact by looking out the speckled window. He noticed how much more unfocused the morning seemed with the droplets of mist on the window. As he peered out the window, he could feel the old man's eyes watching him. That old man insists on staring at me . . . every morning he sits across from me and even when I pay no attention to him he still is there ... I can feel his eyes on me and I can see him without looking ... sitting there like a lump on a log ... always the same . . . the same goofy smile and the same line of bologna to hand out. God I hate to talk to that man; he's just like a child ... those kids ... standing there ... bundles in the morning mist waiting for a school but ... books and lunch buckets ... Catholic kids, yeah, only Catholic kids wait for a bus, other kids live close enough . . . .speckled windows. "Looks like a little bad weather out there." the old man reported to Edmund's profile. "Yeah, · otten weather," Edmund grunted as he wiped r his nose with his finger. There was a pause as they looked at each other. The old man turned and looked out the window. That smile, that's what bugs me; every morning that same dumb smile ... bib overalls ... leather watch fob . . . his hands over his lunch bucket like he had something valuable in there . . . bologna ... smell of bologna every morning and that lunch bucket with the shiny bare spots of metal ... how many years does it take to wear the paint off like that ... shiny spots ... his hand over his lunch bucket, his hands look swollen and glossy and so red. a finger gone, second finger on his right hand ... no finger. "Poor kid, look 'a t that poor kid - - bus passed him right up," reported the old man as he pointed at the boy standing in the mist making an obscene gesture at the bus. The morning was gray and there was no hope of sun. Edmund returned to staring out the speckled window. Goofy old man ... that old man ... he never changes . . . same clothes, same shoes, same little smile, same smell of bologna, same lunch bucket . . . over and over and it never changes . . . screwing a nut on a bolt, hundreds of bolts, hundreds of screws . . . one bolt to one screw . . . the pounding of the machines . . . the sound. "How are things at United Castors?" the old man broke out. "Ahhh, it's going okay ... ahhh got a raise in pay ... ahhh starts today," Edmund spoke mechanically. "Yup, a guy's gotta have a good steady job, you've gotta 6 earn that bread, that's what makes the world go round," returned the old man with his eyebrows arched. "You got a real good job there, they're good people to work for." "Good, bad or indifferent, a job is a job and somebody has to do it, but it'll do 'til I find out exactly what I want" "What you want 1" "Yeah, what I want to do." Well, what do you want to do 1" "If I knew that I would do it," Edmund replied in a matterof-fact manner. A look of disdain came over his face as he turned his head to the window. "Well, this moisture is just what we need - -" the old man spoke in an apologetic tone. His eyes, they're strange . . . waxen 'a nd all . . . just like Uncle Louis looked in the casket at the funeral parlor. The morning is gray ... my heart, I can feel it pumping my blood ... a pump ... a machine ... out the speckled window trees weep and children walk ... it's been so long since I was that age; not really - it really doesn't seem that long . . . waiting for the bus - books and lunch bucket, waiting in the mist of morning . . . time goes so quickly ... yet I can't imagine it moving ... in me it doesn't seem to be change ... it only moves outside me ... only things out there change. "Well it won't be long now. Nope it won't be long at all," the old m'a n grinned ear to ear as he patted his lunch bucket. Edmund paused as he noticed how the old man's face wrinkled into so many cracks and fissures; it reminded him of leather that had spent too much time in the sun and rain. "Ah, won't be long for what?" Edmund finally spoke. Vacation, yes sir, two weeks of vacation - -" the old man grinned with pleasure; there was a far away look in his eyes. This smile was different from his other little complacent smile he carried with him constantly. "Yes sir, two weeks of fishing. I hear they are really gettin' big up there. Fishing's a great sport - - great." The old man settled back in his ,s eat and took a deep breath. There was a pause as they sat there and looked 'at each other. "Where do you fish?" Edmund finally inquired. "Lake Lathucato up near Nicetown - - a great lake ... some Indian named it I guess. Do you know what it .means - - lake of the dead. That old Indian sure was not talkin' about fish, no sir," chuckled the old man. 7 "Lake of the dead," Edmund repeated; "you're joking?" "No, no that's the truth, Heaven help me," added the old man, still grinning. "You see it's an old Indian story - - old as the hills. This big Indian a long time ago said that the lake would be inhabited by ghosts - - well not exactly ghosts - - you know, those kind of people who look like they're alive but really they're dead?" "Zombies - -" "Yeah, sort of like Zombies." The morning was gray and the sun would not shine. Edmund stared out the speckled window again. That old man ... there he is sitting there on the bank of a blue-green lake, basking himself in the sun like a lizard ... He's got that half-grin, just sitting there waiting, maybe for the big catch ... look at him now; his eyes are blank. The hissing of the air brakes broke the spell. "Yup, just three more years and I can retire; JOIn my retired friends up at Lathucato and fish everyday, yes sir, everyday." As the old man spoke his eyes were ,still far away. "Forty years, yup, I served my time on the work list and now comes the cream, when time is my own and I can fish - - forty years at the same job and now I can fish - - forty years at the same job and noW I can be free to do as I please - - oh, oh, here's my stop - -" spoken in a note of finality. The old man slowly stood up and moved cautiously to the first step, exchanged the lunch box from one hand to the other, grasped the chrome vertical bar, and turned around to Edmund. "Good day." "Yeah, goodbye - -" There he goes with his baggy pants and his lunch bucket ... his head hanging down ... what 'an old fool ... fool that amounts to nothing but a pension ... he's an old nothing who doesn't know it. "There is a world full of things to do," Edmund said to himself as he saw his stop approaching. "Well, I better get in gear, Edmund muttered as he picked up his lunch bucket with a swing of his arm. He rubbed the bucket and felt the bare spots of metal that were beginning to form. "In gear?" Edmund inquired silently. He felt strange. There was no hope of sun on that gray morning. "Time to go to work," he muttered to himself. lt had begun to rain. o 8 The Legacy Janice Hill Usually I didn't visit Inez on days when the green curtains were drawn. Experience had taught me that these were the days when she wanted to' be alone. But I was even lonelier than usual that day, so I rang her doorbell anyway, knowing that if she truly didn't want company she, wouldn't answer the door. As I stood there shivering in my brother's old blue jeans and a torn T-shirt I could hear Inez playing her mandolin in accompaniment to her husky Spanish voice. She came to the door wearing a white sashed tunic over black leotards. Her black hair glistened softly off her brow, flowing smoothly down her slender back; her skin was a pale contrast to the blackness of the leotard and her hair. Her green eyes, the most startling of her features, gave her a feline look, but they spoke of more than animalistic grace. They spoke of disappointment and, to some extent, defeat and disgust. . She smiled softly as she let me in and we silently made our way to the back of the house. I was only eight that fall, but I understood that any conversation must wait until we reached the room Inez called her studio. The studio was a large room with two walls of glass which were now enclosed with heavy draperies of olive green burlap. These were the curtains I had checked so heedlessly before I rang the doorbell. The other two walls, on which were hung Inez's paintings, were stark white. There was little furniture in the room. In one corner was the low table on which Inez did her sculpturing, in another stood her easel, under the paintings was a row of bookshelves filled with her books. In the very center of the room, over some olive green cushions, a low lam, gave out a yellow cone of p light. Inez motioned for me to sit on a cushion. She kneeled beside me and continued playing her mandolin. After a time she stopped. Her eyes pierced mine and she said, "Priscilla, I think you and I are the mistakes of Blair Street." Leaving me to ponder on that, she jumped up and pulled the easel and her paints into the cone of light and began to dab at a halffinished picture. It was a green painting, as were all of Inez's yet it was un9 like any of those hanging on the walls around us. The background was a dull mottled olive green. Over this was a lattice of beige. There were two figures struggling to climb the lattice. The first was a woman with flowing black hair, the other was that of a child. The woman was struggling to maintain her position with her feet and one hand. In the other hand she held that of the child, whom she seemed to be dragging along. I couldn't understand the meaning of the painting but I knew that Inez must mean for the figures to be her and me, and I felt sad because her hand was bleeding in the picture. I stood looking over her shoulder for awhile, then I went back to my cushion and broke the silence that was the general rule of our visits. "Inez, why is everything green for you ?" She paused for a moment and gazed deeply at me. It was a look I'd seen often; 'adults always used it when they were trying to decide if I could understand what they were going to tell me. Evidently she decided that she could make me understand, because she smiled faintly and rested her brush carefully on the tray of the easel. Again she pau.sed, as though planning her words very carefully. Outside the wind blew menacingly 'a nd it was beginning to rain, but I felt very safe sitting there in that cone of light with Inez. When she finally spoke, her words were so soft that at first I couldn't hear them over the wind. " ... supposing that there is a god, I think his favorite color must be green. Everything of importance that he surrounds us with is green. The grass is green, trees are green, the largest parts of the flowers are green, with their petals serving as a gentle complement. "A very famous Spanish writer once said that blue was the color of God. To him the blue of the sky and sea meant spring and youth and beauty. But I disagree. Yes, the sky and the sea are blue; but, you see, Priscilla, the sky is just a big blue nothing and the sea is just a reflection of this blue nothing. "A young and very good poetess wrote: 'God, I can push the grass apart And lay my finger on Thy heart.' 10 That's what I think, too. If there is a god his very pulse beats in the green of this world. "Green is the color of spring, of hope and strength and fertility. At the same time green is the color of reality, the reality of pain and weakness and death. Green is illusion and reality at once. "Do you know what color most of the world is today? There are some pastel pinks and blues and a few washed out lavenders, but most of it is beige. I'll bet that nine out of ten living rooms on Blair Street have beige walls and carpets, with brown couches and either turquoise or orange accents. Bejge is conformity. Think of it, Priscilla! What in nature is beige? Nothing, except m'a ybe some sand or rocks, which produce nothing. "The world today is beige; but, you and I, Priscilla, we've got to be gr een. Green like the shady forest, the fertile meadow. We've got to find enough reality in us to change at least a little of the beige to green. This was the legacy I meant to leave to my daughter, but you're the daughter that I won't have, so I leave it to you." There was nothing to say. I wondered if I should thank her for the legacy, but I didn't know what the word meant so I kept still. Inez didn't seem to expect any response from me. She picked up her mandolin and strummed 'a few chords of the Spanish song. Her eyes which had flashed so when she told me about the green were muted behind her long black lashes. I felt that Inez was no longer aware of my presence so I quietly got up and let myself out of the house. When I got home I walked into my mother's comfortable living room and, for a long time, I stared at the beige walls and carpet. I think that that was when I first understood a little of what Inez had meant. The next day my mother wouldn't let me go over to Inez's house. She said that Inez was gone. In all these years I've never asked what happened to Inez, because I know that wherever she is she still has her world of green. 11 Bread For The Day Ruth H. Larson The habit of years would not be broken; the woman woke early. In those last moments of semi-consciousness the raucous chatter of starlings in the trees across the ,s treet impressed upon her mind. Her first glance was toward the window. The sun was not yet up, but the pre-dawn light was dim; she knew it would be cloudy again today. A gust of wind sent a shower of yellow leaves against the window. The dampness in the 'a ir made the bare branches black against the sky. Involuntarily she shivered and pulled the blanket around her shoulders. "That was silly," she thought, "I'm not really cold. This house has always been warm, even in the wildest winter storms." She thought with pride of her home. "I love it; it's part of me. Sure it's old, just like me, but it keeps me comfortable. And it looks nice." There was pride in her eyes as she inspected once again the glistening window, the crisp folds of the newly laundered curtains, the gleam of the polish on the floor. "I like it, and I like taking care of it." She sighed, "I just wish Kate wouldn't fuss so about me doing my work." She chuckled, "Wouldn't she have had a conniption if she knew I changed that light bulb myself?" Without hurrying, she dressed for the day. Always, in the morning she moved a bit slow and stiff. "It isn't so much that I hurt, though; it's just that I don't have anything to hurry about." The warm washcloth felt good, and she talked to her mirror, "So Kate thinks I'm too old to work. Five yea'r s younger she is. You'd think it was twenty. Can't say that her not working has kept the wrinkles out of her face." She peered more closely. "No sir, I just don't believe I have any more wrinkles than I did twenty years ago." She chuckled again. "Least I can't see 'any more without my glasses on!" At the dresser she picked up the photo of young Jim in uniform. No matter how many times a day she looked, she always felt this quick stab: he looked so much like his dad, only the uniform was different. "Don't reckon it's cold and damp where you are, boy. More likely so hot you can hardly bear it." Her head bowed briefly as she returned the photo to its place. At each of the other bedrooms she stopped briefly. 12 All was in order. No one had slept here for many weeks, but "just in case" they were 'r eady. Maybe Gladys would come with her girls for the weekend. Or maybe Joe would have to sell out this way next week. "It doesn't matter why they come, we're ready, aren't we, house?" Downstairs, she took the long way through, stopping to greet the other grandchildren photographically arrayed on the piano. She patted straight the doily covering the arm of the big old overstuffed chair. Dad had been pretty' careful with his pipe, but that one day he and Hans had been so excited about "that 'dumkopf' in the White House giving away our good tax money"! It was a wonder the whole chair hadn't burned before they noticed it. "Kate thinks that chair is terrible, too. Of course I never sit in it- my legs wouldn't even touch the floor. But Joe and Rich and Jim like it when they come. And last summer little Jeanie loved to sit there with her dolls and things all spread out round her. This room wouldn't look the same without it. That Kate. always knows what's best for other people." Breakfast was a simple affair- a glass of juice, an egg fried sunny side up, a piece of toast with apple butter, a hot cup of coffee with cream and sugar. But she lingered at the table. The humming of the teakettle, the click-elick-click of the toaster, and the sputtering of the frying egg had been comforting. The simple blue plate and cup contrasted with the white oilcloth, and the embroidery on the toaster cover gave the colorful warning that hot toast will make the butter fly. Bertha smiled as she .spread the rich brown apple butter over the warm toast. "Mmm- it even smells good." The red-checked curtains further warmed the room, but outside a few splatters of rain hit the window. The leaves scurried down the gutter. A truck shifted gears on the big hill on the highway outside town. Children called to each other as they met on the corner to go to school. Across the street, the appliance shOop truck pulled up just as the front door flew open and a tall young man dashed out the door. She smiled as the door opened again and Karen called shrilly, "Mark, Mark! You forgot your horn. And zip up your jacket- it's cold this morning." Bertha's wave was answered by the boy with a grin and by his mother with a quick wave as she led the repair man inside. "Well, at last he's come to fix her washing machine." She reached to turn on the little radio, noticing as she turned that a light .shone in Hans' kitchen. "That means he's up and around okay. Wouldn't he think I was a nosey old biddy if he knew how I watched him!" 13 I . I She finished clearing the table just ·as t he news began, so she sat down again to listen. It ,seemed like the same things: heavy fighting in Viet Nam, a platoon surrounded, light to moderate casualties ("Oh, Jim, are you there ?"); demonstrations in Chicago and Omaha; tragic car accident-two teen-agers killed; price index going up-a prediction for a rise in the cost of bread; weather outlook-continued cloudy and cool, occasional showers. She snapped the dial off. "That sure don't cheer a body up." The phone rang just as the little cuckoo came out of his house to say it again and again-nine times. Kate was right on schedule. "It took you so long to answer. Don't you feel good this morning?" "Nonsense, I feel perfectly fine. It's just that I was sitting and thinking about Jim." "The news didn't sound good today, did it? Nothing but troubles, troubles, troubles. Law, I don't know what this old world is coming to. Things didn't used to be this bad." "Oh, I suppose we always had troubles, too. Now it just seems so bad because we can't think of anything to do about it. How's John this morning?" "About the same- so slow to get around. Then when I ask him if he has pain and shouldn't he go to the doctor he gets grumpy. Says it's just old age. I'm always kind of glad when he leaves to go down town to get the mail. He doesn't seem to notice that I might need a little help." "Oh, don't you feel good today?" "Now you know I never feel good. I get that pain in my bones when it's so damp and chilly. And my hands are so stiff I'm afraid I'm going to drop the dishes. I'm just glad when I'm through cleaning up so I can go sit down a while. You ought to do a little more sitting around. What are you going to do today - clean the basement?" "Now Kate, you don't have to be sareastic. I'll bake bread." No- I think "Bake bread! That's ridiculous. It'.s too much work- and besides you'll never eat it all before it molds." "I always did like to make bread. It's been awhile since I've done it- all summer in fact. This is 'a good day for baking14 it might take some of the chill out of the air. Besides, didn't you hear that the price of bread might go up. Yessir, that's just what I'm going to do today-bake bread. I always did like to bake bread." "I sure don't know what to make of you. I do my best to watch over you and then you do these foolish things. You ought to just sit and take it easy today. - Oh, oh, John's ready to go and I want him to stop for some rolls at the bakery." The receiver clicked sharply. "That's funny. I wonder how I ever thought of making bread. But it's a real good idea." The recipe was soiled and wrinkled from much use. Actually, she hardly glanced at it as she scalded the milk, set out the bowls, and started the yeast in warm water. "And just a spoonful of sugar to staTt the yeast. How was it Joe explained that from chemistry class? Can't remember that-I just know a little leaven can make 3 loaves of bread light and good. -It will have to be white bread today. Wish I had some of that cracked wheat John used to make when he and Kate were on the farm. John likes home-made bread; I'll just take him some this afternoon. I wonder if that cracking machine isn't still in his old garage. I bet if he could still make that cracked wheat there'd be plenty of people who would buy some. It would give him something to do. Oh, maybe notthese young girls don't know how to make bread anymore. Who knows, maybe it only tasted good because we hadn't tasted any store-bought bread!" The dough was stiff now, so she scraped it onto the bread board. "Now we'll just cover you with this nice clean towel, and you have a little nap. A little rest is good for bread and little girls." It seemed as if she could reach out with her floury hands and hug the little Gladys on a chair beside her, eyes shining, pigtails bobbing, nose covered with flour 'a s she "helped Mommy make bread." There was one young woman who knew how to make bread! There was a good yeasty smell in the kitchen now and the dough felt good as she started to knead it-fold over, push down, turn it around-fold over, push down, turn it around. It was an automatic process for her, and she found herself humming as she worked. "That's the way my mother told me- you don't need to watch the clock; it should be well-kneaded by the time you sing all three verses: What a friend we have in Jesus, All our sins and griefs to bear; 15 vVhat a privilege to carry, Everything to God in prayer- " She took the corneT of her apron to wipe her eyes. "My goodness, Bertha, you must be getting old to be so sentimental." Into the big bowl went the pliant dough; covered again, it was set at the corner of the cupboard near the hot-air register. This was the best place in the house for bread to rise. "I'll just do up these dishes and then I'll sit down like Kate says I should. It's no use trying to hurry bread- just like raising kids- you put your loving in and do a little kneading to help them shape up and then you have to sit hack and watch and wait to see how they come out." As she went to hang her dishtowel on the line "to air out a bit" Hans was coming across the alley with a pail of apples. "These are the last ones. Just can't throw them out if somebody can use them. When I eat an apple, my teeth muve all over my mouth. I guess apples are for kids." Bertha laughed sympathetically. "Tell you what. I'll make a bargain with you. You get my mail for me and I'll make you some applesauce. Then your teeth won't fall out!" Just before noon, Hans came in with her mail, "Well, here you are- I've kept my part of the bargain, but there's nothing much today. An ad from a lumber yard- did you want to build a new house tomorrow? Oh, and let's see, I guess there is a letter here- from Des Moines- you know anybody in Des Moines- besides Gladys that is?" It was an old joke, but still good for a smile. "Say, is that my apple.sauce smells so good ? Nellie, she used to make a lot of applesauce. Somehow it kinda smells like home when applesauce is cooking. Hey, now, is that bread rising in those pans? You really are an old-timer today. What's got into you?" "I don't 'r eally know what's got into me. Kate thinks it's silly, but I like to make bread. Say, now, you could help me out. She thinks it will mold before it's all eaten up, but if you came over for supper and we had fresh bread and 'applesauce, that much wouldn't spoil anyway." "Well, now, as long as it would be helping you out, I guess I could spare the time from my social calendar. I don't believe I'm dated up tonight." "Good. I hope it turns out as nice as Nellie's always did." 16 So the day went. Her noon meal was her dinner: a meat patty, fried potatoes, a bit of green beans left from yesterday, the last tomato from the garden, sliced, and applesauce. The bread baked as she cleaned up the apple peels and cores and washed up the dishes and kettles. The loaves were formed perfectly, light and well-rounded, and baked with a crisp brown crust. The feeling of having done something important very well was so great as she placed the loaves on the rack to cool that once again she had to wipe away a tear. The kitchen was warm with the oven-heat and filled with the aroma of fresh bread. As she sat in her rocker waiting for the bread to cool, she dozed and dreamed so vividly of days gone by when baking was a routine part of her week that it took a moment to come back to the reality of the quiet, empty house. Carefully, she wrapped one of the loaves in a clean white towel and took it to Kate and John. Kate of course protested; she had known she would; but John was delighted. It was he who put on the teakettle, set out the flowered cups and plates, knives 'a nd spoons, and the plate of butter. "What we ought to have is freshchurned butter to go with this. But that's sure a thing of the past." Handing Bertha the knife and the loaf, he joked, "If you want lady-like slices, I guess you'll have to cut it." It was a feast -tea and bread and butter. Even Kate admitted, "I know you shouldn't have done all this work, but I guess I'm glad you did." The sun was shining as she left Kate's to walk home, but the sharp wind soon sent the clouds over the sun. She watched as they sped across the sky, racing against each other to shut off the warmth of the sun. Leaves crackled under her feet; occasionally she stopped to pick up one of especially bright or interesting coloring. She didn't hear the boy coming until he was almost up to her, "Hi, Neighbor, are you going my way?" "Sure thing, young man. And what makes you so late? Teacher keep you after school again?" "Aw, now, Mrs. Schmidt, you know I'm always a good little boy. No, we had football practice after school. Sure hope Mom made cookies today. I'm starved." "You and your hollow leg- and I bet your Mom has been washing clothes all day. Say, do you like homemade bread? Why don't you stop at my house for a snack?" "Homemade bread?! That's great. fresh bread since I visited Grandma." 17 Gee, I haven't had She watched with pleasure as he sat with his legs curled around the chair, leaning 'a n arm on the table as he told her of his day. She cut the bread thick this time; it had an even texture under the crisp crust, so that the butter spread smoothly. With a glass of milk, two slices were soon gone. His voice lacked conviction as he politely refused more, "No thanks, honest. I'd better not eat any more. It sure is good though. Will you tell Mom how to make bread like that?" "Here, you take this loaf home for supper. If your Mom thinks she wants the recipe, you tell her I'll be real glad to give it to her." Gladys' letter had said Jeanie was home with a sore throat; the) certainly wouldn't be able to come this weekend. She wrote a note to Jeanie, telling her how her Mother had liked to help her make bTead when she was young, wondering if they made bread together, hoping she would soon feel fine again and that she would bring her dolls and stay with Grandma soon. Supper with Hans was simple, maybe too plain-bread and butter, applesauce, and tea. The thick slices of bread were filling; the applesauce was not too sweet, the tea warmed them almost as much as the rose-colored memories of days gone by, when the simple things of life had been treasured. They had been friends a long time, the Schmidts and the Muellers; they talked on and on, remembering. When Hans left for home, he carried his bowl of applesauce and two slices of bread for breakfast toast. That left two slices for Bertha in the morning; she laughed as she thought of Kate worrying that the bread would mold before it was gone. It was too good for that! The wind swept the clouds away in the night; the morning sun gave a luminous quality to the autumn leaves and sparkled on the window pane. Once more the phone rang just as the cuckoo finished his ninth call. Today it rang ten, eleven, twelve times and was silent again. For today the woman lay in bed, and the 'room glowed with the light from the sun and the leaves. 18 Birth And Death John Rothfork It was strange, very odd. It wasn't even Sunday, yet the people, in their Sunday clothes - white shirts too tight at the collars and funny hats - were all going to St. John's. Stephen didn't want to go: he went enough. Besides, the robins chirped at him, but he couldn't chase them today. He trudged obediently with his fanlily on to the brick church, walking consciously because his sister had scolded him for tramping on Mrs. Clark's tulips. Stephen didn't like to walk on sidewalks. He usually skipped on the new grass at the edge of the concrete. He wished that now he could be skipping lightly with David on that dewy grass instead of going to church. That was odd too; instead of loitering on the sandy steps as his father always did, today he bl'isked on past them and into the dark church. Stephen wished he had stopped, for when his father stopped to talk with Mr. George or Mr. Clark, Stephen knew what would happen. He would soon get red in the face even though he would have loosened his broad tie; then poke his short, fat finger at his listeners while his other hand was busy sliding up and down the brown faded suspenders. When Stephen saw that his father's attention was completely absorbed in such arguments, then he and Mr. Clark's boy, David, would steal a few yards away, behind the high, white pillars of the entrance, and have their own discussions. They would imitate their fathers, chewing on im'a ginary pipes and thrusting their yet unformed stomachs out in a ludicrous manner, discussing vital political questions they overhe'ard: - Tell me Mr. Clark, do you think it was the communists or the protestants who started that demonstration at St. John's? -Well, Mr. Suraci, I think it was both; the communists started it and the protestants ... But, today they didn't stop. His father ushered Stephen and his sister ahead of him and into the church. His sister stopped at the small marble dish and delicately tapped the sponge with her fingernails, then brought her hand slowly close to her forehead and both shoulders. Stephen followed, plunging his dark hand into the wet sponge with 'a squelch and touched his forehead and shoulders with the wet hand while silently moving his lips. 19 Then, he turned half around to see if his father would follow. They stopped at a dark, thickly varnished pew far from the altar. Stephen and his sister genuflected and quickly filed into the narrow pew. Their father laboriously m'a de a curtsy, holding onto the next pew, and followed. Stephen felt a little strange kneeling .so far from the front. Every day he and David and the rest of their class sat in the sixth and seventh pews. On Sunday his father always had them sit near the back, but today wasn't Sunday; it was strange, for his father and the rest of the grownups were h ere in church bringing with them their noisy rosaries and prayer books. Stephen knelt on the hard green strip of vinyl and peered over the high pew at the dark altar. Outside he could still hear the birds calling, but they sounded far away and strange in the silent darkness of the church. The altar boys, Tom Larson and Jimmy Stone, came out of the sanctuary, each carrying in one hand a lighted taper and holding the other hand over their hearts. They lit the six tall candles and blew theiT own tapers out as they receded from the tabernacle and went back into the sanctuary. Stephen noticed that the tarnished golden sunlight broke through the high, circular, stained glass window and spilt past the altar and onto the opposite wall. The glass, the East window, contained the figure of Christ ascending from the charnel. He held his punctured limbs out to the people and, Stephen thought, looked sad. The old, limping priest entered, following the two slow walking boys, dressed in a long shiny black chasuble with a large golden cross on either side. Stephen and the people stood, the altar boys stopped, and the priest hobbled up to the altar. After fussing with the burse and the book, he again descended and began to mumble some prayers in a Latin monotone. Stephen started to follow the priest's drone, to pray, to talk with God, but soon his attention began to wane and was caught by the noisy birds who still tittered happily outside in the sunlight. He and David used to pass notes on the back of holy cards, but the nun soon caught them and made them sit on the floor in the basement of the convent after school and write down their own prayers for those they hadn't said in church. So, he and David then sat quietly in church, their eyes barely noticeable in their wanderings to the side doors, to the flowers, to the windows. But, today David wasn't here. So, alone Stephen turned his eyes to the stained window slightly opened, allowing the sounds of the street to sift in. 20 Stephen stood mechanically at the gospel and caught scraps of what the bent priest said: "I am the living bread ... if anyone eat of this hread he shall live forever . . ." Stephen brought his gaze from the bright window to the dark altar, but could see nothing other than the light from the window. He and the others sat while the priest bent over the stone altar and mumbled more unheard prayers. The bench was hard, and Stephen squirmed in a vain effort to find a comfortable position. One day David and he had been sitting through another long Mass, squirming and shifting to find a soft spot, when suddenly, during the Communion, David got up and walked out the back door, right past the nuns without even folding his hands. Stephen was so su:r.prised that he forgot the uncomfortable pew and left his mouth open in a vague wonder and horror of the action. At recess Stephen asked David how he ever found the courage to march out of the church. "I don't know," said David, "I was thinking of how hard the bench was and I just kept thinking and thinking and thinking and then, I got up and walked out. It felt good." Stephen almost wished he could get up now and leave, but he knew he couldn't. Suddenly, his attention was drawn back to the dim altar by a strange action of the priest. The old man was descending the altar and coming down to the people instead of retreating back into the sanctuary where he belonged. Two more boys came from the sanctuary, one bearing a small gold bucket and the other swinging a golden thurible. But why? The four boys and the old man formed a small huddle, and though Stephen couldn't see what was happening he knew the thurible was being filled by the old man. Then, the boys dropped the chasuble and sank behind the black-clad priest while he mumbled some prayers from a small black book. Stephen thought it like a Mass for the Dead, but there were no big candles towering above the priest or a coffin. Yet, it must be; the tabernacle was adorned with black lace. Stephen felt certain for he had served one last month with David. He wished David were here, he would know. But, David wasn't here. Stephen quickly tired of the man's mumbles and slow known gestures. Again, he turned to the blue crack at the window and the sounds of the happy birds outside. He could see a robin on a dewy green lawn not far from the church. It chirped gayly and lightly, cocking its head in a peculiar fashion and pecking at the ground 21 .. sometimes. Wouldn't it be wonderful to fly, to soar free and happy, to escape so easily the drab, dull existence and live, to spire to the scintillating blue heavens, to fly ... to be a brilliant bird-creature, finely plumed with downy white feathers, a breast scarlet as blood, a beak sharp, talons sure, golden and deadly~wouldn't it be heaven? Stephen longed to be that free, to soar away from ... from everything he knew. And he would. He felt that he could do it, even alone. He knew his pinfeathers would one day turn to ... Stephen's sister pushed against him as she stood to leave, and Stephen, startled back into the church, saw that the priest had left the alta'r. Quickly, he rose and filed out of the narrow pew. He turned and strode past the font to the sunshine outside. Margaret Gors "Shoel" "The Fall" Renee Nassif Ken Lewis "Black and White Flowers" Phil Jones "Night Scape" "Lamps" Colleen Rowse Helen Anderson Thomas Truby "Composition" Diane Smith Karen Brenner -- 4-. -----;"j - ---- -------r-- -..\..--~\ .. ,----. I -- I / i I I l 1 ~ "Study" -- Lanida Bielenberg Nancy Villem 1,- ( "Out of Chaos" Ken Lewis ;1 ./ ( \ "Portrait of Larry" Bradley Boe "Still-life" Andree Tracey , "For Everything There Is A Season" "Boy With the Guinea Pig" Andree Tracey ~ . Joanne Volga "Visions of Johanna" Jean Andersen I "Blue Landscape" "Summer Vacation" "Erosion" Joanne Volga Diane Smith Joanne Volga "Still-Life With Music Stand" Jean Andersen Left to Right- Dave Hauff, Helen Anderson Jean Andersen, Kathy Gast, Jean Andersen, Dave Hauff Gary N ashleanus "Separation" "October Country" Ken Lewis Roger Hardy October Country Roger Hardy October country-a windy twilightCrusts of leaves crest among the trees, a primordial dead sea; Trees move Now skeletons, memories of the warm green mask of summer. Death moves in October and deliberates its one, without concern With 'a chill in a changing wind-the subtle death(like a hanging cloud in a pool of urine) Shows trees for what they are The wind in the t-rees wheezes a death rattle. And the sad refrain fills the biting twilight air. And October inside: That splendid crystal inner glow of ochre in a glass of beer And a woman of yellow-blonde hair 'a nd black eyes sits alone on her stool and sings her song; Distant music, (a song no one will hear). She sits in her own excrement and tries to reach a sad foul place of the heart-a world beyond her world. The Bartender smiles "what good am I without both hands?" And a phlegm-eyed, swollen red-faced man laughs "that dumb son of a bitch" as he salts his yellow beer, And young men with eyes intent as eagles, look for the thing only eyes can see. Songs a.r e sung and songs will be sung. But thoughtless wind buffs and laughs In October country. 31 Ain't Gonna Give Nobody None Of My Jelly Roll James M. Stephens "It sure is hot down here, Momma." "It always is, son. That's one of the things you'll have to get used to. That and many other things." The place is Rebecca, Georgia, the cUlminating point of a long two-day bus ride from Chicago. When we- my black family -got there, it was night time and the temperature was in the Upper 70's. On the way down, below the border I noticed many changes-changes in the attitudes of the passengers on the bus, changes in the weather (yes, the temperature really had a bad effect on me-i.e., my two week stay in the South left me ten pounds underweight- ten pounds of constant perspiration), and most important of all a change in my mother. The change in the attitude of the passengers was to be expected and it really didn't upset me much. In cities like Chicago, Indianapolis, and Cleveland the attitude of the passengers was a philosophical open-mindedness; but when we arrived in places like Memphis, Lexington, and Nashville this philosophical open-mindedness changed to the narrowness of racial bigotry. I guess this was due in part to the coming and going of the passengers. All of the Northern passengers departed in Northern cities taking along with them their philosophical open-mindedness; and the Southern passengers buarded in Southern cities bringing along with them their racial bigotry. This was to be expected, but "man it so put a hurt on me!" The change in my mother was something totally unexpected, and one can imagine the shock which gripped me when I saw a strong domineering woman change to one of a lesser magnitude. The South with its Jim Crowism and segregation has many effects upon a Negro. This was one of them. But let me tell you a little about my stay. After we arrived and got settled in at the house of one of my cousins- I later found out that an entire block in the city housed relatives of mine- I fell exhausted into bed. The next day I met some of my cousins for the first time. To them I was 33 the big city slicker. To me they were a bunch of "lelnons"people who don't know what the happenings are. My aunt made the introductions. "Tommie Lee, come here boy. I wants you to meet your cousins from Chicago. Tommie Lee!" Thomas Lee Jones was a boy of impressive physical stature. He was a six-footer with weight and muscle. "Tommie this 'ere is your cousin, Melvin. I wants you to show him around 'ere and meet some of our people." "Yes'm," said Tommie to her. To me he said nothing, not even the customary "How are you?" I later found out Tommie was somewhat suspicious of me. It seemed all Negroes from Chicago raised hell when they hit Georgia. I quickly assured him nothing of the kind would happen with me. After we got to know each other, I found we had a great deal in common. At the time I had a big crush on a girl back honle- Tommie was engaged to be married in late August; we both played baseball and the same club had looked at us as prospective big leaguers; and we both were born on the same day hours apart! "Hey Melvin," asked Tommie as we were driving along a long straight section of highway- which one can compare to the highways in Iowa, but instead of the traditional rows and rows of corn in Iowa this highway was lined with cotton- "have you ever played '2 + 2= 0' before?" Puzzled by what he meant by '2 + 2= 0' I said, " No, I can't say that I have, but I'm game." Right away with my quick calcultivating mind I thought '2 + 2= 0' fool." "I'm gaIne! That's cool talk for I'll go along if you go too, isn't it?" "Ya, man. That's about what it means," I said somewhat amazed. (I took a lot for granted with my cousin- I kept forgetting I was a big slicker and he was a little country boy.) Anyway, I found out what he meant by '2 + 2= 0'. No sooner had I uttered "means" that Tommie had stomped on the accelerator and we were doing 115. Needless to say I was scared and in a few seconds I had more reason to be so. A highway patrol car hidden in some bushes along the highway came busting out with sirens wailing and guns firing. I said "What in the hell is goin' on?" 34 Tommie, glancing into the rear view mirrow, answered calmly, "Oh, them's the police. You see they are the other part of the game. If they catches us we lose, '2 + 2= 4' and then we go to jail, but if they don't catches us~ we is the winners '2 + 2= 0'. How do you like that cousin Melvin ?" Tommie- us-Iet's make it. I've heal'd what they do- " a bullet whizzed by and scraped the front door- do to the blood from the North. I don't want to end up out of it man, so let's make it!" Tommie was a good man. We went into the back country and eluded the "man." I wanted to leave the state of Georgia and in a hurry, but I stayed and enjoyed myself. This game we played is only one of the several weird things that happens everyday in the South. Negroes are jailed for looking "with a gleam in their eyes" at white girls; shows are strangely integrated- Negroes go into the alley- a dirty, stinky, pissed-in alley- and pay their show fare and gO upstairs into the balcony to view the show while the white kids participate in this integ'r ation by going through the front door and viewing the show from the best seats in the house. "Hey, black boy!" and "Nigger" are the customary greetings a white boy gives to a Negro who is fortunate enough to be his friend, and the back of the bus station has its "Whites Only" signs. I viewed these circumstances with a somewhat humor ous attitude. I could not help but think "Is this for real?" Every insult from a white boy was tucked away in my mind and answered with "Wait till I get back home. You white bastar ds will be sorry." Well, we got home safely and those white bastards were .sorry. My brothers, Tony and Gene, and I were coming from downtown Chicago one day and some white boys made the mistake of forgetting where they were. "Hey, look at them niggers. They think they're some cool duds." They were trying to be complimentary. I could tell it, but my brothers could not, especially the younger one, Tony. That Tony is something. Although he is the baby boy of the family he will be the toughest. He has the physical stature, 5'11' and 160 pounds, and the mental conditioning- meanness combined with the love of family. If I hadn't stopped him, he would have jumped that poor, blushing, grinning blond on the bus. The incident passed, or so I thought. As we got off at our stop, I noticed Gene and Tony were not with me anymore. They had slipped back and 35 were dusting those white boys something awful. and grabbed both of them. I went back "Come on man! Be cool. You've already did them in. Leave 'em be. The dirty bastards'll know who to mess with next time. And they'll remember this ain't no Mississippi or Alabama." After that little incident, things changed drastically; or better yet they went back to the old routine- going to school, playing basketball, and living. I don't mean living in the literal sense either, but figuratively speaking. Man, that semester was out of sight! Parties, girls, and parties! (And I might add: in that order.) It all came to an end in January when I graduated. Yeah, party life was over for the hard life of working, but that illusion was put to an end. My first job was at the Post Office. Working at the Post Office was quite an experience. I really should say not working at the Post Office was quite an experience because that is just what I did. This was a job made possible by one of the government's many Youth Opportunity Centers. It was really an attempt to maintain a status quo of nearly full employment during the summer months and thus keep the standard of living at a high level. My first day at the job I was taken aside by some of the veteran employees- one was an alumnus of my high schooland told: "Well, looka ' ere. We've got a new one!" "You'd better be cool 'cause I ain't takin' no jive off of nobody," I said after sizing the vets up. I knew now was the time to let them know I was regular. "Ah, we wa.s only playing with you. Don't be a sourpuss." After giving them the usual lowdown I was accepted quite readily, to my surprise, and taken aside and given some advice on how to succeed in business without really trying. "Looka 'ere Jim baby. There's one thing you've got to do around here. Stick with the boys no matter what the c'ause or reason. We've got to show them- 'them' is the white man, the boss- that we ain't gonna take no jive." "Ya," added Maxey my fellow alumnus, "If we can show him the blood sticks together we've gone a long, long way in doing what we want." 36 "And if we do that," added some character in tints and wearing a goatee, "we can do as much or as little work as we want. But remember-we got to stick man. Don't be a big shot. Know your limits." After messing around in the adult world for a little over a year, I decided I wanted to go to college. I figured that by getting a college education I could make a little money, be my own boss, and help my people. The decision was not one reached by careful analysis, but one arrived at by an outside stimulus. The stimulus was a gang fight. I had had enough of the bloodshed, seeing my boys go to jail, and the people. This was not the life for me. I was tired of the "Black Power," "Burn, Baby, Burn," and "Kill Whitey" .slogans. Ghetto life was beginning to get unbearable so I came to ... Morningside College. It is a beautiful place outwardly. There is an intermingling of the old with the new. The buildings are covered with vines and the roads rise gracefully to a peak at each hilltop. The grass turns beautifully green in the spring. The girls in their bright summer dresses polka-dot the campus, their skins a nice burnt brown. That's outwardly. Inwardly, there is a lot of trouble. In the liberalism of a small college, one naturaly assumes that this liberalism would boil over into racial compatibiity; but alas, this is not the case. A Negro with a white girl walking across the campus-a strange phone call at night saying-"and leave that white girl alone Nigger!"; a white girl with a Negro-social ostracism; and Negro with N egro-"Don't they want to be accepted?" College life is beginning to be unbearable. After being here a while I realize this is not the answer. I only realized this a couple of weeks ago while talking to one of my f.riends. "You know something Bobby. This school, the people in it, and this city can 'all go to hell. I was prejudiced to a certain extent before I came here but now I am more so. Why- if I had a choice between saving a black life and a white one, I'd save that black one and try to help kill that white one." "But, Jim-you should look on the bright side of things." "Are you kidding me?" "There are a lot worse places than here. You could be in a rat-hole of a college. I agree with you on some aspects about this place, but it can't be that bad. Your college life is, what you 37 make it. The only difference between you and I is: You are black and I am white." "I see you've noticed too." "Oh, come on now! Don't give me a hard time." "0. K., Bobby. But listen! Do you know what it is to have so much and then not to have anything? Dig- this city doesn't have a boss radio station- a station that plays some boss sides and sounds. I hear a jam here three months after it has left the big city. There ain't nobody I can talk a little jive to. The girls here are stuck up and besides, who would talk to a boot, anyway? Damn-I was here three months before I found a Negro barber and that is a shame." "Gee-I didn't know the situation was that bad." So now you know. What are you going to about it?" 38 Fog Of Still Morning Randall J. Gate.s Why do you say I can't love the fog? All you damned sun-lovers! You are the incurable romantics, Not me who you claim is lost. I love (and hope for) fogIts mystic mystery Its clouds, its night, Its intrigue . . . You practical idiots and your sun! You can't afford To close your eyes And see.... An Admonition Marj orie Beasley The raspberries of summer can be saved, but they grow cold, or are stifled in ajar of preservatives. Our love my love your love like raspberries, should be taken while fresh off the bush and enjoyed in the hot .sweat heat of summer. Kept too long it may turn stale, mold, or simply lose the flavor causing us to treasure it as now. I offer you my raspberries, dew wet and natural sweet. Why therefore let tartness or retrogradation part us? 39 A Ride On A Candle Randall J . Gate.s Once, riding on a candle, A flame glistening against the dim background of Blue walls (dark blue), A watchword that said Lonely, Said it not in word, Not in the confines Of picky poor meaningless meanings, Rang- but not sangThrough that drifty chasm That was Mind, formless, A fervor of unknowing. Beckoning in its voiceless mystery, The word which was not a word Said in all its inability to "say": "This is Being." In reply, stumbling through Formless thoughts of non-phrase, Just a gaze at that Delirious, yet somehow unruffled flame. 40 Rain Rebekah Stone The rain fills my brain Like the longing fills my soul. The soil is pelted by the rain So it is not unfulfilled; While I, in my tragic tearlessness, Sit alone and envy the innocent soil. Fruit trees thrust their roots in the earth, And bear fruit and bright leaves. Nothing is anchored in me, I be'ar only lonelines.s and selfless sorrow And straddle my nameless nothing world With only rain to watch. I dare not look at trees. Alone Rebekah Stone I rush the day, hurrying each second and hour, Waiting for dark, and sometimes only silence. Then, I sleep; awaking, dreaming, worried sleep, Full of hopes for the next day or the next. The lazy dropping rain of time Cannot be the sudden storm I long for, desperately. But even a gentle rain will sometime end. Still, then should also be a time Of soft slow showers, with every Second slightly suspended. How often time is meaningless Until we are alone. 4:1 H'e Looks At The Water Kathryn Bauman He wears in his heart A salty tongue. He tastes his words and is still. Bars and oranges. What do you seek, old fisherman, With your beard to the wind? I seek, sir, the water Of the seas. And the salt tears, From where do they come? I weep, sir, the water Of the seas. And this grave bitterness, Where was it born? Very bitter is the water Of the seas! The sea Smiles from far off, Teeth of foam, Lips of sky. 42 Song To My Age Of Love: S'o mething Not Of A Season Randall J. Gates Give me light that I may see your beauty, For your beauty is power of itself. In other than face and shape Do I see your charms: You live in mood, In soft word, And in prayerful silence. There lies your beauty. I have seen your light and Now I see your beauty. It grows in me as it has grown for you; For now as I am witness To your mood and word and stillness; Now I live in your charms: Seeking the beauty that is you, And loving your beauty, hoping it's mine. hand in hand Douglas V . Johnson the wind through the trees dropping walnuts green; pungent in odor, smell them. the rhubarb ( bitter grows with rain-catching leaves. those green apples on trees forbidden, with hidden desires to eat them eat them. while hand in hand through the park we walk we've hidden desires to eat them. they will make you sick, those green apples43 Please Don't Stop The Carnival Marj orie Beasley Please don't stop the carnival just because the carousel refuses to turn. For a moment we shall dismount from stucco steeds, and wait by a cottonwood tree. Against future appetites shall we partake of lemon- frosted camels and chocolate buffalo. Pink lemonade may serve as our wine. Keep the barker crying to come see marvels or learn the secrets of a twisted hall. . Give children popcorn and a thousand thrills and chills in imaginary rocket rides. Make live the kaleidoscope of reality in helium balloons or lights of ferris· wheels. Soon the carousel shall race again - Live for this cotton-candy hour, harmonize with the rising calliope tune. As life must go on, even though love has stopped temporarily, Carnivals go on in their noisy way, even when carousels refuse to turn. 44 Carnivals Marj orie Beasley One doesn't go to carnivals alone. They are a place for two and many. A game of sharing, crazy-dreaming is a carnival. And lights. Carnivals are cheap toys-on-sticks at not cheap prices and prizes for that eager girl at her hero's side. They are cotton-candy at the monkey show, or lemonade, or mustard-on-the-chin. They are meant to be footlongs eaten at both ends till the center meets; the whirled breeze of the carousel with a tight arm on one's waist; from the conquest of a kaleidoscope world held but temporarily, be swept down to reality. Carnivals are all electric lights, a kiss in the dark. One shouldn't go to carnivals alone. To SM Harley Rye Johnson Why I let it remain, why I didn't carefullly pare it away, I'll never know. Perhaps a knowledge greater than mine, a power of thought more perceptive than mine, made me know the curtain was not to be removed - Indeed, was a very part of the one who stood behind it. 45 The Sun Loved Down Douglas V . Johnson Feel for light with sight lacking distance. Pupils enlarged you grope in the dark. Dreaming of fight; wanting of night; exclaiming in bold revelations, and the light blinded the sight. Drunk and fed we lie in bed; groping, the dark loving, the dark, secure, the dark, the sight blinded with light. The sun shone down, beat down, loved down; the light, the light, the light, the light, the beautiful, beautiful, beautiful blasphemous light ... blinded the sight. 46 1964 Rebekah Stone I was beautiful once, But only that one summer When the pain and joy of being Forced itself through my body Like a butterfly pushing through the Shallow walls of its cocoon. Running down the beach in the rain Was as natural then As opening my eyes to wake, Or walking barefoot through the park. People watched and wondered, And never seemed to know; As if they'd never been alive. I never wondered. The sky, the sun, the fog, Were friends who laughed with me, And ran, and sometimes cried Tears just to form an oasis in the sand, Or add a ,p art of ourselves to the tide; Or just the thrill of being sad. 47 Escape From Reality: The Aftermath Of Death Glenda Tanksley Dark hysteria explodes the sun, Smashing youth upon the rocks of life. The wounds lay open to salt and dirt. The pain escapes the grasps of reason, The mind fights only to survive it. Life becomes a bitter race to escape It. Gospel, friends, philosophy, loving arms, All turn to stone at the touch; Comfort cannot be given nor received, The desperation of loneliness rips the heart The exhausted mind screams in a vacuum, as Dark hysteria explodes the sun. 48 Listen! Rebekah Stone Listen! What am I? I am neither male nor female, Nor anything else known, or unknown In the world. I am the spirit of something That never existed. I am all the unreached goals, Unaspired for hopes, unanswered dreams, And forgotten stars, of all who ever lived, And some who never shall. I speak to you But you hear only memories; You look at me And see an empty mirror. I tell you that now Is the time for greatness, World. I don't expect you'll listen; You never have. 49 .. Windowpane Boy Kathryn Bauman Windowpane boy, Your childhood now a legend of seagulls Dashing the sky With icicles of the moon and fish of China. Growing on seas of clouds And on the shore of your dreams You linger on stained glass shadows, Yourself lost in restless solitude. Love, love the flight of sand Through the endless heart of whiteness And your childhood-love your childhood Lone boy in the murmuring ocean and color Of the old hours, Your childhood now a legend of sea gulls. 50  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Perspectives: Volume 26, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Kiosk Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Perspectives contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bowman, B'Ann: Translator Hardy, Roger: Author Hill, Janice: Author Larson, Ruth H.: Author Rothfork, John: Author Nassif, Renee: Artist Gors, Margaret: Artist Lewis, Ken: Artist Jones, Phil: Artist Rowse, Colleen: Artist Anderson, Helen: Artist Truby, Thomas: Artist Brenner, Karen: Artist Smith, Diane: Artist Bielenberg, Lanida: Artist Villem, Nancy: Artist Boe, Bradley: Artist Tracey, Andree: Artist Volga, Joanne: Artist Andersen, Jean: Artist Gast, Kathy: Artist Hauff, Dave: Artist Nashleanus, Gary: Artist Stephens, James M.: Author Gates, Randall J.: Author Beasley, Marjorie: Author Stone, Rebekah: Author Bauman, Kathryn: Author Johnson, Douglas V.: Author Johnson, Harley Rye: Author Tanksley, Glenda: Author Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1967 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-12-11 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-11 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Bower, Jr., William L.: Editorial Committee Clark, J. Gregory: Editorial Committee Cunningham, Janet: Editorial Committee Fall, Margot: Editorial Committee Stone, Rebekah: Editorial Committee Zimmerman, William: Art Consultant Sutter, Stanley: Art Consultant McLaughlin, Carrol: Faculty Advisor Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical 54 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kiosk Manuscript Perspectives student publications http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/87f11d5efe98b5b43510e0bd80f9bd91.pdf 5b7265e3af24d29a36139049b9366c8a PDF Text Text DECEMBER 1960 The Morningsider is the official alumni publication of Morningside Col lege, Sioux City, Iowa �THE PRESIDENT'S PEN (President J. Richard Palmer has just returned We must do our very best to provide an from a tour of Europe, Great Britain atmosphere and program which will insp ire and parts of the Soviet U nion. The and equip our finest youth to accept the challenges of leadership. Our nation and following selection, prompted by that tour, our culture will not stand unless devoted appears in the president's annual report t o and courageous leadership can be developed the board of trustees delivered in December with wisdom and strength sufficient to keep Alumni will receive this report in its this in deed and in truth a nation of free entirety in place of the March issue of the men, under God. Morningsider. Ed. To accomplish this, what sacrifice is too Voltaire'sancient aphorism sounds a great? discomforting n ot e of warning to J. Richard Palmer those of us charged with the responsibility of providing for the education of youth who will soon be shaping the destiny of the ON THE COVER world: This issue's cover photo is a character "History is but the pattern of study of Heimen Van Dyke silken slippers descending the stairway taken as he accepted an M blanket to the thunder of hobnailed award at halftime of the Morningside boots climbing up from below." Nebraska Wesleyan basketball game The "hob-nailed boots" are moving. More December 6. than 900,000,000 people of this earth are The award was presented by President now controlled by Communism. This entire Palmer who was introduced by program has developed within our lifetime. Basketball Coach Chuck Obye. They Its leadership is, I know from first-hand can be seen in the right background. experience, determined, de dicated, and Mr. Van Dyke was the originator of thoroughly indoctrinated. competitive basketball at Morningside The only answer to a system which will in 1901. A story of t his and the presentation betray those who accept its half truths is is included in the sports a better idea, a better way, communicated section of this magazine. The photo by more capable, more determined, more was taken by Fred Hedrick, a Morningside dedicated leadership. student. We have a better idea and a b etter way •------------------------------· in the Christian faith and democratic procedures Therefore, this is the time for us to settle for nothing less than the best in providing th·e facilities and the personnel for a productive program of Christian Higher Education. We must stretch our ev·e ry resource to the limit, and h aving discovered our limitations find new strength, new sources of support, an d new means of accomplishing our goals. 2 ·-------------------------------· THE MORNINGSIDER SIOUX CITY, IOWA A . W. Buckingham Public Relations Louis Croston R. L. Phelps _________ Co-Editors Entered at the Postoffice at Sioux City, Iowa as Second Class Matter under Act of Congress, August 24, 19 12. Published four times a year in September, December, March and June by Morningside college, Sioux City 6, Iowa �THE MORNINGSIDER VOL. X IX December, 1960 No. 2 Roadman Clan Gathers to Celebrate Parents' Golden Wedding Anniversary The Roadman "clan"-37 strong and all together for the first time-gathered Aug. 2.2 at Quaker Heights youth camp near E ldor a Ia., to celebrate the 50th wedding anniversary of Irma and Earl Roadman. An automobile accident in which the e lder Roadmans were injured slightly a f ew days before the celebration failed to mar t he event. Dr. Roadman leaned a little on a cane as a result and a few bumps and bruises were evident, but th e occasion was an unqualified success as Dr. and Mrs. Roadman sat among their six children and 23 grandchildren, relaxed and reminisced. Dr. and Mrs. Roadman have been living at their farm near Dike, Ia., since 1956 when Dr. Roadman retired after 20 years as president of Morningside college. The farm was not big enough for the whole "clan", however, so the e1der Roadmans l took over the. camp near Eldora for the six-day fete. Present for all or parts of the celebration were Dr. and Mrs. T y Youle (Earline Roadman and four children of Los Fresnos, Tex., Col. and Mrs. Charles Roadman and two sons of Arlington. Va.; Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Fishbeck (Pa uline Roadman) and Together Photo The Roadmans - Keene, Katy, Joyce, Chuck, Earline, Pauline, Copyright 1960 Irma, Earl 3 �four daughters of Manitowoc, Wis.; Mr. and Mrs. Keene Roadman and two children of Baltimore, Md.; Mr. and Mrs. Gene Scott (Joyce Roadman) and seven children of Sioux City, and Mr. and Mrs. Richard McLaughlin (Katherine Roadman) and four children of Omaha. President Emeritus and Mrs. Roadman and family were photographed and featured in the November issue of the Methodist monthly magazine Together. The elder Roadmans- still the active Together Phot o Copyright 1960 couple hundreds of Morningside students President Emeritus Roadma n remember- will conduct a flying tour to Hawaii again this winter. They come to Sioux City to renew acquaintances rather In order to g ive recognition to these persons frequently and are always happy to meet who are helping the· college in a very and entertain visitors at the Roadman direct way, the Morningsider in this issue Roadside- the farm near Dike. includes a list of persons who have given to Living Endowment and other projects during the year, which closed July 31. Alumni Contribute $50,657 in Fiscal 1960 Founder's Day Fetes Held by 17 Clubs Total alumni giving to the college for all purposes totaled $50,657 in the fiscal year which was completed July 31, according to Founders' day celebrations were held by figures compiled by Louis Croston, alumni alumni clubs in 17 cities during the first director. 10 days of December in honor of the founding Nine hundred twenty-four persons contributed of the college December 4, 1894. $10,557 to Living Endowment for Cities having observance ceremonies were another all-time high. Last year's record Boise, Idaho; Dubuque, Cedar Rapids, high wa s $8,546.00. Mason City, Davenport and Ames, Ia.; "The living endowment fund is growing, Omaha, Philadelphia, Sioux Falls, Baltimore but we believe that with everyone's cooperation Phoenix, Indianapolis, Rochester, it can grow much higher and much N. Y., San Diego, Tampa, Denver and faster in the next few years than it has in Minneapolis. the last decade," Mr. Croston s aid. In many cases the meetings were h e1d in A challenge gift plan by which alumni homes of alumni. In other cities, meetings may pledge to give an amount of money for were held in public restaurants or each percentage point of increase in the other meeting places with presidents or fund over last year has be·e n originated by other officers of the alumni club of that the alumni offic·e. Anyone is eligible to city serving as host or h ostess. participate. One of the highlights of the celebration In addition t o Living Endowment, alumni in each city was the playing of a 12-inch, h ave contributed to a variety of other projects long-playing recording made in Sioux City during the last fiscal year. These includedand including a message from Presid·e nt payments on pledges to the fine Palmer,musical selections by college groups arts building fund drive, contributions to and a running narration and commentary the MacCollin organ and Morningside Development Don Stone, president of the national by council participation. alumni association. A copy of the recording was sent to the Additional money gained from alumni giving in these areas totaled $40,257. president of each alumni club in which a 1 1 4 �Founders' day celebration was being held. The recordings were made through the cooperation of Mr. Stone and radio station KSCJ in Sioux City. Waymack, Distinguished Editor, Dies at Age 72 William Wesley Waymack 72, one of Morningside's most distinguished graduates, died at Iowa Methodist hospital in Des Moines Nov. 5 of an abdominal hemorrhage He had been in ill health several Abigail Van Buren, naltionally-syndicated years, having retired to make his home on columnist better known to many Morningsiders his farm near Adel. He maintained a as Pauline (Popo) Friedman Phillips, summer home near Walker, Minn. and spent has established a $500-per-year scholarship a part of each winter in Arizona. Funeral to be given each year to a worthy Morningside services were held Nov . 8, a nd burial was student. at Oakdale cemetery in Adel. Stated purpose of the scholarship-to be Class of 1911 known as the Abigail Van Buren scholarship to attend Morningside He was a member of the Morningside who would not otherwise be able to get class of 1911. His remarkable achievements a college education. Qualifications which in later life were forecast by his must b e possessed by the winner of the abilitty as a student. H e was a campus leader grant are leadership potential, initiative, a in many and varied respects and served as desire to help other people, and financial college correspondent for the Sioux City need. Journal during his last two years at Morningside Winner of the scholarship for the current year is Miss Janet Vrchota, a freshman Following graduation and marriage to student from Mason City, Ia., who ranked Elsie Jeanette Lord of Savannah, Ill., Waymack 13th in a class of 293 at Mason City high accepted full time reportorial duties school. Miss Vrchota was recommended by on the Journal, being successively assistant the college scholarship committee, and the city editor, city editor, assistant editorial recommendation was approved personally writer and finally chief editorial writer. by Miss Van Buren. Joined Register 'Popo Friedman Phillips' Establishes Scholarship Morningsiders Everywhere! Morningside College alumni may be found in many parts of the world. As Professor Russell M. Eidsmoe, head of the department of education, and his seminar group were returning on the Cunard liner SS Sylvania from a two months tour of Europe, they met Mr. and, Mrs. H arold R. Hartley, class of '21, now livin g at 4751 Baylor drive, San Diego, Cal. Mrs. Hartley is the former Evelyn Stallard. Needless to say, the subject immediately turned to thoughts of Morningside college. Mr. and Mrs. Hartleyattended the Disciples of Christ conference at Edinburgh, Scotland and had also visited the Holy Land, Egypt and eighteen other countries in a four months tour. He joined the Des Moines Register and Tribune staff in 1918 as a n editorial writer. He advanced to managing editor in 1921, then became editor of the editorial pa,g es in 1931. Waymack was elected a vice-president of the company in 1939, and in 1943 became editor of the combined newspapers. He received the Pulitzer prize for distinguished editorial writing. In 1940 he received the Sigma Delta Chi's distinguished service award for editorial writing, and in 1944 received the American Farm Bureau's award for distinguished service to agriculture It was the challenge of man's future and the atom that broke Mr. Waymack's association with the newspaper field. He was appointed to the Atomic Energy comission in 1946. 5 �Successfu I Homecoming Capped by Naming of Stone, Bollman to Top Alumni Positions A 24 to 22 upset victory over h eavily favored Augustana topped off one of the most successful homecoming celebrations Morningside has seen in recent years. Cooperation by everything and everyone from the weather to the Sioux City Chamber ber of Commerce and other organizationsstudent and civic-helped to encourage large attendance at nearly all events and lend a generally enthusiastic air to everything about the three-day celebration. Miss Charma Harmelink, a slender blonde coed from Alton, Ia., was elected Miss Morningside at the homecoming dance Friday night, and, with her attendants, presided over festivities the rest of the weekend Attendants to the queen were Miss Marilyn Gauger, Early; Miss Nancy Lewis, Sac City; Miss Jeanine Arnold, Lake Park, and Miss Nancy Taylor, Sioux City. Dolliver Speaks Former congressman James I. Dolliver of Spirit Lake, a graduate of the class of 1915, addressed the student body at the Friday homecoming chapel service, and was guest of honor and principal speaker at a Friday evening banquet which served as the climax of an alumni planning session held earlier in the day. Approximately 100 men attended the M club luncheon Saturday noon. Highlight of the event was the presentation of M blankets to Dr. C. F. Berkstresser, '15; Ira J. Gwinn, '22; Dr. Kenneth Metcalf, '38, and Dean Harrington, '50. Don Protextor, '49, Queen Charma 6 Stone Bollman received a gold watch from the group in appreciation of his coaching the Morningside baseball team to its first N orth Central conference championship last spring. Harold L. Bollman, '35, and Don Pre·s ton, '57, were elected president ·a nd vice president of the M club for the coming year, and Nathan Goldberg, '30, was re-elected secretary treasurer Stone, Bollman Elected Don Stone, '51, was named president of the Alumni association for the coming year at the Alumni dinner Saturday evening. Other officers are Dean Harrington, president-el Miss Helen Northup, '46, and Mrs. Bernard Feikema, '42, vice presidents, Mrs. Lamar Jones (Ruth Elliot, '46) secretary and Ira Gwinn, '22, treasurer. Newly-elected directors of the association are Mrs. R. H . McBride, '17, and C. C. Maddison, '28. Richard King, ('41), Chadds Ford, Pa., was elected alumni representative to the hoard of trustees. It was estimated that some 85 women attended Saturday noon reunion luncheons of Pieria, Kappa Pi Alpha, Zetalethean, Kappa Zeta Chi, Athaneum and Alpha Sigma. Alumni Director Louis Croston estimated that approximately 500 alumni participated in one or more events of homecoming 1960. Capacity audiences attended both performance the comic opera Gianni Schicci presented by the music department under the direction of Prof. Wade Raridon. �Alums Metcalf, Harrington, Berkstresser, Gwinn Honored CLASS NOTES 1906 - 1920 E stella ( P routy) Joseph, '06, 1501 Nebraska street in Sioux City sends word of her daughter, Gertrude Joseph Mahn, a g raduate in the class of 1929. Mrs. Mahn has been teachin g English in the high school at Farmer, S. D. the past three years. The Mahns have six childr en. Three older boys are in California, a daughter, KAren, now Mrs. Gerald Warner, lives in Huron. There are two children at h ome, David, 16, and Betty, 14. Both are in high school at Farmer. Edna Randolph, '11 , has returned to Sioux City from a three months trip abroad. the trip included a week's driving in southwest rural England and traveling o,n the group's own motor coach through Europe. Miss Randolph resides at 1723 Ross street. Roscoe H. Carter, '12, and Mrs. Carter returned in August from a nine-weeks tour of western Europe, England and Scotland. W. C. Evans, '13, and Mrs. Evans ( Ethel Gravelle, '15) reside at 221 South Rhode I s land in Mason City. A not e from Mr. Evan s states, "Am retired w ith g ood appetite but n o pains. Lik e to get Morningsider and read about old timers. We have t w o daughters, both married and raising our grandchildren." Joseph H . Ed ge, '13, will be r etired December 31, after 14 years, as associate secretary and director of organization and administration of the Methodist church. Dr. Edge received an honorary degree from Morningside in 1930. He was a Methodist minister in north-west Iowa for 15 years, superintendent of the Sheldon district for six years, a nd for 10 years was presidentof Dakota W esleyan univer sity. Dr. Edge was president of Da kota W esleyan when Dr . J . Richard Palmer received his degree from t hat school. One daughter, Mrs. Robert L. Kammerud, her husband abd t hree children live in Nashville Both Mr. a nd Mr s. Kammerud are on the faculty of George Peabody college. Another daughter, Eleanor, a nd h er husband Col. Yahne, live in Louisville. Their s on, Joe, Jr. lives with his wife and daughter in California, where he is a pilot for Capitol airways. The Edges pla.n t o remain 7 �at their home in Nashville for the immediate Davidson college. Another daughter, Lorraine future. The addess is 2011 Sweetbrier (Mrs. E . M. Laurent) has degrees avenue. from Illinois Wesleyan and Scarritt. She lives in Austin, Tex., where her husband is Cyril B. Upham, '15, chief bank examine·r in the drama department of the University of the Ninth Federal Reserve district, now of Texas. A third daughter, Arlene (Mrs. is a member of the bar of the Supreme Court of the United States. He was admitted J. R. Miller) graduated from Illinois Wesleyan also and lives in Decatur, Ill., where while in Washington, D. C. where he was attending the national convention her husband is the dean of music at Millikin university. of the American Bar association. Robert R. Vernon, '15 and Mrs. Vernon 1923 - 1926 Leroy H. Rowse, '23, physics teacher at have moved from Columbus to St. Petersburg Fla. Bob, with headquarters in MilwaukeeCentral high in Sioux City, has been teaching physics in the National Science Foundation is helping the north central area Institute at George Peabody College YMCA complete fund raising for buildings for Teachers, Nashville, Tenn., for the past for brotherhood. Within the past year Bob two summers. Mrs. Rowse (Muriel DeWitt and Mrs. Vernon have made a trip around '24) has accompanied Leroy and now has the world, visiting most of the countries 32 hours of work completed toward her where these new YMCA buildings are under master's degree in elementary education. construction. TheVernon's address in St. Mrs. Rowse teaches 5th grade at Smith Petersburg is 8226 - 33rd Ave., North, school in Sioux City. Both expect to return Zone 10. to Peabody college next summer. A note from Charles and Ruby (Knudsen) Klippel, '19, says, "We are finding retirement Their address is 1312 - 28th St. Henry T. Leisy, '23, 4003 Alta Monte a very busy life directing the state N. E. Albuquerque, N. M . has found activity camp for the Ohio Society for Crippled Children, church and YMCA responsibilities for his retirement. After coaching athletics in South Dakota for two years and in and recently visiting one son who is on Colorado for four years, he was in the the nationalstaff of the J. C. Penney Co. physical education and recreation department in New York City, and another who is a with the Panama Canal for 29 years. surgeon in Toledo. The Klippels live at He has now accepted an appointment as 197 Brevoort Rd., Columbus, 0. recreation director on the new million dollar Rev. Basil R. Truscott, '20, retired in expansion program planned for New 1956 after 36 years of foreign missionary Mexico's retarded children. service with our Methodist board in Argentina Minnie C. Oates, '23, will be at FriendThe Truscotts are living at Memorial ship Haven until spring. Home Community, Penney Farms, Fla. Lester G. Benz, '25, . articipated in the p The Truscotts have six children and nineteen 1960 East-West European Study mission grandchildren. Two sons lvie in South sponsored by the National Editorial association America. the oldest, Gordon, is superintendent in August and September. The of a textile mill in Sao Paulo, group of editors visited eight capitols including Brazil. The second son Wesley, a graduate Moscow, Warsaw and Prague. of Harvard is manager of a branch of Lucile Vickers, '23, is now head librarian Texaco Oil Co. in Caracas, Venezuela. The and associate professor of library science third son Basil, ·a graduate of Syracuse and at Buena Vista college, Storm Lake. H er Yale, is chief of neurology in the USAFE program and is stationed at Landstuhl, Germany address is 127 Lake Avenue. He will become chief of neurology 1926 - 1952 in the Veteran's Administration hospital Returning dues sometimes point out to us in Albany, N. Y. A daughter Ethel (Mrs. how many members of several families have attended orningside. Such is the M D. D. Rhodes) graduated from Duke and lives in Davidson, N. C., where her husband case with the Cox family. Roy Cox, '26, is is professor of bible and philosophy at Methodist minister at Eagle Grove, Iowa. 8 �Miriam Cox, '44 (Mrs. E. L. Peters) lives school. Mrs. Larsen attended National Music camp at Interlochen, Mich., last summer at 616 - 47th St. Everett, Wash. David She has a daughter currently attending Cox, '46, and Mrs. Cox (Carolyn Wolle '47) Wartburg college. live in St. Charles, Mo. Roger Cox, '51 and Frances Forsberg Keiser, '41, is Area Mrs. Cox (Joan Damer,o w, '51) live at chairman for Cottey Junior College for Women Lewiston, Me., where Roger is ·o n the located at Nevada, Mo. The college is faculty of Bates college. Murel V. Bennett, '26, has been librarian sponsored by the P. E. 0. Sisterhood. Dr. Ray H. Gusteson, '42, chairman of in the Akron public library for 25 years. Frank Leamer, '26, has been personnel the department of gover nment at Ohio director of Bell Telephone laboratories, with university, has been elected presidentof the headquarters at Murray Hill, N. J. About Ohio Association of Economists and Political twelve thousand people are currently employed Economists and Political Scientists for On his recent visit to the campus, the year 1960-61. Mr. Leamer brought a sample of Mylar, Wilson B. Reynolds, '43, and Mrs. Reynolds the material used in the construction of have moved from Wichita, Kan. to Echo 1, to Mr. Gwinn who was a physics Knoxville, Tenn , where he is merchandise teacher when Frank was in school. manager with the Miller's department store. Margaret Macintosh (Mrs. Ralph Hunt) Wilson is the son of Fern Beachem Reynolds '17. The Reynolds have three children '27, has been serving as librarian for the Alma public library in Alma, Wash., since Debbie, Charles and Candace Sue. January 1960. Her address is Route 2, Bo· x Their address is 924 Wingate, road. A note from Josephine Holdcroft (Mrs. 116, Elma. Mrs. Phillip Gaubatz (Dorothy Day, '28), Richard T. Oliver), '45, (See Wee Morningsiders is teaching Latin in East high school in indicates that they are now living Denver. at 2209 Miami Trail in West Lafayette, Ray N. Berry, '29, of 1717 Isabella has Ind. In addition to the new arrivals, the been ·a ppointed assistant Woodbury County Olivers have a son Jackie, 4. attorney. Ray received his law degree David Cox, '46, and Mrs. Cox (Carolyn from the State University of Iowa. He Wolle,) now reside at 1946 West Sibley started practice in 1931 and was associated street in St. Charles, Mo., where David is with his father, John A. Berry. He now director of research and planning, St. Louis has a private practice. Federation of Churches. Margaret Brower, '34, (Mrs. D on Burnham Bill Briggs, '48, has returned to fullis the band instructor in the five time teaching this fall after directing the elementary schools of Lewiston, Mont., Academic Year Institute for Secondary and is beginning her fifth year as choir School Teachers of Science and Mathematics director of the First Christian church of at the University of Colorado for the Lewistown. past three years. He was a visiting lecturer W. G. Muhleman, honorary degree 1934, at Ft. Hays Kansas, state college a very faithful supporter of Morningside and at South Dakota State college last summer through the years, is very seriously ill in He gave a talk at the summer meeting the infirmary at Friendship Haven in Fort of the National Council of Teachers of Dodge. Mathematics in Salt Lake City in August and served as a consultant to the National Max R. Gaspar, M. D., '36, is the 1960 Science foundation in Washington D. C. in president of the Southern California chapter September. of the American College of Surgeons. He is chairman of the vascular surgery department Mrs. Briggs (Muriel Lambert, '48), returned at the Los Angeles County general to teaching this year in the third hospital. Mrs. Gaspar is Virginia Hunter, grade. ('37). They have five children. Ralph and Albina (Kozan) Vannucci, Margaret Messing Larsen, '36, is teaching both '48, live in Las, Vegas, Nev. (See vocal music in the Hudson, Ia., community Wee Morningsiders) Ralph is a senior engi- 9 �neer with Edgerton, Germ eshau s·e n, and Grier, Inc. in Las Vegas. The Vannucci's have five other children in addition to the new arrival. They are Barbara, 11; Ralph, Jr., 5; Patricia, 4; Michelle, 3; and Dennis, 2. Their home address is 5804 Idle avenue. ship award the last two years at Douglas e lementary school. We hope that Gus is preparing him for Morningside. His address is 230 Biloly Mitchell, Ellsworth Airforce Base, Rapid City, S. D. Arlone Rader (Mrs. Harold Malcom, '51), is teaching speech and Spanish in the high school at Allen, Neb. Clair Scott, '51, 501 N. A street, Eloy, Ariz., is vice principal and counselor this year at Santa Cruz Valley Union high school. The schoo· has 375 students, and l Clair teaches three business classes. He also sponsors the annual. Bill Fox, '51, a.nd Nancy (Hubbard) Fox, '53, are now living in Rialto, Cal., where Bill is the junior high coach. N,a ncy and Bill have four children. They are Roger, 8; Daniel, 6; Edward, 4; and Elizabeth, 1. Their address is 1244 N. Eucalyptus. Virginia Harper, '52, (Mrs. E. E. Waller) and Capt. Waller visited in Sioux City in December. Fathers of Capt. and Mrs. Waller were Morningsiders. Mr. Waller, Sr., is a Sioux City attorney, and Mrs,. Waller's father was H. C. Harper, '11. Mr. Harper was a member of the board of trustees at the time of his death. Mrs. Harper was Helen McDonald of the class of 1912. The Waqllers live at 347B Grant Road, Fort Devens, MAss. Tom Green, '48, has been brought into the home office of Securities Acceptance 1953 - 1960 corporation in Omaha as assistant vice Gordon '53 and Gertrude (Draayom) Ohm, president in charge of insurance sales. Mrs. '54) live in Oakland, Ia. Gordon is girls Green is Lois Emme, '46. Pictured are Lois basketball coach and high school principal and Tom with their children Pamela, Patrick there and has some social studies classes. and Michael. This is the fifth year for the Ohms in Oakland Ted Forward, '50, and Mrs. Forward Gertrude taught junior high school (Marian Hempstead) have been living in language arts last year but this year is Texas the last five years. Ted is with Continental busy at home (See Wee Morningsiders). Airlines there. The Forwards have James L. Whitehouse, '53, graduated with a master's degree in biochemistry in August five children. They are David, 12; Richard, and has accepted a position as associate 7; Kent and Kurt, 6; and Lisa Carol, 1. biochemist at Hurley hospital, Flint, Mich. Gus Nemitz, Jr., '51, recreation director He, his wife Dorothy (Sullinger) Whitehouse at Ellsworth air force base in South Dakota '52, and their daughter. Kathleen writes about his son Jimmy . . . ending Marie, reside at 4526 Trumbull drive in with, " As you can see I'm not a bit proud Flint. Jim recently returned from a trip to of him- Oh No!" Jimmy is in the seventh Montreal (sponsored by S. U. I.) where h e grade and has already lettered 2 years in presented his thesis to an international junior high football and basketball. He meeting of biochemists. plays quarterback in football and guard in A note from Captain Carlton J. Peterson, basketball. Perhaps the outstanding award '53, who is in France in the service tells Jimmie has received has been the citizen- 10 �of his parents. ( the C. M. Petersons) of plans post-graduate work in radiology. Sioux City visiting him this summer . His Roy Petersen, '58, is working on his master's address: Capt. Carlton J. Peterson, 55.913A degree in psychologyt the University a 652nd Tactica; Hospital, APO 84, NEw of South Dakota and is assistant pastor York, N. Y. of the Trinity Lutheran church in Vermillion An article in The Arthur Andersen Marge (Rowlands) Petersen, '58, is Chronicle shows a picture of Gearold D. working at University of South Dakota Miles, '53, making friends with a child on alumni office. Their address is 323 Linden, the playground a.t DePaul settlement in Vermillion. Chicago. the article says . . . "Gearold Delaine B. Koch, '58, and Judy Dirks Miles has been loaned by our firm as executive Koch, '59, (See Wee Morningsiders) are with the Crusade of Mercy for the living at Galva, Ia., where Delain e is in his Community Fund and Red Cross." Jerry's second year of t eachin g. He teaches high address is Apt. 12-D, 4 34 W. Roscoe street, school general science and biology and Chicago 13, Ill. junior high science and health. He also is Betty Edson (Mrs. Ernie King) ('54), the basketball coach there. lives with her family on an acreage six Janice Thompson, '59, was married in August miles from Morris, Minn. They have to Marlo June of Merrill, Iowa Mr. twenty acres and raise registered beagles, June is a civilian employee of the Army riding horses, and registered milking Short-horns Corps of Engineers and works as a construction Mr. King works for the Federal inspector. The address is 435 Department of Agriculture. Center, Sioux City. The Jerrold Thackers (Marlys Watson), Mrs. Gertrude Harris, '59, is teaching in both of '55, in addition to the new Papoose the Webster elementary school in Sioux (see Wee Morningsiders) have two City. She commutes each day from her sons, Mark, 3 1/2; and Steven, 2 1/2 years old. farm home at Herner, Neb., where Mr . Their address is 10625 Upton Ave. So. Harris· raises Hereford cattle. Her address Minneapolis. is P . 0. Box 81. Homer. Howard Staber, '55, after five years with Gary Hulst, '59, former basketball star at Swift and Company i n Fort Dodge h as b een Morningside, is now teaching science and transferred to Sioux City. In addition to coaching at Calumet, Ia. Gary's team defeated the new papoose (See Wee Morningsiders) Lawton in the Morningside Basketball the Stabers have 5 other children They Clinic in November. are Howie, 8; Da vid. 7; Mary Jane. 4; Merlin Anderson, '59, is teaching English Karen, 3; Jim, 18 months. The new address at the high school in Gruver, Ia., where he is 3127 Jones. lives with his fam ily. Marilyn Menter, '57, was married t o W . Warren Connor, '60 and his wife, Doris P. Garred, M. D. last June . Their home is Sadler Connor, '59, are in Madison, N . J., at 812 - 15th Street in Onawa, where Dr. where Warren is attending Drew theological Garred is a practicing physician. Marilyn seminary. Doris is employed as a secretary taught in the Des Moines schools and in for the university's director of purchasing the Sioux City school system before her and for the superintendent of marriage. buildings a nd grounds. Richard C. Gasser, M. D., '57, is interning James Russell, '59, also is at Drew, as is at Broadlawns Polk county hospital in Des Harvey Bartz '60 and Mrs. Bartz (Connie Moines. After graduating from Iowa university Sprowl ('60). college of m edicine in 1960, a nd Ann Burgeson '60, is youth director at after completing his internship, Dr. and the Central Church of Christ in Clovis, N. M. Mrs . Gasser plan further post-graduate work. (See Wee Morningsiders). James D. Cochran, '60, is a graduate William M. M. Lo, M. D., '57 is interning assistant in political science at the University at Los Angeles County hospital after graduating of Iowa, where h e has been awarded from Iowa. in June 1960. Dr. Lo a graduate scholarship. 11 �Lawrence E. Roberts, captain in the U. S. air force has been on a tour of duty as assistant professor of air science at Tuskegee institute. His duty there terminates during the summer of 1961. At that time he will have completed the requirements for a master of education degree in administration and supervision. Lawrence, 1 is wife h Lucimarian, and daughters SallyAnn and Dorothy, live on the campus at the institute. His address is AFROTC Detachment 15, Tuskegee Institute. Waltons Honored Dr. and MRs. Donald Walton, who will retire in January after 40 years of service in a mission church on New York's lower east side, were, honored at the Founders' day meeting of the New York alumni club. Dr. and MRs. Walton received many honors the most recent one being a dinner at Marble Collegiate Church December l9 given by the New York City Mission society. Alum of 1890 Visits Campus To Mr. and Mrs. Howard Staber, '55, a daughter, Susan Lynn, born August 19. Their home address: 3127 Jones, Sio ux City. To Dr. and Mrs. Richard T. Oliver, (Josephine Holdcroft '45), a daughter, Jacquelin Gwenn, b orn June 6. Their home address: 2209 Miami trail, West Lafayette, Ind. to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas J. Milacki, '60, a daughter, Mary Carol, born September 7. Their home address: 414 Ewingville road, Trenton,N. J. To Mr. and Mrs. Gordon Ohm, '53, (Gerrude Draayon '54), a son Michael William, born July 11. Their home address: Oakland Mr. Homer Taylor of La Grande, Ore. visited the campus in Novembe·r . Ia. Mr. Taylor was a student at the University To Mr. and Mrs. Jerrold Thacker, '55, of the Northwest when it was situated (Marlys Watson), a son, Daniel Clark, born downtown on Pierce street. He was in the April 4. Their h ome address: 10625 Upton school of business which was located across avenue S., Minneapolis 20. the hall from the school of medicine. He To Mr. and Mrs. Robert Hildreth, '55, had many interesting tales to tell of attending (Patricia Grube '54), a daughter, Roberta college in 1890. His home was at Anne, born June 15. Their home address: Blencoe. 2568 Third avenue W., Seattle 99. Mr. Taylor, 87, was en route to Arkansas To Mr. and Mrs. Robert Niebuhr, '59, when he stopped here. He spends much of (Sally Madison '60), 'a son, born September his time traveling, generally doing his own 17. Their home address: 3840 1/2 Garretson, driving . The past year he was in Europe, Sioux City. took movies a nd slides of his trip, and To Dr. and Mrs. Richard C. Gasser, '57, says h e is "ready to go again". He will a Scott Charles, born Octobe,r 27. Their be at home in Oregon after the first of home address: Broadlawns Polk County the year. hospital, Des Moines. son, WEE MORNINGSIDERS To Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Vannucci, '48, a son, Vincent Gerard, born September 27. Their home address: 5804 Idle avenue, Las Vegas, Nev. 12 To Mr. and Ronald R. Krause, '57, a son, born September 27. Thei·r home, is Lawton. To Mr. and Mrs. Don Oxenford, '50, (Elaine Jones ('53) , a son Joel Stewart. Their home address: Merrill, Ia. WEE MORNINGSIDERS Continued on p age 16 �THE MORNINGSIDER VOL. XIX December, 1960 No. 2 Expanded Parents' Day Is Successful; Varied Events Mark College Calendar The most extensive Parents' day in Morningside college history was held November 12. Approximately 175 parents came to the campus in the morning, and many stayed t hrough the evening supper hour. Highlight of the day for many parents was the attending of sample classes. They were invited to attend a n abbreviated session of the classes their sons or daughters have at 8 and 9 o'clock Monday mornings. For others, a sample chapel session or informal conference with a faculty adviser or dean was the highpoint of the day. Dr. J. Richard Palmer, presidentof the college, concluded the form al part of the, day in the late afternoon with off-the-cuff remarks about his recently completed European seminar tour. P lanning for the event was under the direction of Stanley Greigg, d ean of men; Mrs. R. L . Phelps, dean of women, and Dr. J. Clifford Holmes, dean of the college. The 1960-61 Vesper Series, a program in which several outstandi ng thinkers are invited to the campus for a two-day round of talks before and with students a nd the public, this month featured Dr. Warren Martin, head of the religion department at Cornell college, Mt. Vernon, Ia. Dr. Martin's presentation dealt with existentialism. H e was the third of this year's seven vesper speakers. MRs. Evelyn Millis Duvall, noted authority on family life education, and Dr. Eric Rust, teacher and philosopher, appeared on the campus in October and November, respectively. Trueblood Judd Another noted American churchman and teacher will be the vesper series speaker March 5 and 6. He is Dr. D. Elton Trueblood professor of philosophy at Earlham college. Prof. Trueblood is the author of six on religious and philosophical volumes topics and is famed for his articulation of an effective personal philosophy of life. Dr. Trueblood's vesper series appearance is being coordination this year with the annual religious emphasis week observance for which he will be k eynote speaker. Others listed on this year's Vesper Series slate are Arthur S. Flemming, United States secretary of health, education and welfare ; Congressman Walter H. Judd of Minnesota, former medical missionary and keynoter of the 1960 republican national convention, and Dr. Huston Smith, professor of philosophy at Massachusetts Institute of Technology. 13 �An outstanding event of the musical year SPORTS at Morningside was the performance November 21 of Mozart's monum ental Requiem The work was presented by the college orat orio choir and the chamber orchestra under the direction of Dr. James Football bowed out on a losing notes, but H. Wood, he·a d of the music department. there was plenty to cheer about during the The oratorio choir is composed of members season as the Maroon Chiefs, coached by of the concert or touring choir and the Dewey Halford and Jack Jennett, defeated chapel choir. The Requiem performance was given in the sanctuary of Grace Methodist arch-rival South Dakota university and upset highly favored Augustana. in t h e church. Approximately 500 persons Homecoming attraction. attended. The season won-lost chart showed four wins- Wayne Sta.te, Omaha university, A rou tine review examination by a team from the North Central Association of Colleges Augustana, South Dakota university - and five losses - North Dakota State, North and Secondary Schools was carried Dakota university, Iowa State Teachers on at Morningside in November. college, South Dakota State and Macalester. The two commissioners making the An explosive offensive machine all season, examination delved into man y phases of the the Chiefs were unable to generate the college educational and business ope·r ation kind of consistent attack that eliminates in the day and a half intensive review. They mistakes and ultimately wins ball games. met with faculty, studen t a nd administrative Only one regular lineman returning from groups and, in general, followed a program las t season's team explains, partially, why outlined in advance by a steering offensive consistency was lacking. committee headed by Dr. E. T. Bauer, At times, however, the 1960 Maroons senior professor of sociology. were unbeatable. A particular case in point is the Augustana game in which the Morningsiders threw a three-touchdown haymaker at the Vikings in t he secon d period and then were forced to mount a 68yard drive in the last five minutes, while The first Political Emphasis week to be down 2 points, to win on a field goal by held on the Morningside campus s parked Elmer Menage in the last sixteen seconds. spirited discussions and a heavy vote in a Football Closes; Basketba II Takes Over Hoeven, McCarthy Speak on Political Emphasis mock el ection t ha t showed Richard Nixon well ahead of President-electJohn Kennedy. Democratic Senator Eugen e J. McCarthy of Minnesota a nd Republican Congressman Charles B. Hoeven of Alton, Iowa eighth district representative, appeared on the campus on successive days in October. Each addressed an all-school convocation and then visited classes, lunched with student leaders and others who were interested and attended a question and answer discussion session in t h e afternoon. Arrangements for the week were made by Prof. Fred Lee, head of the speech department and chairman of the fa culty convocations committee; Stanley L. Greigg, dean of men, and Donald Taylor, a s·enior student. 14 Halford at Work �The 1960-61 Maroon Ch iefs The 1960-61 basketball Maroon Chiefs opened regular season play December 1 meeting Westmar at Allee gymnasium. The varsity had carved out a hard-fought 75 to 71 victory over a talented freshmen team during the annual clinic November 26. Van Dyke Honored Basketball began at Morningside 60 years ago ( or more) with students playing on a dirt court situated between the present Charles City College building ( conservatory and Lewis (Main) hall It was inevitable that soon Morningside Coach Chuck Obye, beginning his fourth season as Maroon cage coach, has six lettermenmen would look for n ew worlds to conquer, and in the forefront was Heimen Van Dyke. returning to form the nucleus for In 1901 he organized the first men's team this season's team. They are Jim Anfinson of Cushing and Terry Thorgersen of Moorhead and the first women's team to play against outside competition. The first men's team forwards; Dan Mather of Sergeant won five games and lost three. Bluff and Steve Pohlman of Sibley, guards, and Jim Stock of Lake View and Bob Garretson One of the victories was at the expense of Nebraska Wesleyan university. After of Peoria, Ill., centers. that triumph, Mr. Van Dyke designed the The 6-feet, 5-inch Garretson was a standout athletic M which has been ever since a performer last year and is expected to symbol of supreme athletic achievement and the M design that is u sed for the take up where he left off. athletic lettermen's award. Several other promising players are expected Mr. Van Dyke was honored for his contribution for starting positions. They to Morningside basketball at the include Larry Johnson, Sioux City junior, Nebraska Wesleyan game this month Paul Te Stroete of Hospers, another junior; (December). He was presented an M blanket Dave Mulder of Alton and Tom Kellogg of award by President Palmer between Park Ridge, HI. halves of the game . This season's schedule includes 21 regularly His name will be submitted to the Nai-smith scheduled tilts plus the clinic attraction Basketball Hall of Fame at Springsfield and a Christmas holiday tournament Mass., to be included in the corridor at Hastings college. of founders there. 15 �WEE MORNINGSIDERS Continued from page 12 To Mr. and Mrs. Paul Linder, (Lavonne Harms, '48), a daughter, Rebecca Sue. Their home address: 782 Prospect avenue, Kankakee, Ill. To Mr. and Mrs. Warren Held, '51, (Sharon Taylor), a daughter, Heide Lou, born August 24. Their home address: 779 N. First, Cherokee. To Mr. and Mrs. Alvin Sundell (Mary Ellen Kingsbury, '47), a daughter, Sarilyn Ethel, born May 28. Their home address: Wakefield, Neb. To Mr. and Mrs. Dwaine Miller, '55, a son, born October 27. Their home is 2848 Williams avenue, Sioux City. To Dr. and Mrs. Larry H. Pipkin, '51, a daughter, born September 29. Their home is 3426 Jennings street, Sioux City. To Mr. and Mrs. John B. Wolff, '55, a son, Christopher Jay, born April 8. Their home is 1830 Whitehouse, Sioux City. To Mr. and Mrs. Roger Burgess, '50, a daughter Candice Lee, born October 14. Their home address: 100 Maryland avenue, Washington, D. C. To Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Eder (Louise Adler, '50), a son, Jonathon David, born November 6. Their home address: 7029 N. Clair Court, Milwaukee. To Mr. and Mrs. Dean Harrington, '50 (Shirley Booz '49), a daughter, born October 14. Their home is 1801 S. Nicollet street, Sioux City. WEDDINGS Lois Me Bjerke to Gus Lease, '45. The couple is at home at 3308 McKee road San Jose, Cal. Evelyn Mae Todd to Rev. Omar Wesley Pettersen, '55. The couple will be at home in Bennett, Ia., where Rev. Mr. Pettersen is pastor of the Bennett and South Bethel Methodist church es. Alumni Contributors Previous to 1900 Mrs. Emma Petersmeir Cook Rev. W . B. Empey 1902 1903 Guy Frary Mrs. L. H. Clark (Effie Cook) Loren Smylie Daniel Starch A. R. Toothaker Narcissus 1904 Miller Toothaker Mrs. Mabel (Killam) Maynard 1905 Mrs. W . Lee Lewis (Myrtilla Cook) Walter G. Sloa n Mrs.. .Joseph Trimble (Virginia Fair) Mrs. D. L. Young (Emma Fair) 1906 Mr. A. M. Foote Miss Elizabeth E. Johns on Mrs. Gertrude Kindig (Gertrude Crossan ) Mr. R. G. Minkler Heiman Van Dyke 1907 Mrs. Ella Dickson Blacksh ire Mrs. Genevieve Hayes ( Genevieve Howard) Mrs. Carl W. Maynard (Mabel Haskins) Rev. H. C. Taylor Miss Mabel Vesta Towner 1908 Mr. Thomas C. Anderson Mrs. Thomas Anderson (Lu ra Matteson) 16 A. G. Cushman Ethel Jane Haskins Maho·ney Mr. H. H. Sawyer Rev. Vincent R. B eebe Frank Heilman Florence Clark Heilman Mr. H. J. Rich ards Mrs. Emma Russell (Emma Ike Westcott Cain) 1909 Mr. Arthur R. Bastian Miss J ennie B. Bridenbaugh Mr. Percy W. Brown Mrs. W. A. Main (Idabell e Lewis) Alvah L. Miller Julia Royse Matilda Olson Smylie 1910 Dr. J. H. Bridenbaugh Mr. J. W . Doolittle Dr. Irv in A. Engle Mrs. Wm . Kixmiller Deloss Shull G. W. Eggleston 1911 Mrs. Mabel (McMreery) Becker Mrs. J. H. Bridenbaugh (Jennie . N elson) Bessie A . Dunbar Mrs. Hazel (Deno) Hor ton H. H. Hudson Mrs. Vivian (McFarland) McGee Miss Edna E. Randolph W. W. Waymack (deceased) Emma Zimmerman 1912 Roscoe H . Carter W . A . D utton Rev. W . E. Ellison Mrs. Edna (Harris) Horsley D . P. Mahoney Mrs. C. 0. McWilliams (Hele n Olmstead ) A . H. Schatz Ethel A. Shannon Litta Tumblis on George E. Wickens 1913 Mrs. I van Baker (Lucille Atkinson ) Harry Chipman Garrett B. Dolli ver W. C. Evans Mrs. G. V . Green (Marie Wood) Hazel Shuma ker Hudson Mrs. Florence (Montgomery) Kingsbury Horace G. Mer ten Mrs. Harry Milligan (Lottie Sanders) Mrs. Eva (Leazer) Potter George W. Prichard Rev. John L. Ralston Miss Anna Reike Mrs. L. A. Sayer (Catherine Elliott) Leroy A. Scott Lurel Stonebraker Hel en Wedgewood 1914 C. L ee Barks Mitchell P. Briggs Nellie Upham Briggs Dr. A. J. Coombs Lucile Morgan Coombs Mrs. Claudia (Hambright) Engle Earl S. Fullbrook Dr. Myron Insko Mrs. D. A . Jenkin s (Bernice Bowman) Miss Alice Klippel John D . Kolp R ev. Roy H. McVicker �Mrs. Mrs. Fred Mrs. Laura (Postin) Sanborn A. H. Schatz (Isobel Webb) Schriever J. Orland Smith (Alice Thornburg) Mrs. Alice E. (Dewey) Vennink Mrs. Gertrude (Dykstra) Kolberg Mrs. Marian Hiekes) Luedes M. Agnes McCreery Miss Lean C. McDonald Mrs. W. Dayton McKay (Dorothy Owen) E. M. Prichard Mrs. Miriam (Fish) Wassenaar 1923 Elma Bunn Africa Harold P. Winter Mrs. Genevieve ( Stamper) Cline Mrs. Helen (Graef) Cobb Carlton Corbett 1915 Rev. Roy H. Cox Dr. C. F. Berkstresser Ruth Lindsay Cox Mrs. Olive (Jones) Bleam 1920 Mr. Cecil W. Deriva n Herman Bogard Evan Ausman Alice Bushnell Down Leonard Bridenbaugh Mrs. Eva (Trenary) Cary Mr. William E. Drury Mrs. F. Earl Burgess (Mabel Miss Martha F. Christ Vera Hatfield Gerkin Irwin) Mrs. Flossie (Day) DeVaul Clara Back Graning Mrs. 0 . Z. Cervin (Dora Carlson) Miss Lavina Dragooo Mrs. A. Q. (Cornelia Lender) Mrs. C. W. Deffenbaugh (Marie) Rev. Hugh B. Fouke Johnson Devitt) Louise Sammons Freese Mrs. Paul A. (Vesta Taylor Ketels James I. Dolliver Oscar R. Hart Miss Margaret Kidder Herbert L . Dunham V. A. Hart Mr. Henry T. Leisy Mrs. G. K . Greening (Mabel King) Amos W. Hartman R ev. G. S. Nichols Joe D. Hale Rev. E. Wayne Hilmer Miss Minnie C. Oates Ethel (Collier) Hawley Lee. C. Hornney Ernest M. Raun Lydia (McCreery) Lancaster Mrs. (Hazel Bergeson) Hoy Miss Happie E. Smith William Payne Mrs. Charles Hutton (Helen Hays) Miss Lucile F. Vickers Ralph C. Prichard Mrs. Gladys Luce (Gladys Knapp) 1924 Carl W . Sass J. H. McBurney Bonnie (Robinson) Schoonover Mrs. Grace (Wishard) Stonebrook Mrs . Gwen (White) Cassidy Mrs. Harold Crown (Margaret Cyril B. Upham Leland G. Sutherland Ellis) Robert R. Vernon J. H. Trefz Mr. and Mrs. C. E . Eerkes 1916 Wm. Wolle (Margaret Haradon) Dr. F. Earl Burgess Mrs. Ruby (Hill) Woodin Paul C. Ellis I. Oscar Hall 1921 Miss Myrtle Hawley Rev. Leslie Logan Miss Viola Benz Ray C. H a wley Mrs . Wm. McCurdy (Eleanor Floyd Conner Grace Wickens H enderson Winkelman) Mrs. Lorene (Williams) DeWitt Rev. H. E . Hutchinson Katherine (Nurse) Swanson Dr. H. I. Down Paul A. Moody Dr. J. B. Patri ck Rev. George Dunn Mrs. Lucille A. (Henderson) Miss Mary Wedgewood Rev. J. E. Feller Parry 1917 Margaret Franchere Raymond Olson Ruth (McBurney) Stouffer Mrs. Dorothy (Steele) Apland Virgil Gerkin Miss Irene Truckenmiller Mrs. Marguerite (Brethorst) Boner Dr. A. Holmes Johnson Royal ,Jurgensen Mrs. Clara (Swain) Dail ey Iva (Smith) Jurgensen 1925 Mrs. Cornelia (McBurn ey) French Ethel Thompson Ku cinski Mr. and Mrs. Lester G. Benz Dr. R. J. Harrington Clyde Kudrle (Marguerite Held) Anna Anderson Hayes Elsie E. Lang Walker B. Davis Mrs. John D . Kolp (Marie Sebern) Mrs. Irma (Ostling) Larsen Rex Fountain Minnie Fry McBride Mrs. Esther (Goodsite) Levin K enneth Funkhouser Mrs. W. D. Nettleton (May Mrs. Harold MacBeth (Adelia Hill) Mrs. Kenneth Funkhouser (Hazel Wickens) Sam A. Stoufer (deceased) Lowry) Mrs. J. L. Ralston (Neva Houk) Mrs. Evelyn (Balkema) Troutman Miss Muriel J. Hughes Mrs. C. R. Reynolds (Fern Mrs. Donald Walton (Bessie Reed) Dr. Max A. Kopstein Beachem) Rev. Harry Whyte Mrs . Ray Larson (Mariam KampMrs. Millie (Corneliussen) Rona ld M. Wilson hoefner) Robertson Emily Linden Rev. Donald Walton 1922 Miss Elizabeth Oggell N. J. Williams Nellie Carpenter Winter R. G. "Honie" Rogers R. R. Bedell 1918 Elaine Barnt Rogers Miss Minnie C. Anderson Lowell B. Test Earl Barks Mr. and Mrs. H . E. (Mary Decker) Miss Wilma E. Trumbell J. F. Christ Dr. Horace E. DeWalt Benz Miss Katherine Weldon Mrs. E. E. Gingles (Frances Kolp) Mrs. Lola (Heikes) Flack Mrs. George E. Wickens (Alice Beatrice Carver Hawkins Robbins) Mrs. V. A. Hart (Hazel Barrow) Mr. Leon Hickman Mrs. Roy Holdren (Agnes Mae Zelda Bond McNally 1926 Charles Hutton Dr. A. Q. Johnson Henry and Elma (Bunn) Africa Kenneth Chin n Dr. R. H. McBride Carl F. Klans Iris A. Knight Mrs. Waldo Brink (Alma Jansen) Miss Alice Miller Mrs. Lois (Banister) Kudrie Mrs. R. W. Crary (Margaret Cora Dutton Mitchell Mrs. Gladys (Bradley) McBurney Coleman) Miss Mildred Peca ut ·' David C. Davies Mrs B en Rieke (Marion Johnson) Nora Rohwer Marousek Dr. Ben Gelfand Mrs. Esther (Montgomery) Smyres Sherman W. McKinley, Jr. Dr. D. C. Giehm Alice Waring Mr. a nd. Mrs. Park W. (Edna Kenneth R. Hall . Bekms) Moorhea d Mrs. Wm Woll e (Vivian Down) · Miss Nona Moss Rev. Earl E. Josten 1919 Don Nissen Donald A. K eys Mrs. C. Lee Barks (Leone Lange) Mrs. Eva (Dunagan) Olson Mr. and Mrs. F. D. Leamer Anna Lunblade Bartley R ev. a nd Mrs. Lloyd (Rush (Mildred Torbet) Miss Beulah Edginton Acklin) Scheerer E. Waldo Mauritz Mrs. Ruby (McCreery) Eginton Rev. Arthur Schuldt Mrs. J. Willard Peterson Mrs. Ruth Griffith (Ruth Re id) Dorothy Skewis (Hendenburgh) Mrs. C. A. Hindman (Helen Meeks) Ruth Bushnell Sutton John Reback Mrs. Fern Hinkle (Fern McKinney) Mrs. Robert Waggoner (Zazel Miss Joy L. Smith Dr. Horace Hutchinson Mary Kane) Miss Margaret Tiedeman F. R. Kingsbury Ruth Wedgewood Henry J. and Forest Mosier C. H. Klippel Mrs. Lydia (Bixby) Young TePaske 17 �Margaret Tiedeman Mrs. H. W. Turpin (Louella Empey) Henrietta Squires Test Miss Helen L. Waring Mrs. Page (Lohrmann) Watson H. D. Wright Mrs. Merwin L. Zwald (Mabel Hartley) 1927 Mrs. Myron Anthony (Janet Wegersley) Robert R. Barnard Mrs . J. W. Blythe (Lenore Benedict) Ed Corbett Alice Hall Dawson Orpha Kudrle DeMots J. C. D ucommun Phil M. Gambs Ma e As musse n Hall Miss Mabel F. Hoyt Mrs. Ralph Hunt (Margaret Mackintosh) Mrs. Gladys (Thompson) Kelly Russell P. Knudsen Lois Little Miss Margaret N. McCoy Mrs. Gladys (Miller) Riddle John Sears Mrs. R. M. S heldon (Margaret Anderson) Mrs. A. R. Swanson ( Lois Jack) Newell E. Williams 1928 Mrs. Florence (Croston ) Anderson Mrs. Lial Johnson (Imogene Gilbe rt) Rev. Richard Carlyon Thomas L. Kellough Lucile Claerbout McGregor Mr. and Mrs. A. F. Li tz Dor oth y Paulson McLarnan Hazel (Elliff) McVey Miss Fay Moe lle r Flordora Pendleton Mrs. C laren ce Robertson (E leanor Sterling) Thelma Jaeger Mrs. J . 0. Thorsheim Mrs . Leo Uhl ( Gladys Timm) 1931 Mrs. Carsten Ahre ns (Doroth y Christian Anderson) Mrs. Lois ( Schamp) Bottom Rev. and Mrs. Joseph H . Castle (Mabel Springer) Dr. Gor don Cr a ry Mrs. Gen evie ve (Met ca lf) Danforth Dr . James J. Davies Mr. and Mrs. Arthur (Helen Parrott) Foreman Verl Crow Mr. and Mrs. Harold Decker (Hele ne Crenshaw) Rev. M. E. Dorr Dr. John Evans Gleva Binger Hanson Merlin Kol be John E . Griffin Rev. and Mrs. W. G. Muhleman Mrs. Harold M. Norwood (Ali ce Morrison) Mrs. Harriet Ogg ( Smith) Clyde Van Dyke Mr. . John B. Walker 1935 Rev. Anthony Blankers Mr. and Mrs. . .JamesJ. De Roos Frank E. Gibbs Miss Ethel Hedenbergh Mrs. Audrey (Stromberg) Kolbe Sulsmith B. Marcus Emery D. Stewart Mrs. G. R. Wakefield (Beth Car s on) 1936 Mrs. Eleanor (Taft) Allen Miss Julia Bereskin Mrs. Geo. (Nema Wesner) Davies Nora Kruse Esther Ferkes Mark McLarnan Max F . Gasper Wayne Men te r B url Keiser L. V. K uhl Grace Abel Menter Mrs. Rolin S. Moore (Muriel Mrs. Esther (White) Kindig Harrington) Marvin J. Klass Hobart F. Mossman Mrs. H. Larsen Margaret V. Robert P. Munger Messing) Mrs. W.. .T. Van Schreeven (Opal Miss Winona E. Lohff Van Dyke) E. L. Lundquist A. H. and Lillian (Edlund) Senne Rev. Alvin T. Maberry Wendell B. Seward Horace N . Marvin Dr. Edward H . S ibley Rev. Willis C. Phelps Milton Thompson Mrs. Dorothy Scott (Dorothy Cook) Mrs. Art Van Wyngarden (Nellie W. L . Van Horne Chilton) .J. Vanesall Virgil K. Willia m s Mrs. Maxine Williams Wilmar Guernsey H. Milo H a ll Claude C. Brown Mrs. Flora (Quirin) Bussewitz D r . 0. W. Brand Lawrence S . Cain Ruth Gauger Furrow Martha Bucher Graber Max Dean Hugh es Horace W. Koch Miss Jul ia E. LaGrone 1932 1937 C. C. Maddis on Gertrude E . Bale Mrs. H el en (Tiede ma n ) McDonaldMr. and Mrs. Ralph E. Baker Harriett Lubbers Horrigan ( Chalice Moor e) Ruth Orr Ostmeyer Victor Jacobson Jane E. Barnett Mildred Sweet Ed Keller Mr. and Mrs. W. J. Van Schreeven Mr.. J. S. Bottom Miss Lucille Bryan Ethe l C. Bolton (Opal Van Dyke) Mr. Marvin R. Burgess F . 0 . Rosenberger Dr. David C. Carver G race V is now 1929 D. George Davies ( Nema Wesner) Rev. Harrison Dawes Miss Dorothv Bogen E. J. Otto Dr. M. A . Blackstone 1938 Harvey H . Potthoff Hazel Surber Croston Francis C. Bakken Mrs. Joyce Ramsey (Woodford) . Lyle D. Culver Wilfred D. Crabb Homer Scha pe r Clari ce McDonald Keys Mrs. R u th Hayward Gandek Wm. Shuminsky Margaret G. DeTemple Mrs. Louis S . Goldberg Robert S . Thomas Ken n eth Finke Dr. H . W . Jones Nicholas Tiedeman Ru th Frum Vera Hayes Campbell Art Van Wyngarden M. A. Nixon Miss Margaret Lease Thelma Jager Mrs. Lester Schaff (Anne Aalfs) Frank L. Logan Elinor Wirsig Margaret DeWitt Smith Ernest L . Ma dison Ray Wirth Ruth (Schule r ) Stewart Rev. K e nne t h Metcalf C. B. Vizas 1933 Lyle Poyzer MRs. Kenneth M. Wallace(Elva Lawren ce A. Scha a l Ri ch ard L. Aeck R. Reimers) John H. Sewa rd Mrs. Lois Anderson Ray Rodeen Miss Katherine C. Blazer Edgar W. McCracken Elizabeth Turner Helen Bottom 1939 Overgaard Margaret Chesterman Mrs. . Janice (Hagy) Coffie Mrs. Boyd (Birdie May Mervin L. Zwald Mr. Wayne E. Dennis Slothower) Bod ie Mrs. Roene Brooks Horgan Boyer Nao mi (Snyder) 1930 M iss Ruth McD onald Lt. Comdr. Norman Brady Donald C. Brodie Loi s M. Myerson Mrs. D or othy Brooks Mrs. L . H . Clark (Effie White) Mrs. Muriel (Batho) Nash (Dorothy Behrens) Ethel Hackett Cord Mrs. A. B . Paulson (Lou ise Eugene R. Hartley Louis H. Croston McCracken) Charles C. Howard Lowell N. C r ippen Miss Doris Rockefell ow W. G. Kirchner Wm. Danforth K e nneth T. Wilcox L illia n K rupni ck Marion Caya Fortner 1934 Mrs. Esther (Friedman) Lederer Ardis Bergeson G ilbert H elen Pearson McCracke n Mrs. Harry D . Anth on y Nathan Goldberg Mrs. Evelyn D. McClure Joseph ine (Peter son ) Caldwell Clarence Ted Johnson 18 �Ken Marbach Ri chard P . Pawson Mrs. Morton Phillips Friedman) (Pau lin e Mrs. Howard C. Josephson (Lillian Brown) Ronald W. Rawsen 1940 MRs. Margaret Eaton (Long) Mr. & Mrs. Deane R. Flett Rev. B . Roy Brown Mrs. Alice (Hanson) H emphill Miss Eleanor Jones Mrs. Ernest (Irene Johnson) Madison Mrs. Mary (Cruikshank) Grefe Mr. L. E. Jones Mrs . Don Leopold (Helen Anderson) Mr. Stanley P. Munger Rev. John Payne Miss Jean C. Runge Miss Esther H . Santee Dr. Robert F. Sharp Mr. Miles Tommeraasen C larence & Dorothy 1944 Howard F. Nielsen Chaplain & Mrs. Robert Ruleman Millicent J . Saunderson Hope Faul Sch lenger Alfred P. Strozdas Mr. Bruce W. Van DeMark Mrs. Careta Friend Paul G. Sloan Genevieve Whittington Sloan G. E. Fischer 1941 Mr. Edwin Adams Mrs. Florence Anderson Dr. Keith Arnold Mr. Robert Brooks Maurice A. Clare Mrs. Virginia Coughenour (Virginia Davis) Rev. S. Willard Cunningham Mr. Don ald Fritzche Fred Davenport Rev. Robert Rae Garrett R. Wallman Mildred Wikert Wallman Mrs. M . L. Granstrom (Ruth Olsen) Mr. Ronal d E. Grefe Mr. Dale M . Harter Miss Miriam C. Hartley Joyce (Held) Jensen Richard V. King Mi ss Evelina Ma land Mrs. Mary Hinchman Mohr Alice (Swanson) Otto Miss Lillian M. Pickersgill Elton H. Sakamoto Mrs. Doreen (Dallam) Smith Anna Zenkovich 1942 Don Severeide Romaine Lamkin Rev. Stanley E . Anderson Mr. & Mrs. R. W . (Kate Brown) Bennett Mrs. Robert Brooks (Lauretta King) Rev. Robert Arthur Caine Mr. & Mrs. Chas B. Clayton (Ruth Worrell) Florence M . Dahl Bernard Feikema Mr. M. L. Granstrom Mr. Raymond H. Gusteson Mr. Jean A. Laffoon Miss Mildred Pfeiffer Mr. Leslie Pruehs Dr. George R. Pullman Alice E. Spal ding Ayaka Yamashiro You 1943 Robert Green Mrs. Edwin Adams (Doris Coe) Mrs. F. L. Brockman Dorothy E. Brown Mr. Steve Constantine R. E. Corwin Kathl een Schnoor Garwood Ver Steeg (Dorothy De Vries) Mr. & Mrs . Ted Walensky (Lucille Roberts) Mrs. Florence (Coss) Wells Mr. Don Wertz H. A. Bomgaars Mrs. Stanley E. Andrews (Dorothy Wel ls) Mrs. Bernard Feikema (Mary Louise Held) Mrs. Edith (Harrison) Granstedt Mrs. Frances BridgesSchinkel Mrs. Darlyne Schwindermann Hobsen Lois M. Hopkins Feldman F. Jones Rev. & Mrs. Ernest W . Lars on (Ruth Saupe) Lavonne (Harms) Linder Rev. Henry N. Muller John B. Phelps Mr. Paul R. Ral ston Mr. & Mrs. Thomas B . Green (Lois Emme) Mr. Lawren ce W. Runion Mr. & Mrs. Darwyn Snvder Mr. R a lph D. Vannucci 1949 Donald Lawrenson John Palmolea Paul Zanneff Ly le Couture Dale W. Baker Robert Cale, Jr. Ca ptain Jack F essenden Richard G. Force Claire H. Flessner 1945 H. Milo Hall Dr. R. E. Reinking Mrs . Clarice M. Hamm er strom Mrs. Marcille (Bohn) Blair (Moone) Mrs. Betty (Boles) Eads Mr. Howard Harmon Ellen Westergaard Jackson Mrs. Shirley (Booz) Harrington Dr. Edward L. ,Jacobs Richard H. Johns on Warren R . Moore Mr. Donald D. K elsev Mrs. Josephine (Holdcroft) Oliver Mr. Robert M. Lincoln Robert W. Melov 1946 Dr. R. M. Minich Dr. Maynard Porter M r s. Richard Morgan (Ione Guy Nettleton. Jr . Prescott) Vesta C. Burris Mr. Roy H. Moore. Jr. Mrs. Annette (Gray) Carlson Mrs. Myrna Nakanis ki Ralph Clayton Mt·. Arthur W . Nystrom Rev. David Cox Rev. Burton A . Passer Margaret (Ralston) Everett Mr . Edward J. Schmitt, Jr. Mr. Lyle L . Knudsen Mr. Max H. Stern Dr. & Mrs. B. A. Kolp (Roberta Mrs. Jan (Mac Collin) Taylor Haitz) Mrs. D . C. Weideman Mrs. Florence Kyle (Florence Mr. & Mrs. Ch leo Weins Wilken) Wayne W . & Edith Fiderlick Mr. Don Leopold Wise Helen E. Northup Mr. & Mrs. W illi am D. Wolle Patricia Lindsay Parsons Rich ard J. Yo u ngstrom Mr. & Mrs. Robert J. Parsons 1950 Miss Coila J. Sieber Abe Ferris Joyce and Ted Whitlow 1947 James Turner Ina Mae Ham Couture Joe Anderson Mrs. Joseph Behar (Helen . Haffits) Mr. Norman Clark H a rvey W. Durfey Dwight Ebelheiser Mrs. Ralph Eder Miss Mary Fidd ick Mrs. George W . Goodenough Rev. C. L . Guinn Mrs. Thorvald Haaland (Helen Meredith) Ruth Milton Green B e thel Forsling Nettleton Mr. E lbert N. Bales Mrs. Donna (Saverson) Bebber Mrs. David Cox (Carolyn Wol le) Dale E. Dunn, M. D. Mrs. Warren Ewen (Vaneta Dewitt) Mrs. Charles Farmer (Barbara Young) Mr. O. K. Goodrich Max Kiernan Richard C. & Katherine (Roadman) Dean Harrington Mrs. Charles Held (Helen McLaughlin Bartram) Norman C. Mathers Harold Henricksen Mr. Paul W. Peterson Mr. W. D. Kinney Mrs. Clarice Lane Riddering Miss Joy J . Momsen Berton E. Tagg Mr. Stan Newman Grace M. Weaver Raymond Speulda 1948 Mrs. Mary (Gasser) Turner Dr. Charles M. Marriott Rev. & Mrs. Charl es Q. Wall ace Mrs. Eric Anderson (Katherine (Anne Madison) Find) Mary Jo Briggs W e ins Mrs. Beverly Booth (Beverly 1951 Johnson) Mr. & Mrs . William Briggs Rev. Paul Davis (Muriel Lambert) Rober t Hanson Leon Harbeck Mrs. Vesta (Feller) Cosgrove Carolyn Held Davies Mrs. Eunice Stephens Duxbury Mr. Roger P. Davis Henry Glover 19 �Mr. Hershel J. Evans Mrs. Robert ( Virginia Cook) Fritz Mrs . Nancy (Asmussen) McBride Don G. McCarthy Mr. C. John Miquelon Mr. Nel son Price Clair Sco tt Mrs. Ma rga r et (Marksbury) Speulda Miss Do rothy Ann Wirsig 1952 Ves ta Billin gs Norman Reid Richard Throne Mrs. Esther Wood Bayl es Karroll M. Car s on Mr. Edwin Chruscie l Mrs. Leonard Day Mr. Rober t R. E ids moe Mr. Robert D. Fritz Jules E . H a rlow Mr. Charles H eld Mr. and Mrs. Jack R. Hobs (Pa tri cia W ysong ) Dr. Ma uri ce L. Lewi s Bill Lyl e Mrs. Don McCar t h y (Eda len e Moone) Mr. Cha rles McNutt Don Oxenford Mi ss Marie A. Russo Mrs . Cla ra Shedd Mr. E a rl E . Smith Mr. Guillermo Sobalvarro Mr. Thomas S toddard Mrs. V. D. S tol e n Mr. and Mrs . D on Strandburg (Patricia Pentony) M r s . El eanor (Mohr ) Struthers Ru t h Verlinden T arvin 1953 D on a ld L. Ca rve r N ellie Carlson Warren Gass ink Joan Collin Fries D on a ld B. Krone Muriel W a lde mer Lyle Miss Genevie ve I. Lyon Elaine Jones Oxenford R ober t L. Ph elps C. W. Polley Mrs. Irvin G. S u t he rl a nd (Ann Hackn ey ) Gery M. Ma rtin 1954 Mrs. Helen P . (Price ) B uss J essie Hadden Meyer Fritzsche M r . Verlin Heuton Mrs. Irving F . Je n sen M r . Ben, Storek Mrs. Eiro Yamade Keith W. J ohnson Rita R emme r s Johnson D elores S. Whitmer 1955 B etty B or ch er s M.r s . C. A . B orgstr om M r s. G lenn R. Busyager Mr. Bla ine H . Garlo w Dr. Edwin F. Hirs ch Mr. & Mrs. Roger Gohrin g Kermit I saacson Mrs. Esther Macfa rla n e (Little ) Dwaine F. Mille r Donald G. Murray Dona ld W. Palmer Norma L. Pet er s on Joa nne A. Preul Mrs. Almon T a rnas ky (Donne Saupe) Larry J. Toner Mrs. Maye B. Wallace 20 1956 Robert F. Bachert Wm. H . Eberle Mr. Dona ld D . Eilers Roge r M. Erickson Gordon S. Fairchild W assileh B. Khoury Mr. Gerald Ste in John H. Thomas Roge r H. Win te r Mr. 1957 Mrs. Evelyn Anderson Mr. Rich a rd Anshutz M rs. Elve r a Babcock Mr. Bill Beem er Miss Hazel E . Clay ton Connie C1e ve la nd M r . K enn eth 0. Elvik Jack & B e verly Geihm Hall Mr. Thomas Gerkin Mr. James Hindma n Mr. P eirre E . Loren ger Mary E. Rice Mi ss Ma r gen e Schnell 1958 Virginia Bray El s ie Hinkhouse Bob Reynder s Carlene Erikson Thron e Mrs. R. W. Wineinge r Donn a (West re ) Anagnos tou T om J ohns rud Mr. R a y Bailey Mr. David Bog ue Delos D. Corderma n Willard M . Goeden Mrs . Sandra (Maddison) H a wk Mr. Ross A . Hoffma,n , Jr. Ward Kowa lke Virgil E. & Dori s Mae Ma uer M r. Roy P. P e t e rs on Marjorie Rowl a nds P e t e rson H elen L. St ew a rt 1959 Maril y n J. Alloway Mr. Dick Anderson Arthur Halbauer Jr. Ch a rles Den Hartog Gary R. Huls t Miss Ch arlotte A . J o hnson Anita Louise K a lske tt Mr. N orton D. Obrecht Mr. Calvin Teasdale Gl enna R. Wardlow J a m es E. Weaver Mrs. Kathl een (Kas) W e is brod Natalie Whitney BiIJ Clem e ns Mrs . John Weisensee Roy ce B a rnum D el Raymond 1960 Bob D a nnenber g Evelyn H ackma nn Charl es Palmer Mrs. J. R. Palmer June Class 1960 FRIENDS Wilbur Aalfs Milbur n P. Ak er s Ray A . Alle n Dr. C. E. Anders on L eona rd C. Anderson Helen Anders on Melvin A. Anders on Oss ia n Anderson R. D. Ande r son Richard B . Anderson Wayne Ander son Dr. Asa Arent Lynn A . Ark in Kenneth Asplund Sharon Babbitt J . P. Banhart A. H . B a ron Edward E . Baron Dr. Fra nk B ean Rev. Robert B eckst rom John A . B eckwith Robe rt E. B eebe Roya l B enne tt V. Ward B ennett, J r. H a rold Benson Mrs. Ira D. Bens on Gle n Bixby Alvin U . B la ckburn Chesterma n Blythe Dr. W . C. Boden Claren ce A . Bohner R. E. Boles Milton Holstein Robe rt L. Bos welI R ev. P a ul Bons field Homer M. Bovd Dr J. F. Boysen Nora M . Bray Robert Breckinridge Thomas Brienz o Egbert E. Briggs Dr. Carroll A . Brown John T. Brown Clifford Burdick Ethel B urnha m Dr. A . J. Call a ghan Earl Calvert R ev . J. No rma n Ca rl sen L e la nd Case John Cemansk y Leo Chaikin J. A. Chambers Rev. Robe rt Chapler E a rl Ch ase Ethel Ch es te rma n Paul B. Cla rk I s adore K. Clinkenbeard He len Clos ner Dr. Pat M. Cmeyla Sam Co hen Dr. E . G . Cole Larry Coke Joan B. Collings Bruce Comps ton R. Dudl ey Conner Nancy Conwa y Gerald Coppock H oward Corne lia Fran cis A. Coy Judge Ralph W . Cr a r y Miles Cronk Hugh L. Curran Mr. Harrison Dawes Ger a ld Da vi s H a rla n D a vis .Judith N . D a vis P a ul W. D eck Dr. Jay C. D ecker Paul G. D elman Milt D elzell Eve r et t L . Denning Carter W . Dennis N . K. Dicks on Lillian E . Dimmitt B en Dobrofsky William J. Dougherty H a rold E. Dowling Fred Dubbert Edward Duling W. G. Dunkle Re v. Charles R. Duskin Howard J. Duven Robert Edlun Charles W. Eklund Dr. Andrew T. Engelmann Mrs . Laura M. Ennenga II. H. Epperson Dr. E. D . Erickson �M. H. Erickson William E. Eubank Fae A. Evans Richard Faith Robert B. Fearing William R. Felton Albert Ferris Wm. Ferris T. E. W. Fife W. Fische r Larry Forbes Rose Forrest G. M. Foster Harry Fox Dr. Louis J. Frank Rev. Alfield E. Franzen Marvin F. Frerichs A. A. Frevitt Ada Frum Sanford Furrow, Jr. Joseph F. Gantz Dewie J. Gaul Bob Gessen Harry J. Gibbons Dr. W. H. Gibbon Franklin E. Gill Mrs. Dorothy M. Gleason Robert E. Gleeson Rabbi Albert Gordon W. S. Goode W . C. Gordon Myron E. Graber Eva Graham Harlow H. Graham Lois Grammer Richard Corel John T. Graser. Jr. Father Joseph Gregori Margaret Gretta Frank W. Griffith Ralph Grote J. M. Gunnell Everett Gunsolley Charles G. Hadlev William V. Hagan Oliver Hagglund A. F. Halfpap Harley Hall Florence Hammerstrom Thomas E. Hanifan James M. Hanlon Sara Hanson Fred K. Harbeck Harry E. Harbeck George N . Harless Gladys L. Harmon L Doyle Harmon Willis Harms Gertrude Harris Mrs. Robert Harris Fred B. Hartman George Harvey Thomas Hassenge r John S. Haver William C. Hayes Alice M. Hays Leotha Hayworth George Redid Ralph A . Heaton Robert D. Hecke r Sam I. Heikes Olive M. Helt H. P. Hempstead Ralph A. Henderson Dr. Lyle K. Henry H. M. Herman Ralph W . H e rrick Albert Herzoff Viola Hess Wayne Hettinger Rev. Harris Hilscher Ken Hockenbury Victor H. Hoefer Howard H. Holdcroft Larry Holland Ernest F. Hollar Harry Holtz Dr. Edward M. Honke Dr. A. W. Horst Gerald J. Hoselton Peter E. Hovland Dr. Dwayne E. Howard Maude Hube r J a mes H. Hustis A . G. Ireland Lou is J . Israel Mrs . Rach el Jarvis John H. J enn ett Irving F. Jensen Frank Johnson Mrs. J . E . Johnson K. Wayne Johnson William F. Johnson W. C. Johnston Leonidas H. Jones Marshall B. Jones Randall A . .Jones Robert F . Jones B en Kalin Alfred J. Kandik George Katres Dr. Melvin R. Kelberg Dr. Anthony H . K elly Ray Kennedy Dean M. K erl Rev. A . J . Kindred Clyde C. Kirchner Kenne th Kjeldseth W. A. Klinger Dennis Klute Jack Koerner Mr. Bill Knepper Miss Eva D. Knight Henry F. Kruger Roy A. Kvam Arthur Lage Charles Ed La Grave Martin C. Lange Dr. R. N. Larimer Dr. Robert C. Larimer Marian E. Larson Norris G. Leamer W. F. Lechtenberg Fred W. Lee Veryle Lee George Lee 0. E . Lehnns Dr. Herbert C. Leiter Fred S. Lennon Rev. Sam T. Lenters Dave Levitsky A. W. Lewis H. A. Lewis Mr. & Mrs. Warren L ewis T. C. Linka DrJ . O. Lischke T. Dr. Frederick J. Lohr John C. Lower Arthur W. Ludwigs Gordon A. Luikart Roy W. Lundquist Dr. & Mrs E . D. McCaul ey C. T. McClintock Leo Kucinski Wm. McCoy B. V. McGuirk Hugh V. McHugh Mrs. Esther McKee Marcia A. McNee Mary K. McQuillen Eva Macklin Iva n H . Mackling Axel W. Madsen Leo Mahon Alma Grahm Mann V. Neal Maricle Gordon F . Markley Rev. Oscar Marquardt D. Y. Marsh Frank D . Martin Charles E. Mason Wayne Masters G. K. Maudsley F. H. Meyer Carle ton Mikkelson Charl es E . Miller Charl es F. Miller Irvin B. Miller Dr. Ra lph M. Miller Les Minear M. L . Minnig Ray V. Mitchell W. J. Mitchell Harlan T. Moen Mildred Moseman Dr. Wilbur E. Moser Dr. Robert C. Mugan C. E. Murphy William L. Murph y Vincent Murray George Neal Harry R. Neff Dr. Harry L. Nelson Stella Nelson Dr. H . P. Nickolisen Ronald Nielsen David A. Noble Marvin T. Nodland C. V. Norblom Vivian Nyhus Henry X. O'Brien Dr. Richard H. Olmsted Mrs. Aagot Olsen Wa lter Olsen Forrest M. Olson L eslie H. Olson Charlotte Orr Wave Ostensen H. J. Palmer, Sr. Howard H . Palmer Dr. J. R. Palmer Willia m E. Palmer Chester M . Palmquist Deloris F. Palmquist George Pappas A. N. Paulson Laurel Pease Richard A . Pecaut Edgar F. Pechacek George Pechstein Mrs. Vera Norman Pedersen Donald M. Pendleton Jack Perry Clyde Phillips Roy H. Phingsten Sam G. Pickus Kenne th n. Pillar Audrey E. Pitner R ev. Henry F . Plume r Rev. Samuel Polovina Kenne th Power Adam Pratt, Sr. Harry Pratt James Primm Ralph Rawson J. W . Rehal Dr . M. E. Reinking Dwayne Rich Roy W. Richards Jack Rispalj e Dr. E arl A . Roadman Norris Robinow Ed I. Rochester Marvin R. Rodvold Arthur Rolle Ralph Ross Edward Ruisch Ronald B. Runge J . W. Rutle d ge Robert Sacks Elizabeth Sammons Edward F. Samore Ralph E . Sarlette Lyall K . Saunders Bernice E. Scantlebury Clarence Schaffer Erick E. Schlueter Harold A. Schroer 21 �Harold Sco tt Elsie Seek Ben Sekt D onald F. S heph e rd Phil J I. Sherman Harold B. Sherwood H. H. Shiloff J. D. Shinkl e Myer Shubb M. JJ. Sil cox Rabbi Silverstein Ray J. Simeon Laura Simonson Lyle Slater Sleeper Everett E. V. Slife Herman S lots ky Eugene S pe raw Marion Sperry Harold J. Stearns Harold G. Stevens David W. Stewart Douglas Stock Char les A. Striegel E. G. Str iegel Fred P. Sulzbach C. E. Swanstrom Leo 0. Sykes Conui e M. Talcott John W. Tawlks George Taylor Rev. H. D. T empl e Robe rt L. Terry L. Earl Thompson R. Thomson Leroy M. Thorp Dr. John P. Tiede rnan Beatrice A. Tift Alva Tolf Ado lph J . Toller Oscar A . Towler Richard Tucker W. H. Tyler G. U hli r. F. E. Van Alsti ne C. Carleton Van Dyke Clyde R. Van Dyke J. W illiam Van Dyke C. S. Van Eaton Al Vermilyea D. W. Verstegen Tom F. Vint Dr. D. Wagner Richard Wagner Dr. Max Wainwright H olman E. Waitt Cha rl es T. Walcott Dave H. Watkins Geo. P. Watson Walter R. Webb Rev. Dwight Webster S . Milton Wertz B. M. Wheelock Cora Whicher Frank P . Which er R. W. Wigton George Wilkinson Charl es K. Williams .John Winkel R . J. Winneke Elaine E. Winter Anthon y L. Wolff Ri chard W. Wood J. W att Wooldridge Mr. H. N. Workhoven W. C. Yeager Mr. E . W. Youell Tom E . Young C. C. Younglove COMPANIES and CORPORATIONS A ce Dry Goods Albertson & Co. . Inc . Allyn Foundation 22 Anderson American American Bakery Auto Parts Can Compan y American Pop corn Co. Auto Parts Exch. Co . Avery Bros. S ign Co . B. R. Meat S uppl y Barker's Shoes Baxter's Ca fe D. K. Baxter Co. Beane Plumbing Bekins A. H. B enn e tt Co. Wm. B e uttl er & Co. Bi s hops Cafete ria Bourrett's Tin & Furnace Bovi s Coffee A . Braunger Produ ce Bricklayers Local No. 5 C. W. Britton & Co. Fra nklin Britton Agency Brothers Paper Box Co. Bu rke Lumber Co. Bush Cleaners Carpente r Paper Co. Chesterman Co. Coast to Coast Store S. S. Coe Advertis ing Concrete Pipe Machinery Cons ervative Bond Container Corp . Conti nental Baking Co . Cook Pa in t & Varnish Co. Corn Belt Supply Co. Crary & Huff Cres cent Electric Crystal Chemica l D . H. Cunningham Danny's Denning Florist Dickson Motor Co. Dickson's Inc. Dividend Oil Co. Duke 's Radio East M'Side Recreation Ass'n. East Side Super Market Edith & Joe's Edwards & Browne Coal Engl eson Abstract Co. Fantle Bros. & Co. Farmers U nde rwrite r Ass'n . First Federal Sav in gs F ishgall 's Inc. France s B ldg. Co. Frances Shoe Store Ben Frank lin Store Frenchick Runsvold Friden Calculators Gardner Cowles Foundation General Outdoor Adv. Dr. Gittins, Dvorak & Heimann E. L . Graham Brake Grandy Pratt Co. Graysons Greenberg Jewelry Green Gab les Grea t Northern Railway Found . Great L a kes Pipe Line Co. G uarantee Oil Co . Guarantee Roofing Gulf Oil Corporation Haakenson Rowe Hamm e r's Ca f e Han son Glass & Pain t Hargadon EquipHa r ri s Jan i tor Supp ly Harry Batchelle r Farm Store Jo hn Haney & Co. Hauff Sporti ng Good s Horn e F ederal Savings Hou sehold Finance Foundation Hutton Tufty I -Go Moving Ingwerson Brothe rs Inters ta t e Oil Co. Iowa Public Service Jacks on Hotel Di s tr. Co . J o urnal Tribune Kaplan Foundation K T IV KT RI Kay D ee F eed s, In c. Keightley Pedersen & W. A . Klinger, In c. Knapp Spen cer Co. Laze re P harmacy L ee & L ewi s Lips hu tz Bros . & Sons Lipman's Va ri ety Store Long & Hansen Comm. Drs. McCuistion & Collin s McElroy & Prew i tt Co. McManus Green e Co. T. S . Martin Realty Co. Mayfair Hotel Metz Baking Co. Midwes t Livestock Co. Miller Kidd e r Missouri Vall ey Steel Co. Mod e rn Machine Works Monroe Welding Supply C. J. Murray & Co. Mutual Loan Co. National Cash Register National Furniture Nat ionnl Woodworkers Mfg. Nelson - Berge r Nixo n a nd Co. Northwest Supply Co. Northwestern Bell Telephone Olson Sporting Goods Palmer House Peoples Food Stores P erkins Bros. Peterson Doyle Paint Co. Ralston-Purina Red Owl Food Stores Reliance Finance Co . Roberts Dairy Roe Dairy Joe Rosenthal & So n S. & H. Green Stamps Sadoff's Safe way Stor es, Inc. Sanitary Rendering Co. Schield-Bantam Schoe neman Lumbe r Co. Sears Roebu ck Co. Secur it ies Foundation Sedgwick - Brennan Severeide Johnson Sheraton -Martin Hotel Sieg Sioux City Co. Siedschlag General Store Sifford & Wadden Sioux City Bakery S. C. Br ick & Tile S. C. Clearing Hou se Ass'n. S . C. Lines, Inc. S. C. Optometric Center S. C. Stationery Co. Sioux City Foundry & Boiler Jones S ioux Honey Assoc. Sioux Properties S loan Guiney Agency Soo land Wholesale Co. Sportsman's In c. Standar d Bearing Co. Ste llart Foundation Stilwill & Wilson Taylor Nichols & Rise Terminal Grain ThompsonElectri c Tower Con struction Co . Tra vel Unlimited of S. C. Tri State Dental L a b Turin Inn U nited Wholesa l e r s D . W. Verstegen, Inc. Wm. Volker & Co. Wagner, Garrison & Abbott �Waitt Cattle Co. Warren Electric Co. Watson Brothers Wells Blue Bunny Western States Manuf. Weyerhauser F oundation Wigman & Co. Williams Television Eugene F. Wilsey Co. Wilson Trailer Co. Wilkins Pharmacy Ye Olde Tavern Youngberg Studio Younkers Youth Foundation HERE'S HOW Among the indispensable elements in the ongoing functions of the college are the ·e ncouraging gifts which thoughtful persons share with us. We thank you for what you have done in the past, and we solicit your continued assistance. If you would like to help through making a bequest in your will, you will find the following form helpful: "I give, devise and bequeath to Morningside College, an educational corporation of Sioux City, Iowa, its successors and assigns, the sum of dollars." 23 �THE MORNINGSIDER SIOUX CITY, IOWA Entered at the Postoffice at Sioux City, Iowa as Secon d Class Matter und er A ct of Congress, Augu st 24, 1912. Publi shed four tim es a year in September, December, March and Jun e by Morning s ide college, Sioux City 6, Iowa Prospective Morningsiders If yo u k now of a young man or woman who is the kind of person you would want to attend Morningside, please fill out thi s form and mail to the alumni office. Name Address Exch. City High School Graduation Date Month Major Field of Interest Year No. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Morningsider Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Alumni News Letter Morningside College Bulletin Morningside College Bulletin Morningsider News Subject The topic of the resource Universities and colleges--Alumni and alumnae Description An account of the resource Alumni News is published several times a year. It is about Morningside College alumni, faculty and staff news. It started out as Morningside College Bulletin, switched to Morningside College Bulletin Alumni News Letter. It then became the Alumni News Letter. After that, it became the Morningside College Bulletin Morningsider News and finally the Morningsider. 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Trisler, Susan: Cataloger Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2017-05-02 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Morningside College Library Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archives (3rd Floor) Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource All rights belong to Morningside College Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context MDC (Moringside Digital Collection) Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2017-05-02 Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Periodical Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. DECEMBER 1960 The Morningsider is the official alumni publication of Morningside Col lege, Sioux City, Iowa THE PRESIDENT'S PEN (President J. Richard Palmer has just returned We must do our very best to provide an from a tour of Europe, Great Britain atmosphere and program which will insp ire and parts of the Soviet U nion. The and equip our finest youth to accept the challenges of leadership. Our nation and following selection, prompted by that tour, our culture will not stand unless devoted appears in the president's annual report t o and courageous leadership can be developed the board of trustees delivered in December with wisdom and strength sufficient to keep Alumni will receive this report in its this in deed and in truth a nation of free entirety in place of the March issue of the men, under God. Morningsider. Ed. To accomplish this, what sacrifice is too Voltaire'sancient aphorism sounds a great? discomforting n ot e of warning to J. Richard Palmer those of us charged with the responsibility of providing for the education of youth who will soon be shaping the destiny of the ON THE COVER world: This issue's cover photo is a character "History is but the pattern of study of Heimen Van Dyke silken slippers descending the stairway taken as he accepted an M blanket to the thunder of hobnailed award at halftime of the Morningside boots climbing up from below." Nebraska Wesleyan basketball game The "hob-nailed boots" are moving. More December 6. than 900,000,000 people of this earth are The award was presented by President now controlled by Communism. This entire Palmer who was introduced by program has developed within our lifetime. Basketball Coach Chuck Obye. They Its leadership is, I know from first-hand can be seen in the right background. experience, determined, de dicated, and Mr. Van Dyke was the originator of thoroughly indoctrinated. competitive basketball at Morningside The only answer to a system which will in 1901. A story of t his and the presentation betray those who accept its half truths is is included in the sports a better idea, a better way, communicated section of this magazine. The photo by more capable, more determined, more was taken by Fred Hedrick, a Morningside dedicated leadership. student. We have a better idea and a b etter way •------------------------------· in the Christian faith and democratic procedures Therefore, this is the time for us to settle for nothing less than the best in providing th·e facilities and the personnel for a productive program of Christian Higher Education. We must stretch our ev·e ry resource to the limit, and h aving discovered our limitations find new strength, new sources of support, an d new means of accomplishing our goals. 2 ·-------------------------------· THE MORNINGSIDER SIOUX CITY, IOWA A . W. Buckingham Public Relations Louis Croston R. L. Phelps _________ Co-Editors Entered at the Postoffice at Sioux City, Iowa as Second Class Matter under Act of Congress, August 24, 19 12. Published four times a year in September, December, March and June by Morningside college, Sioux City 6, Iowa THE MORNINGSIDER VOL. X IX December, 1960 No. 2 Roadman Clan Gathers to Celebrate Parents' Golden Wedding Anniversary The Roadman "clan"-37 strong and all together for the first time-gathered Aug. 2.2 at Quaker Heights youth camp near E ldor a Ia., to celebrate the 50th wedding anniversary of Irma and Earl Roadman. An automobile accident in which the e lder Roadmans were injured slightly a f ew days before the celebration failed to mar t he event. Dr. Roadman leaned a little on a cane as a result and a few bumps and bruises were evident, but th e occasion was an unqualified success as Dr. and Mrs. Roadman sat among their six children and 23 grandchildren, relaxed and reminisced. Dr. and Mrs. Roadman have been living at their farm near Dike, Ia., since 1956 when Dr. Roadman retired after 20 years as president of Morningside college. The farm was not big enough for the whole "clan", however, so the e1der Roadmans l took over the. camp near Eldora for the six-day fete. Present for all or parts of the celebration were Dr. and Mrs. T y Youle (Earline Roadman and four children of Los Fresnos, Tex., Col. and Mrs. Charles Roadman and two sons of Arlington. Va.; Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Fishbeck (Pa uline Roadman) and Together Photo The Roadmans - Keene, Katy, Joyce, Chuck, Earline, Pauline, Copyright 1960 Irma, Earl 3 four daughters of Manitowoc, Wis.; Mr. and Mrs. Keene Roadman and two children of Baltimore, Md.; Mr. and Mrs. Gene Scott (Joyce Roadman) and seven children of Sioux City, and Mr. and Mrs. Richard McLaughlin (Katherine Roadman) and four children of Omaha. President Emeritus and Mrs. Roadman and family were photographed and featured in the November issue of the Methodist monthly magazine Together. The elder Roadmans- still the active Together Phot o Copyright 1960 couple hundreds of Morningside students President Emeritus Roadma n remember- will conduct a flying tour to Hawaii again this winter. They come to Sioux City to renew acquaintances rather In order to g ive recognition to these persons frequently and are always happy to meet who are helping the· college in a very and entertain visitors at the Roadman direct way, the Morningsider in this issue Roadside- the farm near Dike. includes a list of persons who have given to Living Endowment and other projects during the year, which closed July 31. Alumni Contribute $50,657 in Fiscal 1960 Founder's Day Fetes Held by 17 Clubs Total alumni giving to the college for all purposes totaled $50,657 in the fiscal year which was completed July 31, according to Founders' day celebrations were held by figures compiled by Louis Croston, alumni alumni clubs in 17 cities during the first director. 10 days of December in honor of the founding Nine hundred twenty-four persons contributed of the college December 4, 1894. $10,557 to Living Endowment for Cities having observance ceremonies were another all-time high. Last year's record Boise, Idaho; Dubuque, Cedar Rapids, high wa s $8,546.00. Mason City, Davenport and Ames, Ia.; "The living endowment fund is growing, Omaha, Philadelphia, Sioux Falls, Baltimore but we believe that with everyone's cooperation Phoenix, Indianapolis, Rochester, it can grow much higher and much N. Y., San Diego, Tampa, Denver and faster in the next few years than it has in Minneapolis. the last decade," Mr. Croston s aid. In many cases the meetings were h e1d in A challenge gift plan by which alumni homes of alumni. In other cities, meetings may pledge to give an amount of money for were held in public restaurants or each percentage point of increase in the other meeting places with presidents or fund over last year has be·e n originated by other officers of the alumni club of that the alumni offic·e. Anyone is eligible to city serving as host or h ostess. participate. One of the highlights of the celebration In addition t o Living Endowment, alumni in each city was the playing of a 12-inch, h ave contributed to a variety of other projects long-playing recording made in Sioux City during the last fiscal year. These includedand including a message from Presid·e nt payments on pledges to the fine Palmer,musical selections by college groups arts building fund drive, contributions to and a running narration and commentary the MacCollin organ and Morningside Development Don Stone, president of the national by council participation. alumni association. A copy of the recording was sent to the Additional money gained from alumni giving in these areas totaled $40,257. president of each alumni club in which a 1 1 4 Founders' day celebration was being held. The recordings were made through the cooperation of Mr. Stone and radio station KSCJ in Sioux City. Waymack, Distinguished Editor, Dies at Age 72 William Wesley Waymack 72, one of Morningside's most distinguished graduates, died at Iowa Methodist hospital in Des Moines Nov. 5 of an abdominal hemorrhage He had been in ill health several Abigail Van Buren, naltionally-syndicated years, having retired to make his home on columnist better known to many Morningsiders his farm near Adel. He maintained a as Pauline (Popo) Friedman Phillips, summer home near Walker, Minn. and spent has established a $500-per-year scholarship a part of each winter in Arizona. Funeral to be given each year to a worthy Morningside services were held Nov . 8, a nd burial was student. at Oakdale cemetery in Adel. Stated purpose of the scholarship-to be Class of 1911 known as the Abigail Van Buren scholarship to attend Morningside He was a member of the Morningside who would not otherwise be able to get class of 1911. His remarkable achievements a college education. Qualifications which in later life were forecast by his must b e possessed by the winner of the abilitty as a student. H e was a campus leader grant are leadership potential, initiative, a in many and varied respects and served as desire to help other people, and financial college correspondent for the Sioux City need. Journal during his last two years at Morningside Winner of the scholarship for the current year is Miss Janet Vrchota, a freshman Following graduation and marriage to student from Mason City, Ia., who ranked Elsie Jeanette Lord of Savannah, Ill., Waymack 13th in a class of 293 at Mason City high accepted full time reportorial duties school. Miss Vrchota was recommended by on the Journal, being successively assistant the college scholarship committee, and the city editor, city editor, assistant editorial recommendation was approved personally writer and finally chief editorial writer. by Miss Van Buren. Joined Register 'Popo Friedman Phillips' Establishes Scholarship Morningsiders Everywhere! Morningside College alumni may be found in many parts of the world. As Professor Russell M. Eidsmoe, head of the department of education, and his seminar group were returning on the Cunard liner SS Sylvania from a two months tour of Europe, they met Mr. and, Mrs. H arold R. Hartley, class of '21, now livin g at 4751 Baylor drive, San Diego, Cal. Mrs. Hartley is the former Evelyn Stallard. Needless to say, the subject immediately turned to thoughts of Morningside college. Mr. and Mrs. Hartleyattended the Disciples of Christ conference at Edinburgh, Scotland and had also visited the Holy Land, Egypt and eighteen other countries in a four months tour. He joined the Des Moines Register and Tribune staff in 1918 as a n editorial writer. He advanced to managing editor in 1921, then became editor of the editorial pa,g es in 1931. Waymack was elected a vice-president of the company in 1939, and in 1943 became editor of the combined newspapers. He received the Pulitzer prize for distinguished editorial writing. In 1940 he received the Sigma Delta Chi's distinguished service award for editorial writing, and in 1944 received the American Farm Bureau's award for distinguished service to agriculture It was the challenge of man's future and the atom that broke Mr. Waymack's association with the newspaper field. He was appointed to the Atomic Energy comission in 1946. 5 Successfu I Homecoming Capped by Naming of Stone, Bollman to Top Alumni Positions A 24 to 22 upset victory over h eavily favored Augustana topped off one of the most successful homecoming celebrations Morningside has seen in recent years. Cooperation by everything and everyone from the weather to the Sioux City Chamber ber of Commerce and other organizationsstudent and civic-helped to encourage large attendance at nearly all events and lend a generally enthusiastic air to everything about the three-day celebration. Miss Charma Harmelink, a slender blonde coed from Alton, Ia., was elected Miss Morningside at the homecoming dance Friday night, and, with her attendants, presided over festivities the rest of the weekend Attendants to the queen were Miss Marilyn Gauger, Early; Miss Nancy Lewis, Sac City; Miss Jeanine Arnold, Lake Park, and Miss Nancy Taylor, Sioux City. Dolliver Speaks Former congressman James I. Dolliver of Spirit Lake, a graduate of the class of 1915, addressed the student body at the Friday homecoming chapel service, and was guest of honor and principal speaker at a Friday evening banquet which served as the climax of an alumni planning session held earlier in the day. Approximately 100 men attended the M club luncheon Saturday noon. Highlight of the event was the presentation of M blankets to Dr. C. F. Berkstresser, '15; Ira J. Gwinn, '22; Dr. Kenneth Metcalf, '38, and Dean Harrington, '50. Don Protextor, '49, Queen Charma 6 Stone Bollman received a gold watch from the group in appreciation of his coaching the Morningside baseball team to its first N orth Central conference championship last spring. Harold L. Bollman, '35, and Don Pre·s ton, '57, were elected president ·a nd vice president of the M club for the coming year, and Nathan Goldberg, '30, was re-elected secretary treasurer Stone, Bollman Elected Don Stone, '51, was named president of the Alumni association for the coming year at the Alumni dinner Saturday evening. Other officers are Dean Harrington, president-el Miss Helen Northup, '46, and Mrs. Bernard Feikema, '42, vice presidents, Mrs. Lamar Jones (Ruth Elliot, '46) secretary and Ira Gwinn, '22, treasurer. Newly-elected directors of the association are Mrs. R. H . McBride, '17, and C. C. Maddison, '28. Richard King, ('41), Chadds Ford, Pa., was elected alumni representative to the hoard of trustees. It was estimated that some 85 women attended Saturday noon reunion luncheons of Pieria, Kappa Pi Alpha, Zetalethean, Kappa Zeta Chi, Athaneum and Alpha Sigma. Alumni Director Louis Croston estimated that approximately 500 alumni participated in one or more events of homecoming 1960. Capacity audiences attended both performance the comic opera Gianni Schicci presented by the music department under the direction of Prof. Wade Raridon. Alums Metcalf, Harrington, Berkstresser, Gwinn Honored CLASS NOTES 1906 - 1920 E stella ( P routy) Joseph, '06, 1501 Nebraska street in Sioux City sends word of her daughter, Gertrude Joseph Mahn, a g raduate in the class of 1929. Mrs. Mahn has been teachin g English in the high school at Farmer, S. D. the past three years. The Mahns have six childr en. Three older boys are in California, a daughter, KAren, now Mrs. Gerald Warner, lives in Huron. There are two children at h ome, David, 16, and Betty, 14. Both are in high school at Farmer. Edna Randolph, '11 , has returned to Sioux City from a three months trip abroad. the trip included a week's driving in southwest rural England and traveling o,n the group's own motor coach through Europe. Miss Randolph resides at 1723 Ross street. Roscoe H. Carter, '12, and Mrs. Carter returned in August from a nine-weeks tour of western Europe, England and Scotland. W. C. Evans, '13, and Mrs. Evans ( Ethel Gravelle, '15) reside at 221 South Rhode I s land in Mason City. A not e from Mr. Evan s states, "Am retired w ith g ood appetite but n o pains. Lik e to get Morningsider and read about old timers. We have t w o daughters, both married and raising our grandchildren." Joseph H . Ed ge, '13, will be r etired December 31, after 14 years, as associate secretary and director of organization and administration of the Methodist church. Dr. Edge received an honorary degree from Morningside in 1930. He was a Methodist minister in north-west Iowa for 15 years, superintendent of the Sheldon district for six years, a nd for 10 years was presidentof Dakota W esleyan univer sity. Dr. Edge was president of Da kota W esleyan when Dr . J . Richard Palmer received his degree from t hat school. One daughter, Mrs. Robert L. Kammerud, her husband abd t hree children live in Nashville Both Mr. a nd Mr s. Kammerud are on the faculty of George Peabody college. Another daughter, Eleanor, a nd h er husband Col. Yahne, live in Louisville. Their s on, Joe, Jr. lives with his wife and daughter in California, where he is a pilot for Capitol airways. The Edges pla.n t o remain 7 at their home in Nashville for the immediate Davidson college. Another daughter, Lorraine future. The addess is 2011 Sweetbrier (Mrs. E . M. Laurent) has degrees avenue. from Illinois Wesleyan and Scarritt. She lives in Austin, Tex., where her husband is Cyril B. Upham, '15, chief bank examine·r in the drama department of the University of the Ninth Federal Reserve district, now of Texas. A third daughter, Arlene (Mrs. is a member of the bar of the Supreme Court of the United States. He was admitted J. R. Miller) graduated from Illinois Wesleyan also and lives in Decatur, Ill., where while in Washington, D. C. where he was attending the national convention her husband is the dean of music at Millikin university. of the American Bar association. Robert R. Vernon, '15 and Mrs. Vernon 1923 - 1926 Leroy H. Rowse, '23, physics teacher at have moved from Columbus to St. Petersburg Fla. Bob, with headquarters in MilwaukeeCentral high in Sioux City, has been teaching physics in the National Science Foundation is helping the north central area Institute at George Peabody College YMCA complete fund raising for buildings for Teachers, Nashville, Tenn., for the past for brotherhood. Within the past year Bob two summers. Mrs. Rowse (Muriel DeWitt and Mrs. Vernon have made a trip around '24) has accompanied Leroy and now has the world, visiting most of the countries 32 hours of work completed toward her where these new YMCA buildings are under master's degree in elementary education. construction. TheVernon's address in St. Mrs. Rowse teaches 5th grade at Smith Petersburg is 8226 - 33rd Ave., North, school in Sioux City. Both expect to return Zone 10. to Peabody college next summer. A note from Charles and Ruby (Knudsen) Klippel, '19, says, "We are finding retirement Their address is 1312 - 28th St. Henry T. Leisy, '23, 4003 Alta Monte a very busy life directing the state N. E. Albuquerque, N. M . has found activity camp for the Ohio Society for Crippled Children, church and YMCA responsibilities for his retirement. After coaching athletics in South Dakota for two years and in and recently visiting one son who is on Colorado for four years, he was in the the nationalstaff of the J. C. Penney Co. physical education and recreation department in New York City, and another who is a with the Panama Canal for 29 years. surgeon in Toledo. The Klippels live at He has now accepted an appointment as 197 Brevoort Rd., Columbus, 0. recreation director on the new million dollar Rev. Basil R. Truscott, '20, retired in expansion program planned for New 1956 after 36 years of foreign missionary Mexico's retarded children. service with our Methodist board in Argentina Minnie C. Oates, '23, will be at FriendThe Truscotts are living at Memorial ship Haven until spring. Home Community, Penney Farms, Fla. Lester G. Benz, '25, . articipated in the p The Truscotts have six children and nineteen 1960 East-West European Study mission grandchildren. Two sons lvie in South sponsored by the National Editorial association America. the oldest, Gordon, is superintendent in August and September. The of a textile mill in Sao Paulo, group of editors visited eight capitols including Brazil. The second son Wesley, a graduate Moscow, Warsaw and Prague. of Harvard is manager of a branch of Lucile Vickers, '23, is now head librarian Texaco Oil Co. in Caracas, Venezuela. The and associate professor of library science third son Basil, ·a graduate of Syracuse and at Buena Vista college, Storm Lake. H er Yale, is chief of neurology in the USAFE program and is stationed at Landstuhl, Germany address is 127 Lake Avenue. He will become chief of neurology 1926 - 1952 in the Veteran's Administration hospital Returning dues sometimes point out to us in Albany, N. Y. A daughter Ethel (Mrs. how many members of several families have attended orningside. Such is the M D. D. Rhodes) graduated from Duke and lives in Davidson, N. C., where her husband case with the Cox family. Roy Cox, '26, is is professor of bible and philosophy at Methodist minister at Eagle Grove, Iowa. 8 Miriam Cox, '44 (Mrs. E. L. Peters) lives school. Mrs. Larsen attended National Music camp at Interlochen, Mich., last summer at 616 - 47th St. Everett, Wash. David She has a daughter currently attending Cox, '46, and Mrs. Cox (Carolyn Wolle '47) Wartburg college. live in St. Charles, Mo. Roger Cox, '51 and Frances Forsberg Keiser, '41, is Area Mrs. Cox (Joan Damer,o w, '51) live at chairman for Cottey Junior College for Women Lewiston, Me., where Roger is ·o n the located at Nevada, Mo. The college is faculty of Bates college. Murel V. Bennett, '26, has been librarian sponsored by the P. E. 0. Sisterhood. Dr. Ray H. Gusteson, '42, chairman of in the Akron public library for 25 years. Frank Leamer, '26, has been personnel the department of gover nment at Ohio director of Bell Telephone laboratories, with university, has been elected presidentof the headquarters at Murray Hill, N. J. About Ohio Association of Economists and Political twelve thousand people are currently employed Economists and Political Scientists for On his recent visit to the campus, the year 1960-61. Mr. Leamer brought a sample of Mylar, Wilson B. Reynolds, '43, and Mrs. Reynolds the material used in the construction of have moved from Wichita, Kan. to Echo 1, to Mr. Gwinn who was a physics Knoxville, Tenn , where he is merchandise teacher when Frank was in school. manager with the Miller's department store. Margaret Macintosh (Mrs. Ralph Hunt) Wilson is the son of Fern Beachem Reynolds '17. The Reynolds have three children '27, has been serving as librarian for the Alma public library in Alma, Wash., since Debbie, Charles and Candace Sue. January 1960. Her address is Route 2, Bo· x Their address is 924 Wingate, road. A note from Josephine Holdcroft (Mrs. 116, Elma. Mrs. Phillip Gaubatz (Dorothy Day, '28), Richard T. Oliver), '45, (See Wee Morningsiders is teaching Latin in East high school in indicates that they are now living Denver. at 2209 Miami Trail in West Lafayette, Ray N. Berry, '29, of 1717 Isabella has Ind. In addition to the new arrivals, the been ·a ppointed assistant Woodbury County Olivers have a son Jackie, 4. attorney. Ray received his law degree David Cox, '46, and Mrs. Cox (Carolyn from the State University of Iowa. He Wolle,) now reside at 1946 West Sibley started practice in 1931 and was associated street in St. Charles, Mo., where David is with his father, John A. Berry. He now director of research and planning, St. Louis has a private practice. Federation of Churches. Margaret Brower, '34, (Mrs. D on Burnham Bill Briggs, '48, has returned to fullis the band instructor in the five time teaching this fall after directing the elementary schools of Lewiston, Mont., Academic Year Institute for Secondary and is beginning her fifth year as choir School Teachers of Science and Mathematics director of the First Christian church of at the University of Colorado for the Lewistown. past three years. He was a visiting lecturer W. G. Muhleman, honorary degree 1934, at Ft. Hays Kansas, state college a very faithful supporter of Morningside and at South Dakota State college last summer through the years, is very seriously ill in He gave a talk at the summer meeting the infirmary at Friendship Haven in Fort of the National Council of Teachers of Dodge. Mathematics in Salt Lake City in August and served as a consultant to the National Max R. Gaspar, M. D., '36, is the 1960 Science foundation in Washington D. C. in president of the Southern California chapter September. of the American College of Surgeons. He is chairman of the vascular surgery department Mrs. Briggs (Muriel Lambert, '48), returned at the Los Angeles County general to teaching this year in the third hospital. Mrs. Gaspar is Virginia Hunter, grade. ('37). They have five children. Ralph and Albina (Kozan) Vannucci, Margaret Messing Larsen, '36, is teaching both '48, live in Las, Vegas, Nev. (See vocal music in the Hudson, Ia., community Wee Morningsiders) Ralph is a senior engi- 9 neer with Edgerton, Germ eshau s·e n, and Grier, Inc. in Las Vegas. The Vannucci's have five other children in addition to the new arrival. They are Barbara, 11; Ralph, Jr., 5; Patricia, 4; Michelle, 3; and Dennis, 2. Their home address is 5804 Idle avenue. ship award the last two years at Douglas e lementary school. We hope that Gus is preparing him for Morningside. His address is 230 Biloly Mitchell, Ellsworth Airforce Base, Rapid City, S. D. Arlone Rader (Mrs. Harold Malcom, '51), is teaching speech and Spanish in the high school at Allen, Neb. Clair Scott, '51, 501 N. A street, Eloy, Ariz., is vice principal and counselor this year at Santa Cruz Valley Union high school. The schoo· has 375 students, and l Clair teaches three business classes. He also sponsors the annual. Bill Fox, '51, a.nd Nancy (Hubbard) Fox, '53, are now living in Rialto, Cal., where Bill is the junior high coach. N,a ncy and Bill have four children. They are Roger, 8; Daniel, 6; Edward, 4; and Elizabeth, 1. Their address is 1244 N. Eucalyptus. Virginia Harper, '52, (Mrs. E. E. Waller) and Capt. Waller visited in Sioux City in December. Fathers of Capt. and Mrs. Waller were Morningsiders. Mr. Waller, Sr., is a Sioux City attorney, and Mrs,. Waller's father was H. C. Harper, '11. Mr. Harper was a member of the board of trustees at the time of his death. Mrs. Harper was Helen McDonald of the class of 1912. The Waqllers live at 347B Grant Road, Fort Devens, MAss. Tom Green, '48, has been brought into the home office of Securities Acceptance 1953 - 1960 corporation in Omaha as assistant vice Gordon '53 and Gertrude (Draayom) Ohm, president in charge of insurance sales. Mrs. '54) live in Oakland, Ia. Gordon is girls Green is Lois Emme, '46. Pictured are Lois basketball coach and high school principal and Tom with their children Pamela, Patrick there and has some social studies classes. and Michael. This is the fifth year for the Ohms in Oakland Ted Forward, '50, and Mrs. Forward Gertrude taught junior high school (Marian Hempstead) have been living in language arts last year but this year is Texas the last five years. Ted is with Continental busy at home (See Wee Morningsiders). Airlines there. The Forwards have James L. Whitehouse, '53, graduated with a master's degree in biochemistry in August five children. They are David, 12; Richard, and has accepted a position as associate 7; Kent and Kurt, 6; and Lisa Carol, 1. biochemist at Hurley hospital, Flint, Mich. Gus Nemitz, Jr., '51, recreation director He, his wife Dorothy (Sullinger) Whitehouse at Ellsworth air force base in South Dakota '52, and their daughter. Kathleen writes about his son Jimmy . . . ending Marie, reside at 4526 Trumbull drive in with, " As you can see I'm not a bit proud Flint. Jim recently returned from a trip to of him- Oh No!" Jimmy is in the seventh Montreal (sponsored by S. U. I.) where h e grade and has already lettered 2 years in presented his thesis to an international junior high football and basketball. He meeting of biochemists. plays quarterback in football and guard in A note from Captain Carlton J. Peterson, basketball. Perhaps the outstanding award '53, who is in France in the service tells Jimmie has received has been the citizen- 10 of his parents. ( the C. M. Petersons) of plans post-graduate work in radiology. Sioux City visiting him this summer . His Roy Petersen, '58, is working on his master's address: Capt. Carlton J. Peterson, 55.913A degree in psychologyt the University a 652nd Tactica; Hospital, APO 84, NEw of South Dakota and is assistant pastor York, N. Y. of the Trinity Lutheran church in Vermillion An article in The Arthur Andersen Marge (Rowlands) Petersen, '58, is Chronicle shows a picture of Gearold D. working at University of South Dakota Miles, '53, making friends with a child on alumni office. Their address is 323 Linden, the playground a.t DePaul settlement in Vermillion. Chicago. the article says . . . "Gearold Delaine B. Koch, '58, and Judy Dirks Miles has been loaned by our firm as executive Koch, '59, (See Wee Morningsiders) are with the Crusade of Mercy for the living at Galva, Ia., where Delain e is in his Community Fund and Red Cross." Jerry's second year of t eachin g. He teaches high address is Apt. 12-D, 4 34 W. Roscoe street, school general science and biology and Chicago 13, Ill. junior high science and health. He also is Betty Edson (Mrs. Ernie King) ('54), the basketball coach there. lives with her family on an acreage six Janice Thompson, '59, was married in August miles from Morris, Minn. They have to Marlo June of Merrill, Iowa Mr. twenty acres and raise registered beagles, June is a civilian employee of the Army riding horses, and registered milking Short-horns Corps of Engineers and works as a construction Mr. King works for the Federal inspector. The address is 435 Department of Agriculture. Center, Sioux City. The Jerrold Thackers (Marlys Watson), Mrs. Gertrude Harris, '59, is teaching in both of '55, in addition to the new Papoose the Webster elementary school in Sioux (see Wee Morningsiders) have two City. She commutes each day from her sons, Mark, 3 1/2; and Steven, 2 1/2 years old. farm home at Herner, Neb., where Mr . Their address is 10625 Upton Ave. So. Harris· raises Hereford cattle. Her address Minneapolis. is P . 0. Box 81. Homer. Howard Staber, '55, after five years with Gary Hulst, '59, former basketball star at Swift and Company i n Fort Dodge h as b een Morningside, is now teaching science and transferred to Sioux City. In addition to coaching at Calumet, Ia. Gary's team defeated the new papoose (See Wee Morningsiders) Lawton in the Morningside Basketball the Stabers have 5 other children They Clinic in November. are Howie, 8; Da vid. 7; Mary Jane. 4; Merlin Anderson, '59, is teaching English Karen, 3; Jim, 18 months. The new address at the high school in Gruver, Ia., where he is 3127 Jones. lives with his fam ily. Marilyn Menter, '57, was married t o W . Warren Connor, '60 and his wife, Doris P. Garred, M. D. last June . Their home is Sadler Connor, '59, are in Madison, N . J., at 812 - 15th Street in Onawa, where Dr. where Warren is attending Drew theological Garred is a practicing physician. Marilyn seminary. Doris is employed as a secretary taught in the Des Moines schools and in for the university's director of purchasing the Sioux City school system before her and for the superintendent of marriage. buildings a nd grounds. Richard C. Gasser, M. D., '57, is interning James Russell, '59, also is at Drew, as is at Broadlawns Polk county hospital in Des Harvey Bartz '60 and Mrs. Bartz (Connie Moines. After graduating from Iowa university Sprowl ('60). college of m edicine in 1960, a nd Ann Burgeson '60, is youth director at after completing his internship, Dr. and the Central Church of Christ in Clovis, N. M. Mrs . Gasser plan further post-graduate work. (See Wee Morningsiders). James D. Cochran, '60, is a graduate William M. M. Lo, M. D., '57 is interning assistant in political science at the University at Los Angeles County hospital after graduating of Iowa, where h e has been awarded from Iowa. in June 1960. Dr. Lo a graduate scholarship. 11 Lawrence E. Roberts, captain in the U. S. air force has been on a tour of duty as assistant professor of air science at Tuskegee institute. His duty there terminates during the summer of 1961. At that time he will have completed the requirements for a master of education degree in administration and supervision. Lawrence, 1 is wife h Lucimarian, and daughters SallyAnn and Dorothy, live on the campus at the institute. His address is AFROTC Detachment 15, Tuskegee Institute. Waltons Honored Dr. and MRs. Donald Walton, who will retire in January after 40 years of service in a mission church on New York's lower east side, were, honored at the Founders' day meeting of the New York alumni club. Dr. and MRs. Walton received many honors the most recent one being a dinner at Marble Collegiate Church December l9 given by the New York City Mission society. Alum of 1890 Visits Campus To Mr. and Mrs. Howard Staber, '55, a daughter, Susan Lynn, born August 19. Their home address: 3127 Jones, Sio ux City. To Dr. and Mrs. Richard T. Oliver, (Josephine Holdcroft '45), a daughter, Jacquelin Gwenn, b orn June 6. Their home address: 2209 Miami trail, West Lafayette, Ind. to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas J. Milacki, '60, a daughter, Mary Carol, born September 7. Their home address: 414 Ewingville road, Trenton,N. J. To Mr. and Mrs. Gordon Ohm, '53, (Gerrude Draayon '54), a son Michael William, born July 11. Their home address: Oakland Mr. Homer Taylor of La Grande, Ore. visited the campus in Novembe·r . Ia. Mr. Taylor was a student at the University To Mr. and Mrs. Jerrold Thacker, '55, of the Northwest when it was situated (Marlys Watson), a son, Daniel Clark, born downtown on Pierce street. He was in the April 4. Their h ome address: 10625 Upton school of business which was located across avenue S., Minneapolis 20. the hall from the school of medicine. He To Mr. and Mrs. Robert Hildreth, '55, had many interesting tales to tell of attending (Patricia Grube '54), a daughter, Roberta college in 1890. His home was at Anne, born June 15. Their home address: Blencoe. 2568 Third avenue W., Seattle 99. Mr. Taylor, 87, was en route to Arkansas To Mr. and Mrs. Robert Niebuhr, '59, when he stopped here. He spends much of (Sally Madison '60), 'a son, born September his time traveling, generally doing his own 17. Their home address: 3840 1/2 Garretson, driving . The past year he was in Europe, Sioux City. took movies a nd slides of his trip, and To Dr. and Mrs. Richard C. Gasser, '57, says h e is "ready to go again". He will a Scott Charles, born Octobe,r 27. Their be at home in Oregon after the first of home address: Broadlawns Polk County the year. hospital, Des Moines. son, WEE MORNINGSIDERS To Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Vannucci, '48, a son, Vincent Gerard, born September 27. Their home address: 5804 Idle avenue, Las Vegas, Nev. 12 To Mr. and Ronald R. Krause, '57, a son, born September 27. Thei·r home, is Lawton. To Mr. and Mrs. Don Oxenford, '50, (Elaine Jones ('53) , a son Joel Stewart. Their home address: Merrill, Ia. WEE MORNINGSIDERS Continued on p age 16 THE MORNINGSIDER VOL. XIX December, 1960 No. 2 Expanded Parents' Day Is Successful; Varied Events Mark College Calendar The most extensive Parents' day in Morningside college history was held November 12. Approximately 175 parents came to the campus in the morning, and many stayed t hrough the evening supper hour. Highlight of the day for many parents was the attending of sample classes. They were invited to attend a n abbreviated session of the classes their sons or daughters have at 8 and 9 o'clock Monday mornings. For others, a sample chapel session or informal conference with a faculty adviser or dean was the highpoint of the day. Dr. J. Richard Palmer, presidentof the college, concluded the form al part of the, day in the late afternoon with off-the-cuff remarks about his recently completed European seminar tour. P lanning for the event was under the direction of Stanley Greigg, d ean of men; Mrs. R. L . Phelps, dean of women, and Dr. J. Clifford Holmes, dean of the college. The 1960-61 Vesper Series, a program in which several outstandi ng thinkers are invited to the campus for a two-day round of talks before and with students a nd the public, this month featured Dr. Warren Martin, head of the religion department at Cornell college, Mt. Vernon, Ia. Dr. Martin's presentation dealt with existentialism. H e was the third of this year's seven vesper speakers. MRs. Evelyn Millis Duvall, noted authority on family life education, and Dr. Eric Rust, teacher and philosopher, appeared on the campus in October and November, respectively. Trueblood Judd Another noted American churchman and teacher will be the vesper series speaker March 5 and 6. He is Dr. D. Elton Trueblood professor of philosophy at Earlham college. Prof. Trueblood is the author of six on religious and philosophical volumes topics and is famed for his articulation of an effective personal philosophy of life. Dr. Trueblood's vesper series appearance is being coordination this year with the annual religious emphasis week observance for which he will be k eynote speaker. Others listed on this year's Vesper Series slate are Arthur S. Flemming, United States secretary of health, education and welfare ; Congressman Walter H. Judd of Minnesota, former medical missionary and keynoter of the 1960 republican national convention, and Dr. Huston Smith, professor of philosophy at Massachusetts Institute of Technology. 13 An outstanding event of the musical year SPORTS at Morningside was the performance November 21 of Mozart's monum ental Requiem The work was presented by the college orat orio choir and the chamber orchestra under the direction of Dr. James Football bowed out on a losing notes, but H. Wood, he·a d of the music department. there was plenty to cheer about during the The oratorio choir is composed of members season as the Maroon Chiefs, coached by of the concert or touring choir and the Dewey Halford and Jack Jennett, defeated chapel choir. The Requiem performance was given in the sanctuary of Grace Methodist arch-rival South Dakota university and upset highly favored Augustana. in t h e church. Approximately 500 persons Homecoming attraction. attended. The season won-lost chart showed four wins- Wayne Sta.te, Omaha university, A rou tine review examination by a team from the North Central Association of Colleges Augustana, South Dakota university - and five losses - North Dakota State, North and Secondary Schools was carried Dakota university, Iowa State Teachers on at Morningside in November. college, South Dakota State and Macalester. The two commissioners making the An explosive offensive machine all season, examination delved into man y phases of the the Chiefs were unable to generate the college educational and business ope·r ation kind of consistent attack that eliminates in the day and a half intensive review. They mistakes and ultimately wins ball games. met with faculty, studen t a nd administrative Only one regular lineman returning from groups and, in general, followed a program las t season's team explains, partially, why outlined in advance by a steering offensive consistency was lacking. committee headed by Dr. E. T. Bauer, At times, however, the 1960 Maroons senior professor of sociology. were unbeatable. A particular case in point is the Augustana game in which the Morningsiders threw a three-touchdown haymaker at the Vikings in t he secon d period and then were forced to mount a 68yard drive in the last five minutes, while The first Political Emphasis week to be down 2 points, to win on a field goal by held on the Morningside campus s parked Elmer Menage in the last sixteen seconds. spirited discussions and a heavy vote in a Football Closes; Basketba II Takes Over Hoeven, McCarthy Speak on Political Emphasis mock el ection t ha t showed Richard Nixon well ahead of President-electJohn Kennedy. Democratic Senator Eugen e J. McCarthy of Minnesota a nd Republican Congressman Charles B. Hoeven of Alton, Iowa eighth district representative, appeared on the campus on successive days in October. Each addressed an all-school convocation and then visited classes, lunched with student leaders and others who were interested and attended a question and answer discussion session in t h e afternoon. Arrangements for the week were made by Prof. Fred Lee, head of the speech department and chairman of the fa culty convocations committee; Stanley L. Greigg, dean of men, and Donald Taylor, a s·enior student. 14 Halford at Work The 1960-61 Maroon Ch iefs The 1960-61 basketball Maroon Chiefs opened regular season play December 1 meeting Westmar at Allee gymnasium. The varsity had carved out a hard-fought 75 to 71 victory over a talented freshmen team during the annual clinic November 26. Van Dyke Honored Basketball began at Morningside 60 years ago ( or more) with students playing on a dirt court situated between the present Charles City College building ( conservatory and Lewis (Main) hall It was inevitable that soon Morningside Coach Chuck Obye, beginning his fourth season as Maroon cage coach, has six lettermenmen would look for n ew worlds to conquer, and in the forefront was Heimen Van Dyke. returning to form the nucleus for In 1901 he organized the first men's team this season's team. They are Jim Anfinson of Cushing and Terry Thorgersen of Moorhead and the first women's team to play against outside competition. The first men's team forwards; Dan Mather of Sergeant won five games and lost three. Bluff and Steve Pohlman of Sibley, guards, and Jim Stock of Lake View and Bob Garretson One of the victories was at the expense of Nebraska Wesleyan university. After of Peoria, Ill., centers. that triumph, Mr. Van Dyke designed the The 6-feet, 5-inch Garretson was a standout athletic M which has been ever since a performer last year and is expected to symbol of supreme athletic achievement and the M design that is u sed for the take up where he left off. athletic lettermen's award. Several other promising players are expected Mr. Van Dyke was honored for his contribution for starting positions. They to Morningside basketball at the include Larry Johnson, Sioux City junior, Nebraska Wesleyan game this month Paul Te Stroete of Hospers, another junior; (December). He was presented an M blanket Dave Mulder of Alton and Tom Kellogg of award by President Palmer between Park Ridge, HI. halves of the game . This season's schedule includes 21 regularly His name will be submitted to the Nai-smith scheduled tilts plus the clinic attraction Basketball Hall of Fame at Springsfield and a Christmas holiday tournament Mass., to be included in the corridor at Hastings college. of founders there. 15 WEE MORNINGSIDERS Continued from page 12 To Mr. and Mrs. Paul Linder, (Lavonne Harms, '48), a daughter, Rebecca Sue. Their home address: 782 Prospect avenue, Kankakee, Ill. To Mr. and Mrs. Warren Held, '51, (Sharon Taylor), a daughter, Heide Lou, born August 24. Their home address: 779 N. First, Cherokee. To Mr. and Mrs. Alvin Sundell (Mary Ellen Kingsbury, '47), a daughter, Sarilyn Ethel, born May 28. Their home address: Wakefield, Neb. To Mr. and Mrs. Dwaine Miller, '55, a son, born October 27. Their home is 2848 Williams avenue, Sioux City. To Dr. and Mrs. Larry H. Pipkin, '51, a daughter, born September 29. Their home is 3426 Jennings street, Sioux City. To Mr. and Mrs. John B. Wolff, '55, a son, Christopher Jay, born April 8. Their home is 1830 Whitehouse, Sioux City. To Mr. and Mrs. Roger Burgess, '50, a daughter Candice Lee, born October 14. Their home address: 100 Maryland avenue, Washington, D. C. To Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Eder (Louise Adler, '50), a son, Jonathon David, born November 6. Their home address: 7029 N. Clair Court, Milwaukee. To Mr. and Mrs. Dean Harrington, '50 (Shirley Booz '49), a daughter, born October 14. Their home is 1801 S. Nicollet street, Sioux City. WEDDINGS Lois Me Bjerke to Gus Lease, '45. The couple is at home at 3308 McKee road San Jose, Cal. Evelyn Mae Todd to Rev. Omar Wesley Pettersen, '55. The couple will be at home in Bennett, Ia., where Rev. Mr. Pettersen is pastor of the Bennett and South Bethel Methodist church es. Alumni Contributors Previous to 1900 Mrs. Emma Petersmeir Cook Rev. W . B. Empey 1902 1903 Guy Frary Mrs. L. H. Clark (Effie Cook) Loren Smylie Daniel Starch A. R. Toothaker Narcissus 1904 Miller Toothaker Mrs. Mabel (Killam) Maynard 1905 Mrs. W . Lee Lewis (Myrtilla Cook) Walter G. Sloa n Mrs.. .Joseph Trimble (Virginia Fair) Mrs. D. L. Young (Emma Fair) 1906 Mr. A. M. Foote Miss Elizabeth E. Johns on Mrs. Gertrude Kindig (Gertrude Crossan ) Mr. R. G. Minkler Heiman Van Dyke 1907 Mrs. Ella Dickson Blacksh ire Mrs. Genevieve Hayes ( Genevieve Howard) Mrs. Carl W. Maynard (Mabel Haskins) Rev. H. C. Taylor Miss Mabel Vesta Towner 1908 Mr. Thomas C. Anderson Mrs. Thomas Anderson (Lu ra Matteson) 16 A. G. Cushman Ethel Jane Haskins Maho·ney Mr. H. H. Sawyer Rev. Vincent R. B eebe Frank Heilman Florence Clark Heilman Mr. H. J. Rich ards Mrs. Emma Russell (Emma Ike Westcott Cain) 1909 Mr. Arthur R. Bastian Miss J ennie B. Bridenbaugh Mr. Percy W. Brown Mrs. W. A. Main (Idabell e Lewis) Alvah L. Miller Julia Royse Matilda Olson Smylie 1910 Dr. J. H. Bridenbaugh Mr. J. W . Doolittle Dr. Irv in A. Engle Mrs. Wm . Kixmiller Deloss Shull G. W. Eggleston 1911 Mrs. Mabel (McMreery) Becker Mrs. J. H. Bridenbaugh (Jennie . N elson) Bessie A . Dunbar Mrs. Hazel (Deno) Hor ton H. H. Hudson Mrs. Vivian (McFarland) McGee Miss Edna E. Randolph W. W. Waymack (deceased) Emma Zimmerman 1912 Roscoe H . Carter W . A . D utton Rev. W . E. Ellison Mrs. Edna (Harris) Horsley D . P. Mahoney Mrs. C. 0. McWilliams (Hele n Olmstead ) A . H. Schatz Ethel A. Shannon Litta Tumblis on George E. Wickens 1913 Mrs. I van Baker (Lucille Atkinson ) Harry Chipman Garrett B. Dolli ver W. C. Evans Mrs. G. V . Green (Marie Wood) Hazel Shuma ker Hudson Mrs. Florence (Montgomery) Kingsbury Horace G. Mer ten Mrs. Harry Milligan (Lottie Sanders) Mrs. Eva (Leazer) Potter George W. Prichard Rev. John L. Ralston Miss Anna Reike Mrs. L. A. Sayer (Catherine Elliott) Leroy A. Scott Lurel Stonebraker Hel en Wedgewood 1914 C. L ee Barks Mitchell P. Briggs Nellie Upham Briggs Dr. A. J. Coombs Lucile Morgan Coombs Mrs. Claudia (Hambright) Engle Earl S. Fullbrook Dr. Myron Insko Mrs. D. A . Jenkin s (Bernice Bowman) Miss Alice Klippel John D . Kolp R ev. Roy H. McVicker Mrs. Mrs. Fred Mrs. Laura (Postin) Sanborn A. H. Schatz (Isobel Webb) Schriever J. Orland Smith (Alice Thornburg) Mrs. Alice E. (Dewey) Vennink Mrs. Gertrude (Dykstra) Kolberg Mrs. Marian Hiekes) Luedes M. Agnes McCreery Miss Lean C. McDonald Mrs. W. Dayton McKay (Dorothy Owen) E. M. Prichard Mrs. Miriam (Fish) Wassenaar 1923 Elma Bunn Africa Harold P. Winter Mrs. Genevieve ( Stamper) Cline Mrs. Helen (Graef) Cobb Carlton Corbett 1915 Rev. Roy H. Cox Dr. C. F. Berkstresser Ruth Lindsay Cox Mrs. Olive (Jones) Bleam 1920 Mr. Cecil W. Deriva n Herman Bogard Evan Ausman Alice Bushnell Down Leonard Bridenbaugh Mrs. Eva (Trenary) Cary Mr. William E. Drury Mrs. F. Earl Burgess (Mabel Miss Martha F. Christ Vera Hatfield Gerkin Irwin) Mrs. Flossie (Day) DeVaul Clara Back Graning Mrs. 0 . Z. Cervin (Dora Carlson) Miss Lavina Dragooo Mrs. A. Q. (Cornelia Lender) Mrs. C. W. Deffenbaugh (Marie) Rev. Hugh B. Fouke Johnson Devitt) Louise Sammons Freese Mrs. Paul A. (Vesta Taylor Ketels James I. Dolliver Oscar R. Hart Miss Margaret Kidder Herbert L . Dunham V. A. Hart Mr. Henry T. Leisy Mrs. G. K . Greening (Mabel King) Amos W. Hartman R ev. G. S. Nichols Joe D. Hale Rev. E. Wayne Hilmer Miss Minnie C. Oates Ethel (Collier) Hawley Lee. C. Hornney Ernest M. Raun Lydia (McCreery) Lancaster Mrs. (Hazel Bergeson) Hoy Miss Happie E. Smith William Payne Mrs. Charles Hutton (Helen Hays) Miss Lucile F. Vickers Ralph C. Prichard Mrs. Gladys Luce (Gladys Knapp) 1924 Carl W . Sass J. H. McBurney Bonnie (Robinson) Schoonover Mrs. Grace (Wishard) Stonebrook Mrs . Gwen (White) Cassidy Mrs. Harold Crown (Margaret Cyril B. Upham Leland G. Sutherland Ellis) Robert R. Vernon J. H. Trefz Mr. and Mrs. C. E . Eerkes 1916 Wm. Wolle (Margaret Haradon) Dr. F. Earl Burgess Mrs. Ruby (Hill) Woodin Paul C. Ellis I. Oscar Hall 1921 Miss Myrtle Hawley Rev. Leslie Logan Miss Viola Benz Ray C. H a wley Mrs . Wm. McCurdy (Eleanor Floyd Conner Grace Wickens H enderson Winkelman) Mrs. Lorene (Williams) DeWitt Rev. H. E . Hutchinson Katherine (Nurse) Swanson Dr. H. I. Down Paul A. Moody Dr. J. B. Patri ck Rev. George Dunn Mrs. Lucille A. (Henderson) Miss Mary Wedgewood Rev. J. E. Feller Parry 1917 Margaret Franchere Raymond Olson Ruth (McBurney) Stouffer Mrs. Dorothy (Steele) Apland Virgil Gerkin Miss Irene Truckenmiller Mrs. Marguerite (Brethorst) Boner Dr. A. Holmes Johnson Royal ,Jurgensen Mrs. Clara (Swain) Dail ey Iva (Smith) Jurgensen 1925 Mrs. Cornelia (McBurn ey) French Ethel Thompson Ku cinski Mr. and Mrs. Lester G. Benz Dr. R. J. Harrington Clyde Kudrle (Marguerite Held) Anna Anderson Hayes Elsie E. Lang Walker B. Davis Mrs. John D . Kolp (Marie Sebern) Mrs. Irma (Ostling) Larsen Rex Fountain Minnie Fry McBride Mrs. Esther (Goodsite) Levin K enneth Funkhouser Mrs. W. D. Nettleton (May Mrs. Harold MacBeth (Adelia Hill) Mrs. Kenneth Funkhouser (Hazel Wickens) Sam A. Stoufer (deceased) Lowry) Mrs. J. L. Ralston (Neva Houk) Mrs. Evelyn (Balkema) Troutman Miss Muriel J. Hughes Mrs. C. R. Reynolds (Fern Mrs. Donald Walton (Bessie Reed) Dr. Max A. Kopstein Beachem) Rev. Harry Whyte Mrs . Ray Larson (Mariam KampMrs. Millie (Corneliussen) Rona ld M. Wilson hoefner) Robertson Emily Linden Rev. Donald Walton 1922 Miss Elizabeth Oggell N. J. Williams Nellie Carpenter Winter R. G. "Honie" Rogers R. R. Bedell 1918 Elaine Barnt Rogers Miss Minnie C. Anderson Lowell B. Test Earl Barks Mr. and Mrs. H . E. (Mary Decker) Miss Wilma E. Trumbell J. F. Christ Dr. Horace E. DeWalt Benz Miss Katherine Weldon Mrs. E. E. Gingles (Frances Kolp) Mrs. Lola (Heikes) Flack Mrs. George E. Wickens (Alice Beatrice Carver Hawkins Robbins) Mrs. V. A. Hart (Hazel Barrow) Mr. Leon Hickman Mrs. Roy Holdren (Agnes Mae Zelda Bond McNally 1926 Charles Hutton Dr. A. Q. Johnson Henry and Elma (Bunn) Africa Kenneth Chin n Dr. R. H. McBride Carl F. Klans Iris A. Knight Mrs. Waldo Brink (Alma Jansen) Miss Alice Miller Mrs. Lois (Banister) Kudrie Mrs. R. W. Crary (Margaret Cora Dutton Mitchell Mrs. Gladys (Bradley) McBurney Coleman) Miss Mildred Peca ut ·' David C. Davies Mrs B en Rieke (Marion Johnson) Nora Rohwer Marousek Dr. Ben Gelfand Mrs. Esther (Montgomery) Smyres Sherman W. McKinley, Jr. Dr. D. C. Giehm Alice Waring Mr. a nd. Mrs. Park W. (Edna Kenneth R. Hall . Bekms) Moorhea d Mrs. Wm Woll e (Vivian Down) · Miss Nona Moss Rev. Earl E. Josten 1919 Don Nissen Donald A. K eys Mrs. C. Lee Barks (Leone Lange) Mrs. Eva (Dunagan) Olson Mr. and Mrs. F. D. Leamer Anna Lunblade Bartley R ev. a nd Mrs. Lloyd (Rush (Mildred Torbet) Miss Beulah Edginton Acklin) Scheerer E. Waldo Mauritz Mrs. Ruby (McCreery) Eginton Rev. Arthur Schuldt Mrs. J. Willard Peterson Mrs. Ruth Griffith (Ruth Re id) Dorothy Skewis (Hendenburgh) Mrs. C. A. Hindman (Helen Meeks) Ruth Bushnell Sutton John Reback Mrs. Fern Hinkle (Fern McKinney) Mrs. Robert Waggoner (Zazel Miss Joy L. Smith Dr. Horace Hutchinson Mary Kane) Miss Margaret Tiedeman F. R. Kingsbury Ruth Wedgewood Henry J. and Forest Mosier C. H. Klippel Mrs. Lydia (Bixby) Young TePaske 17 Margaret Tiedeman Mrs. H. W. Turpin (Louella Empey) Henrietta Squires Test Miss Helen L. Waring Mrs. Page (Lohrmann) Watson H. D. Wright Mrs. Merwin L. Zwald (Mabel Hartley) 1927 Mrs. Myron Anthony (Janet Wegersley) Robert R. Barnard Mrs . J. W. Blythe (Lenore Benedict) Ed Corbett Alice Hall Dawson Orpha Kudrle DeMots J. C. D ucommun Phil M. Gambs Ma e As musse n Hall Miss Mabel F. Hoyt Mrs. Ralph Hunt (Margaret Mackintosh) Mrs. Gladys (Thompson) Kelly Russell P. Knudsen Lois Little Miss Margaret N. McCoy Mrs. Gladys (Miller) Riddle John Sears Mrs. R. M. S heldon (Margaret Anderson) Mrs. A. R. Swanson ( Lois Jack) Newell E. Williams 1928 Mrs. Florence (Croston ) Anderson Mrs. Lial Johnson (Imogene Gilbe rt) Rev. Richard Carlyon Thomas L. Kellough Lucile Claerbout McGregor Mr. and Mrs. A. F. Li tz Dor oth y Paulson McLarnan Hazel (Elliff) McVey Miss Fay Moe lle r Flordora Pendleton Mrs. C laren ce Robertson (E leanor Sterling) Thelma Jaeger Mrs. J . 0. Thorsheim Mrs . Leo Uhl ( Gladys Timm) 1931 Mrs. Carsten Ahre ns (Doroth y Christian Anderson) Mrs. Lois ( Schamp) Bottom Rev. and Mrs. Joseph H . Castle (Mabel Springer) Dr. Gor don Cr a ry Mrs. Gen evie ve (Met ca lf) Danforth Dr . James J. Davies Mr. and Mrs. Arthur (Helen Parrott) Foreman Verl Crow Mr. and Mrs. Harold Decker (Hele ne Crenshaw) Rev. M. E. Dorr Dr. John Evans Gleva Binger Hanson Merlin Kol be John E . Griffin Rev. and Mrs. W. G. Muhleman Mrs. Harold M. Norwood (Ali ce Morrison) Mrs. Harriet Ogg ( Smith) Clyde Van Dyke Mr. . John B. Walker 1935 Rev. Anthony Blankers Mr. and Mrs. . .JamesJ. De Roos Frank E. Gibbs Miss Ethel Hedenbergh Mrs. Audrey (Stromberg) Kolbe Sulsmith B. Marcus Emery D. Stewart Mrs. G. R. Wakefield (Beth Car s on) 1936 Mrs. Eleanor (Taft) Allen Miss Julia Bereskin Mrs. Geo. (Nema Wesner) Davies Nora Kruse Esther Ferkes Mark McLarnan Max F . Gasper Wayne Men te r B url Keiser L. V. K uhl Grace Abel Menter Mrs. Rolin S. Moore (Muriel Mrs. Esther (White) Kindig Harrington) Marvin J. Klass Hobart F. Mossman Mrs. H. Larsen Margaret V. Robert P. Munger Messing) Mrs. W.. .T. Van Schreeven (Opal Miss Winona E. Lohff Van Dyke) E. L. Lundquist A. H. and Lillian (Edlund) Senne Rev. Alvin T. Maberry Wendell B. Seward Horace N . Marvin Dr. Edward H . S ibley Rev. Willis C. Phelps Milton Thompson Mrs. Dorothy Scott (Dorothy Cook) Mrs. Art Van Wyngarden (Nellie W. L . Van Horne Chilton) .J. Vanesall Virgil K. Willia m s Mrs. Maxine Williams Wilmar Guernsey H. Milo H a ll Claude C. Brown Mrs. Flora (Quirin) Bussewitz D r . 0. W. Brand Lawrence S . Cain Ruth Gauger Furrow Martha Bucher Graber Max Dean Hugh es Horace W. Koch Miss Jul ia E. LaGrone 1932 1937 C. C. Maddis on Gertrude E . Bale Mrs. H el en (Tiede ma n ) McDonaldMr. and Mrs. Ralph E. Baker Harriett Lubbers Horrigan ( Chalice Moor e) Ruth Orr Ostmeyer Victor Jacobson Jane E. Barnett Mildred Sweet Ed Keller Mr. and Mrs. W. J. Van Schreeven Mr.. J. S. Bottom Miss Lucille Bryan Ethe l C. Bolton (Opal Van Dyke) Mr. Marvin R. Burgess F . 0 . Rosenberger Dr. David C. Carver G race V is now 1929 D. George Davies ( Nema Wesner) Rev. Harrison Dawes Miss Dorothv Bogen E. J. Otto Dr. M. A . Blackstone 1938 Harvey H . Potthoff Hazel Surber Croston Francis C. Bakken Mrs. Joyce Ramsey (Woodford) . Lyle D. Culver Wilfred D. Crabb Homer Scha pe r Clari ce McDonald Keys Mrs. R u th Hayward Gandek Wm. Shuminsky Margaret G. DeTemple Mrs. Louis S . Goldberg Robert S . Thomas Ken n eth Finke Dr. H . W . Jones Nicholas Tiedeman Ru th Frum Vera Hayes Campbell Art Van Wyngarden M. A. Nixon Miss Margaret Lease Thelma Jager Mrs. Lester Schaff (Anne Aalfs) Frank L. Logan Elinor Wirsig Margaret DeWitt Smith Ernest L . Ma dison Ray Wirth Ruth (Schule r ) Stewart Rev. K e nne t h Metcalf C. B. Vizas 1933 Lyle Poyzer MRs. Kenneth M. Wallace(Elva Lawren ce A. Scha a l Ri ch ard L. Aeck R. Reimers) John H. Sewa rd Mrs. Lois Anderson Ray Rodeen Miss Katherine C. Blazer Edgar W. McCracken Elizabeth Turner Helen Bottom 1939 Overgaard Margaret Chesterman Mrs. . Janice (Hagy) Coffie Mrs. Boyd (Birdie May Mervin L. Zwald Mr. Wayne E. Dennis Slothower) Bod ie Mrs. Roene Brooks Horgan Boyer Nao mi (Snyder) 1930 M iss Ruth McD onald Lt. Comdr. Norman Brady Donald C. Brodie Loi s M. Myerson Mrs. D or othy Brooks Mrs. L . H . Clark (Effie White) Mrs. Muriel (Batho) Nash (Dorothy Behrens) Ethel Hackett Cord Mrs. A. B . Paulson (Lou ise Eugene R. Hartley Louis H. Croston McCracken) Charles C. Howard Lowell N. C r ippen Miss Doris Rockefell ow W. G. Kirchner Wm. Danforth K e nneth T. Wilcox L illia n K rupni ck Marion Caya Fortner 1934 Mrs. Esther (Friedman) Lederer Ardis Bergeson G ilbert H elen Pearson McCracke n Mrs. Harry D . Anth on y Nathan Goldberg Mrs. Evelyn D. McClure Joseph ine (Peter son ) Caldwell Clarence Ted Johnson 18 Ken Marbach Ri chard P . Pawson Mrs. Morton Phillips Friedman) (Pau lin e Mrs. Howard C. Josephson (Lillian Brown) Ronald W. Rawsen 1940 MRs. Margaret Eaton (Long) Mr. & Mrs. Deane R. Flett Rev. B . Roy Brown Mrs. Alice (Hanson) H emphill Miss Eleanor Jones Mrs. Ernest (Irene Johnson) Madison Mrs. Mary (Cruikshank) Grefe Mr. L. E. Jones Mrs . Don Leopold (Helen Anderson) Mr. Stanley P. Munger Rev. John Payne Miss Jean C. Runge Miss Esther H . Santee Dr. Robert F. Sharp Mr. Miles Tommeraasen C larence & Dorothy 1944 Howard F. Nielsen Chaplain & Mrs. Robert Ruleman Millicent J . Saunderson Hope Faul Sch lenger Alfred P. Strozdas Mr. Bruce W. Van DeMark Mrs. Careta Friend Paul G. Sloan Genevieve Whittington Sloan G. E. Fischer 1941 Mr. Edwin Adams Mrs. Florence Anderson Dr. Keith Arnold Mr. Robert Brooks Maurice A. Clare Mrs. Virginia Coughenour (Virginia Davis) Rev. S. Willard Cunningham Mr. Don ald Fritzche Fred Davenport Rev. Robert Rae Garrett R. Wallman Mildred Wikert Wallman Mrs. M . L. Granstrom (Ruth Olsen) Mr. Ronal d E. Grefe Mr. Dale M . Harter Miss Miriam C. Hartley Joyce (Held) Jensen Richard V. King Mi ss Evelina Ma land Mrs. Mary Hinchman Mohr Alice (Swanson) Otto Miss Lillian M. Pickersgill Elton H. Sakamoto Mrs. Doreen (Dallam) Smith Anna Zenkovich 1942 Don Severeide Romaine Lamkin Rev. Stanley E . Anderson Mr. & Mrs. R. W . (Kate Brown) Bennett Mrs. Robert Brooks (Lauretta King) Rev. Robert Arthur Caine Mr. & Mrs. Chas B. Clayton (Ruth Worrell) Florence M . Dahl Bernard Feikema Mr. M. L. Granstrom Mr. Raymond H. Gusteson Mr. Jean A. Laffoon Miss Mildred Pfeiffer Mr. Leslie Pruehs Dr. George R. Pullman Alice E. Spal ding Ayaka Yamashiro You 1943 Robert Green Mrs. Edwin Adams (Doris Coe) Mrs. F. L. Brockman Dorothy E. Brown Mr. Steve Constantine R. E. Corwin Kathl een Schnoor Garwood Ver Steeg (Dorothy De Vries) Mr. & Mrs . Ted Walensky (Lucille Roberts) Mrs. Florence (Coss) Wells Mr. Don Wertz H. A. Bomgaars Mrs. Stanley E. Andrews (Dorothy Wel ls) Mrs. Bernard Feikema (Mary Louise Held) Mrs. Edith (Harrison) Granstedt Mrs. Frances BridgesSchinkel Mrs. Darlyne Schwindermann Hobsen Lois M. Hopkins Feldman F. Jones Rev. & Mrs. Ernest W . Lars on (Ruth Saupe) Lavonne (Harms) Linder Rev. Henry N. Muller John B. Phelps Mr. Paul R. Ral ston Mr. & Mrs. Thomas B . Green (Lois Emme) Mr. Lawren ce W. Runion Mr. & Mrs. Darwyn Snvder Mr. R a lph D. Vannucci 1949 Donald Lawrenson John Palmolea Paul Zanneff Ly le Couture Dale W. Baker Robert Cale, Jr. Ca ptain Jack F essenden Richard G. Force Claire H. Flessner 1945 H. Milo Hall Dr. R. E. Reinking Mrs . Clarice M. Hamm er strom Mrs. Marcille (Bohn) Blair (Moone) Mrs. Betty (Boles) Eads Mr. Howard Harmon Ellen Westergaard Jackson Mrs. Shirley (Booz) Harrington Dr. Edward L. ,Jacobs Richard H. Johns on Warren R . Moore Mr. Donald D. K elsev Mrs. Josephine (Holdcroft) Oliver Mr. Robert M. Lincoln Robert W. Melov 1946 Dr. R. M. Minich Dr. Maynard Porter M r s. Richard Morgan (Ione Guy Nettleton. Jr . Prescott) Vesta C. Burris Mr. Roy H. Moore. Jr. Mrs. Annette (Gray) Carlson Mrs. Myrna Nakanis ki Ralph Clayton Mt·. Arthur W . Nystrom Rev. David Cox Rev. Burton A . Passer Margaret (Ralston) Everett Mr . Edward J. Schmitt, Jr. Mr. Lyle L . Knudsen Mr. Max H. Stern Dr. & Mrs. B. A. Kolp (Roberta Mrs. Jan (Mac Collin) Taylor Haitz) Mrs. D . C. Weideman Mrs. Florence Kyle (Florence Mr. & Mrs. Ch leo Weins Wilken) Wayne W . & Edith Fiderlick Mr. Don Leopold Wise Helen E. Northup Mr. & Mrs. W illi am D. Wolle Patricia Lindsay Parsons Rich ard J. Yo u ngstrom Mr. & Mrs. Robert J. Parsons 1950 Miss Coila J. Sieber Abe Ferris Joyce and Ted Whitlow 1947 James Turner Ina Mae Ham Couture Joe Anderson Mrs. Joseph Behar (Helen . Haffits) Mr. Norman Clark H a rvey W. Durfey Dwight Ebelheiser Mrs. Ralph Eder Miss Mary Fidd ick Mrs. George W . Goodenough Rev. C. L . Guinn Mrs. Thorvald Haaland (Helen Meredith) Ruth Milton Green B e thel Forsling Nettleton Mr. E lbert N. Bales Mrs. Donna (Saverson) Bebber Mrs. David Cox (Carolyn Wol le) Dale E. Dunn, M. D. Mrs. Warren Ewen (Vaneta Dewitt) Mrs. Charles Farmer (Barbara Young) Mr. O. K. Goodrich Max Kiernan Richard C. & Katherine (Roadman) Dean Harrington Mrs. Charles Held (Helen McLaughlin Bartram) Norman C. Mathers Harold Henricksen Mr. Paul W. Peterson Mr. W. D. Kinney Mrs. Clarice Lane Riddering Miss Joy J . Momsen Berton E. Tagg Mr. Stan Newman Grace M. Weaver Raymond Speulda 1948 Mrs. Mary (Gasser) Turner Dr. Charles M. Marriott Rev. & Mrs. Charl es Q. Wall ace Mrs. Eric Anderson (Katherine (Anne Madison) Find) Mary Jo Briggs W e ins Mrs. Beverly Booth (Beverly 1951 Johnson) Mr. & Mrs . William Briggs Rev. Paul Davis (Muriel Lambert) Rober t Hanson Leon Harbeck Mrs. Vesta (Feller) Cosgrove Carolyn Held Davies Mrs. Eunice Stephens Duxbury Mr. Roger P. Davis Henry Glover 19 Mr. Hershel J. Evans Mrs. Robert ( Virginia Cook) Fritz Mrs . Nancy (Asmussen) McBride Don G. McCarthy Mr. C. John Miquelon Mr. Nel son Price Clair Sco tt Mrs. Ma rga r et (Marksbury) Speulda Miss Do rothy Ann Wirsig 1952 Ves ta Billin gs Norman Reid Richard Throne Mrs. Esther Wood Bayl es Karroll M. Car s on Mr. Edwin Chruscie l Mrs. Leonard Day Mr. Rober t R. E ids moe Mr. Robert D. Fritz Jules E . H a rlow Mr. Charles H eld Mr. and Mrs. Jack R. Hobs (Pa tri cia W ysong ) Dr. Ma uri ce L. Lewi s Bill Lyl e Mrs. Don McCar t h y (Eda len e Moone) Mr. Cha rles McNutt Don Oxenford Mi ss Marie A. Russo Mrs . Cla ra Shedd Mr. E a rl E . Smith Mr. Guillermo Sobalvarro Mr. Thomas S toddard Mrs. V. D. S tol e n Mr. and Mrs . D on Strandburg (Patricia Pentony) M r s . El eanor (Mohr ) Struthers Ru t h Verlinden T arvin 1953 D on a ld L. Ca rve r N ellie Carlson Warren Gass ink Joan Collin Fries D on a ld B. Krone Muriel W a lde mer Lyle Miss Genevie ve I. Lyon Elaine Jones Oxenford R ober t L. Ph elps C. W. Polley Mrs. Irvin G. S u t he rl a nd (Ann Hackn ey ) Gery M. Ma rtin 1954 Mrs. Helen P . (Price ) B uss J essie Hadden Meyer Fritzsche M r . Verlin Heuton Mrs. Irving F . Je n sen M r . Ben, Storek Mrs. Eiro Yamade Keith W. J ohnson Rita R emme r s Johnson D elores S. Whitmer 1955 B etty B or ch er s M.r s . C. A . B orgstr om M r s. G lenn R. Busyager Mr. Bla ine H . Garlo w Dr. Edwin F. Hirs ch Mr. & Mrs. Roger Gohrin g Kermit I saacson Mrs. Esther Macfa rla n e (Little ) Dwaine F. Mille r Donald G. Murray Dona ld W. Palmer Norma L. Pet er s on Joa nne A. Preul Mrs. Almon T a rnas ky (Donne Saupe) Larry J. Toner Mrs. Maye B. Wallace 20 1956 Robert F. Bachert Wm. H . Eberle Mr. Dona ld D . Eilers Roge r M. Erickson Gordon S. Fairchild W assileh B. Khoury Mr. Gerald Ste in John H. Thomas Roge r H. Win te r Mr. 1957 Mrs. Evelyn Anderson Mr. Rich a rd Anshutz M rs. Elve r a Babcock Mr. Bill Beem er Miss Hazel E . Clay ton Connie C1e ve la nd M r . K enn eth 0. Elvik Jack & B e verly Geihm Hall Mr. Thomas Gerkin Mr. James Hindma n Mr. P eirre E . Loren ger Mary E. Rice Mi ss Ma r gen e Schnell 1958 Virginia Bray El s ie Hinkhouse Bob Reynder s Carlene Erikson Thron e Mrs. R. W. Wineinge r Donn a (West re ) Anagnos tou T om J ohns rud Mr. R a y Bailey Mr. David Bog ue Delos D. Corderma n Willard M . Goeden Mrs . Sandra (Maddison) H a wk Mr. Ross A . Hoffma,n , Jr. Ward Kowa lke Virgil E. & Dori s Mae Ma uer M r. Roy P. P e t e rs on Marjorie Rowl a nds P e t e rson H elen L. St ew a rt 1959 Maril y n J. Alloway Mr. Dick Anderson Arthur Halbauer Jr. Ch a rles Den Hartog Gary R. Huls t Miss Ch arlotte A . J o hnson Anita Louise K a lske tt Mr. N orton D. Obrecht Mr. Calvin Teasdale Gl enna R. Wardlow J a m es E. Weaver Mrs. Kathl een (Kas) W e is brod Natalie Whitney BiIJ Clem e ns Mrs . John Weisensee Roy ce B a rnum D el Raymond 1960 Bob D a nnenber g Evelyn H ackma nn Charl es Palmer Mrs. J. R. Palmer June Class 1960 FRIENDS Wilbur Aalfs Milbur n P. Ak er s Ray A . Alle n Dr. C. E. Anders on L eona rd C. Anderson Helen Anders on Melvin A. Anders on Oss ia n Anderson R. D. Ande r son Richard B . Anderson Wayne Ander son Dr. Asa Arent Lynn A . Ark in Kenneth Asplund Sharon Babbitt J . P. Banhart A. H . B a ron Edward E . Baron Dr. Fra nk B ean Rev. Robert B eckst rom John A . B eckwith Robe rt E. B eebe Roya l B enne tt V. Ward B ennett, J r. H a rold Benson Mrs. Ira D. Bens on Gle n Bixby Alvin U . B la ckburn Chesterma n Blythe Dr. W . C. Boden Claren ce A . Bohner R. E. Boles Milton Holstein Robe rt L. Bos welI R ev. P a ul Bons field Homer M. Bovd Dr J. F. Boysen Nora M . Bray Robert Breckinridge Thomas Brienz o Egbert E. Briggs Dr. Carroll A . Brown John T. Brown Clifford Burdick Ethel B urnha m Dr. A . J. Call a ghan Earl Calvert R ev . J. No rma n Ca rl sen L e la nd Case John Cemansk y Leo Chaikin J. A. Chambers Rev. Robe rt Chapler E a rl Ch ase Ethel Ch es te rma n Paul B. Cla rk I s adore K. Clinkenbeard He len Clos ner Dr. Pat M. Cmeyla Sam Co hen Dr. E . G . Cole Larry Coke Joan B. Collings Bruce Comps ton R. Dudl ey Conner Nancy Conwa y Gerald Coppock H oward Corne lia Fran cis A. Coy Judge Ralph W . Cr a r y Miles Cronk Hugh L. Curran Mr. Harrison Dawes Ger a ld Da vi s H a rla n D a vis .Judith N . D a vis P a ul W. D eck Dr. Jay C. D ecker Paul G. D elman Milt D elzell Eve r et t L . Denning Carter W . Dennis N . K. Dicks on Lillian E . Dimmitt B en Dobrofsky William J. Dougherty H a rold E. Dowling Fred Dubbert Edward Duling W. G. Dunkle Re v. Charles R. Duskin Howard J. Duven Robert Edlun Charles W. Eklund Dr. Andrew T. Engelmann Mrs . Laura M. Ennenga II. H. Epperson Dr. E. D . Erickson M. H. Erickson William E. Eubank Fae A. Evans Richard Faith Robert B. Fearing William R. Felton Albert Ferris Wm. Ferris T. E. W. Fife W. Fische r Larry Forbes Rose Forrest G. M. Foster Harry Fox Dr. Louis J. Frank Rev. Alfield E. Franzen Marvin F. Frerichs A. A. Frevitt Ada Frum Sanford Furrow, Jr. Joseph F. Gantz Dewie J. Gaul Bob Gessen Harry J. Gibbons Dr. W. H. Gibbon Franklin E. Gill Mrs. Dorothy M. Gleason Robert E. Gleeson Rabbi Albert Gordon W. S. Goode W . C. Gordon Myron E. Graber Eva Graham Harlow H. Graham Lois Grammer Richard Corel John T. Graser. Jr. Father Joseph Gregori Margaret Gretta Frank W. Griffith Ralph Grote J. M. Gunnell Everett Gunsolley Charles G. Hadlev William V. Hagan Oliver Hagglund A. F. Halfpap Harley Hall Florence Hammerstrom Thomas E. Hanifan James M. Hanlon Sara Hanson Fred K. Harbeck Harry E. Harbeck George N . Harless Gladys L. Harmon L Doyle Harmon Willis Harms Gertrude Harris Mrs. Robert Harris Fred B. Hartman George Harvey Thomas Hassenge r John S. Haver William C. Hayes Alice M. Hays Leotha Hayworth George Redid Ralph A . Heaton Robert D. Hecke r Sam I. Heikes Olive M. Helt H. P. Hempstead Ralph A. Henderson Dr. Lyle K. Henry H. M. Herman Ralph W . H e rrick Albert Herzoff Viola Hess Wayne Hettinger Rev. Harris Hilscher Ken Hockenbury Victor H. Hoefer Howard H. Holdcroft Larry Holland Ernest F. Hollar Harry Holtz Dr. Edward M. Honke Dr. A. W. Horst Gerald J. Hoselton Peter E. Hovland Dr. Dwayne E. Howard Maude Hube r J a mes H. Hustis A . G. Ireland Lou is J . Israel Mrs . Rach el Jarvis John H. J enn ett Irving F. Jensen Frank Johnson Mrs. J . E . Johnson K. Wayne Johnson William F. Johnson W. C. Johnston Leonidas H. Jones Marshall B. Jones Randall A . .Jones Robert F . Jones B en Kalin Alfred J. Kandik George Katres Dr. Melvin R. Kelberg Dr. Anthony H . K elly Ray Kennedy Dean M. K erl Rev. A . J . Kindred Clyde C. Kirchner Kenne th Kjeldseth W. A. Klinger Dennis Klute Jack Koerner Mr. Bill Knepper Miss Eva D. Knight Henry F. Kruger Roy A. Kvam Arthur Lage Charles Ed La Grave Martin C. Lange Dr. R. N. Larimer Dr. Robert C. Larimer Marian E. Larson Norris G. Leamer W. F. Lechtenberg Fred W. Lee Veryle Lee George Lee 0. E . Lehnns Dr. Herbert C. Leiter Fred S. Lennon Rev. Sam T. Lenters Dave Levitsky A. W. Lewis H. A. Lewis Mr. & Mrs. Warren L ewis T. C. Linka DrJ . O. Lischke T. Dr. Frederick J. Lohr John C. Lower Arthur W. Ludwigs Gordon A. Luikart Roy W. Lundquist Dr. & Mrs E . D. McCaul ey C. T. McClintock Leo Kucinski Wm. McCoy B. V. McGuirk Hugh V. McHugh Mrs. Esther McKee Marcia A. McNee Mary K. McQuillen Eva Macklin Iva n H . Mackling Axel W. Madsen Leo Mahon Alma Grahm Mann V. Neal Maricle Gordon F . Markley Rev. Oscar Marquardt D. Y. Marsh Frank D . Martin Charles E. Mason Wayne Masters G. K. Maudsley F. H. Meyer Carle ton Mikkelson Charl es E . Miller Charl es F. Miller Irvin B. Miller Dr. Ra lph M. Miller Les Minear M. L . Minnig Ray V. Mitchell W. J. Mitchell Harlan T. Moen Mildred Moseman Dr. Wilbur E. Moser Dr. Robert C. Mugan C. E. Murphy William L. Murph y Vincent Murray George Neal Harry R. Neff Dr. Harry L. Nelson Stella Nelson Dr. H . P. Nickolisen Ronald Nielsen David A. Noble Marvin T. Nodland C. V. Norblom Vivian Nyhus Henry X. O'Brien Dr. Richard H. Olmsted Mrs. Aagot Olsen Wa lter Olsen Forrest M. Olson L eslie H. Olson Charlotte Orr Wave Ostensen H. J. Palmer, Sr. Howard H . Palmer Dr. J. R. Palmer Willia m E. Palmer Chester M . Palmquist Deloris F. Palmquist George Pappas A. N. Paulson Laurel Pease Richard A . Pecaut Edgar F. Pechacek George Pechstein Mrs. Vera Norman Pedersen Donald M. Pendleton Jack Perry Clyde Phillips Roy H. Phingsten Sam G. Pickus Kenne th n. Pillar Audrey E. Pitner R ev. Henry F . Plume r Rev. Samuel Polovina Kenne th Power Adam Pratt, Sr. Harry Pratt James Primm Ralph Rawson J. W . Rehal Dr . M. E. Reinking Dwayne Rich Roy W. Richards Jack Rispalj e Dr. E arl A . Roadman Norris Robinow Ed I. Rochester Marvin R. Rodvold Arthur Rolle Ralph Ross Edward Ruisch Ronald B. Runge J . W. Rutle d ge Robert Sacks Elizabeth Sammons Edward F. Samore Ralph E . Sarlette Lyall K . Saunders Bernice E. Scantlebury Clarence Schaffer Erick E. Schlueter Harold A. Schroer 21 Harold Sco tt Elsie Seek Ben Sekt D onald F. S heph e rd Phil J I. Sherman Harold B. Sherwood H. H. Shiloff J. D. Shinkl e Myer Shubb M. JJ. Sil cox Rabbi Silverstein Ray J. Simeon Laura Simonson Lyle Slater Sleeper Everett E. V. Slife Herman S lots ky Eugene S pe raw Marion Sperry Harold J. Stearns Harold G. Stevens David W. Stewart Douglas Stock Char les A. Striegel E. G. Str iegel Fred P. Sulzbach C. E. Swanstrom Leo 0. Sykes Conui e M. Talcott John W. Tawlks George Taylor Rev. H. D. T empl e Robe rt L. Terry L. Earl Thompson R. Thomson Leroy M. Thorp Dr. John P. Tiede rnan Beatrice A. Tift Alva Tolf Ado lph J . Toller Oscar A . Towler Richard Tucker W. H. Tyler G. U hli r. F. E. Van Alsti ne C. Carleton Van Dyke Clyde R. Van Dyke J. W illiam Van Dyke C. S. Van Eaton Al Vermilyea D. W. Verstegen Tom F. Vint Dr. D. Wagner Richard Wagner Dr. Max Wainwright H olman E. Waitt Cha rl es T. Walcott Dave H. Watkins Geo. P. Watson Walter R. Webb Rev. Dwight Webster S . Milton Wertz B. M. Wheelock Cora Whicher Frank P . Which er R. W. Wigton George Wilkinson Charl es K. Williams .John Winkel R . J. Winneke Elaine E. Winter Anthon y L. Wolff Ri chard W. Wood J. W att Wooldridge Mr. H. N. Workhoven W. C. Yeager Mr. E . W. Youell Tom E . Young C. C. Younglove COMPANIES and CORPORATIONS A ce Dry Goods Albertson & Co. . Inc . Allyn Foundation 22 Anderson American American Bakery Auto Parts Can Compan y American Pop corn Co. Auto Parts Exch. Co . Avery Bros. S ign Co . B. R. Meat S uppl y Barker's Shoes Baxter's Ca fe D. K. Baxter Co. Beane Plumbing Bekins A. H. B enn e tt Co. Wm. B e uttl er & Co. Bi s hops Cafete ria Bourrett's Tin & Furnace Bovi s Coffee A . Braunger Produ ce Bricklayers Local No. 5 C. W. Britton & Co. Fra nklin Britton Agency Brothers Paper Box Co. Bu rke Lumber Co. Bush Cleaners Carpente r Paper Co. Chesterman Co. Coast to Coast Store S. S. Coe Advertis ing Concrete Pipe Machinery Cons ervative Bond Container Corp . Conti nental Baking Co . Cook Pa in t & Varnish Co. Corn Belt Supply Co. Crary & Huff Cres cent Electric Crystal Chemica l D . H. Cunningham Danny's Denning Florist Dickson Motor Co. Dickson's Inc. Dividend Oil Co. Duke 's Radio East M'Side Recreation Ass'n. East Side Super Market Edith & Joe's Edwards & Browne Coal Engl eson Abstract Co. Fantle Bros. & Co. Farmers U nde rwrite r Ass'n . First Federal Sav in gs F ishgall 's Inc. France s B ldg. Co. Frances Shoe Store Ben Frank lin Store Frenchick Runsvold Friden Calculators Gardner Cowles Foundation General Outdoor Adv. Dr. Gittins, Dvorak & Heimann E. L . Graham Brake Grandy Pratt Co. Graysons Greenberg Jewelry Green Gab les Grea t Northern Railway Found . Great L a kes Pipe Line Co. G uarantee Oil Co . Guarantee Roofing Gulf Oil Corporation Haakenson Rowe Hamm e r's Ca f e Han son Glass & Pain t Hargadon EquipHa r ri s Jan i tor Supp ly Harry Batchelle r Farm Store Jo hn Haney & Co. Hauff Sporti ng Good s Horn e F ederal Savings Hou sehold Finance Foundation Hutton Tufty I -Go Moving Ingwerson Brothe rs Inters ta t e Oil Co. Iowa Public Service Jacks on Hotel Di s tr. Co . J o urnal Tribune Kaplan Foundation K T IV KT RI Kay D ee F eed s, In c. Keightley Pedersen & W. A . Klinger, In c. Knapp Spen cer Co. Laze re P harmacy L ee & L ewi s Lips hu tz Bros . & Sons Lipman's Va ri ety Store Long & Hansen Comm. Drs. McCuistion & Collin s McElroy & Prew i tt Co. McManus Green e Co. T. S . Martin Realty Co. Mayfair Hotel Metz Baking Co. Midwes t Livestock Co. Miller Kidd e r Missouri Vall ey Steel Co. Mod e rn Machine Works Monroe Welding Supply C. J. Murray & Co. Mutual Loan Co. National Cash Register National Furniture Nat ionnl Woodworkers Mfg. Nelson - Berge r Nixo n a nd Co. Northwest Supply Co. Northwestern Bell Telephone Olson Sporting Goods Palmer House Peoples Food Stores P erkins Bros. Peterson Doyle Paint Co. Ralston-Purina Red Owl Food Stores Reliance Finance Co . Roberts Dairy Roe Dairy Joe Rosenthal & So n S. & H. Green Stamps Sadoff's Safe way Stor es, Inc. Sanitary Rendering Co. Schield-Bantam Schoe neman Lumbe r Co. Sears Roebu ck Co. Secur it ies Foundation Sedgwick - Brennan Severeide Johnson Sheraton -Martin Hotel Sieg Sioux City Co. Siedschlag General Store Sifford & Wadden Sioux City Bakery S. C. Br ick & Tile S. C. Clearing Hou se Ass'n. S . C. Lines, Inc. S. C. Optometric Center S. C. Stationery Co. Sioux City Foundry & Boiler Jones S ioux Honey Assoc. Sioux Properties S loan Guiney Agency Soo land Wholesale Co. Sportsman's In c. Standar d Bearing Co. Ste llart Foundation Stilwill & Wilson Taylor Nichols & Rise Terminal Grain ThompsonElectri c Tower Con struction Co . Tra vel Unlimited of S. C. Tri State Dental L a b Turin Inn U nited Wholesa l e r s D . W. Verstegen, Inc. Wm. Volker & Co. Wagner, Garrison & Abbott Waitt Cattle Co. Warren Electric Co. Watson Brothers Wells Blue Bunny Western States Manuf. Weyerhauser F oundation Wigman & Co. Williams Television Eugene F. Wilsey Co. Wilson Trailer Co. Wilkins Pharmacy Ye Olde Tavern Youngberg Studio Younkers Youth Foundation HERE'S HOW Among the indispensable elements in the ongoing functions of the college are the ·e ncouraging gifts which thoughtful persons share with us. We thank you for what you have done in the past, and we solicit your continued assistance. If you would like to help through making a bequest in your will, you will find the following form helpful: "I give, devise and bequeath to Morningside College, an educational corporation of Sioux City, Iowa, its successors and assigns, the sum of dollars." 23 THE MORNINGSIDER SIOUX CITY, IOWA Entered at the Postoffice at Sioux City, Iowa as Secon d Class Matter und er A ct of Congress, Augu st 24, 1912. Publi shed four tim es a year in September, December, March and Jun e by Morning s ide college, Sioux City 6, Iowa Prospective Morningsiders If yo u k now of a young man or woman who is the kind of person you would want to attend Morningside, please fill out thi s form and mail to the alumni office. Name Address Exch. City High School Graduation Date Month Major Field of Interest Year No.  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Morningsider: Volume 19, Number 02 (1960-12) Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Buckingham, A. W.: Public Relations Croston, Louis: Co-Editor Phelps, R. L.: Co-Editor Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Palmer, J. Richard: Author Subject The topic of the resource Universities and college--Alumni and alumnae College publications Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archives (3rd Floor) Description An account of the resource The Morningsider was a monthly newsletter that Morningside College sent to Alumni to keep them informed about what was happening on campus and in the lives of other alumni. The Morningsider Volume 19, Number 02 was published for the month of December in 1962. Pages 11-14 are not attached to the binding. Table Of Contents A list of subunits of the resource. The President's Pen- pg. 2 On the Cover- pg. 2 Roadman Clan Gathers to Celebrate Parents' Golden Wedding Anniversary- pg. 3-4 Alumni Contribute $50,657 in Fiscal 1960 -pg. 4 Founder's Day Fetes Held by 17 Clubs - pg. 4-5 'Popo Friedman Phillips' Establishes Scholarship- pg. 5 Morningsiders Everywhere! - pg. 5 Waymack Distinguished Editor, Dies at Age 72 - pg. 72 Successful Homecoming Capped by Naming of Stone, Bollman to Top Alumni Positions- pg. 6 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College Date Created Date of creation of the resource. December 1960 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical 23 Pages 6 3/4 inches x 9 1/2 inches Language A language of the resource English http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/09103ac757ac22d7e242e262efc333e3.pdf f9a7a927455fb6314e298e0ba2717287 PDF Text Text ��The Kiosk Published by the English Department of Morningside College ��1999-2000 KIOSK STAFF Editors in Chief Poetry Editors Prose Editors Megan Lindsay Chris Marnach Robby Mason Julie Moser Canlie Shuff Hea ther Buckingham Tiffany Newell James Smith Layout and Design Marcie Ponder Graphics Chris Marnach Photos Megan Lindsay Faculty Advisor Dr. Stephen Coyne SPECIAL THANKS To This Year's Judge, Lisa Sandlin Dr. Janet Philipp, Interim Vice President and Dean of the College Ca thee Phillips Marcie Ponder Dr. Tom Poston Copyright 2000 by Tile Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children. �CREATIVE WRITINGAWARD WINNERS First Place ................... liThe Wasteland" by Chris Marnach Second Place ............................. "Raygun" by Amanda Prince Third Place ...................... liThe Butterfly" by Carnie Shuff Honorable Mention "how to dump a useless man" by Amanda Prince ABOUT THIS YEAR'S JUDGE Lisa Sandlin has published two short story collections, The Fatllous Thing about Death and, in 1997, Message to the Nurse of Oremns, which won the Texas Institute of Letters' Best Book of Fiction for that year. Her work has appeared in Soutlnvest Review, Shenandoah, CrazyllOurse, StoryQuarterly, The NezD York TiJlles Book Reviezv, and elsewhere, and been featured on audio-cassette as part of the Dallas Museum of Art's "Texas-Bound" series. Originally fronl Texas, she now lives in Nebraska and teaches at Wayne State College. All entries are judged blindly by the editors, and no entry receives special consideration. Editors are eligible for the contest; however, they are not eligible for the prize money. �/ TABLE OF CONTENTS Heather Buckingham Jessica Wheeler Megan Lindsay Chris Marnach Camie Shuff Amanda Prince Jessica Wheeler Robby Mason Kay Liao Part I The Road More Travelled ........................................ 8 Blue ............................................................................. 9 driving easL .............................................................. 10 In a Coffin ................................................................. 12 Still Snloking ............................................................ 14 When We Were Goth .............................................. 16 Coffee ........................................................................ 17 Of Shining Mae Days .............................................. 18 The Eight Seconds of the Subway ......................... 19 Randy Clyde Uhl Mandy Bohl Dave Miriovsky Camie Shuff Beth Donohue Chris Marnach Part II Haircut ...................................................................... 26 The Joy of Fa therhood ............................................ 28 Reflections on a Saddle and Bridle Found in an Attic .................................................... 30 Courting Disa ppointment ..................................... 32 Photos ....................................................................... 33 The Flag in the Schoolhouse .................................. 34 Angie's Bridge ......................................................... 36 Sunset. ....................................................................... 38 The Wasteland ......................................................... 39 Amanda Prince Megan Lindsay Robby Mason Megan Lindsay Amanda Prince Sonnet Conover Megan Lindsay Dave Miriovsky Jessica Wheeler Josh Call Camie Shuff Amanda Prince Part III Barefoot Novemeber ............................................... 54 wind .......................................................................... 56 Merry Prinlavera ..................................................... 57 Excerpts from last summer. ................................... 58 how to dump a useless man .................................. 60 Late Night Awakening ........................................... 61 your grace ................................................................ 62 (untitled haiku) ........................................................ 64 Porn Connoisseur ................................................... 65 Faithful ..................................................................... 66 The Butterfly ............................................................ 68 Raygun ..................................................................... 70 Beth Donohue Amanda Prince Chris Marnach Amanda Prince Jessica Wheeler Bryce Gerking Amanda Prince Megan Lindsay Part IV Carousel .................................................................... 80 Good Advice ............................................................ 81 Streetsongs ............................................................... 82 Friday Night at Rill's .............................................. 84 (untitled haiku) ........................................................ 86 (untitled haiku) ........................................................ 86 Scenes from an adoescent late night drive .......... 87 Secret Songs (for someone who forgot) ............... 88 Robby Mason Dave Miriovsky Beth Donohue �6 �Part I ilS0111ewhere along the line I kneeD there would be girls, visions, everything; s0111ezuhere along the line I kneu7 the pearl eDould be handed to me" Jack Kerouac On the Road �Heather Buckingham The Road More Traveled Tinle tick-tocking away Life: intangible, unstoppable a Dali picture eroding in a modern museUlll hours of moves seconds at stop-signs waiting writing checks sOlllebody else's story days spinning slowly the alarlll deep down inside llle and inside you is going to erupt spilling out in one great rush all the pent-up pieces of poetry the split-seconds that we miss every day the only way to catch tillle is to listen for the silent words the unspoken living aging Rembrandt's self-portrait passing we stop time when we invent 8 �Jessica Wheeler Blue The night had that it's-gonna-rain feeling. You could sense it dripping off the trees, rolling off the tongues of stars that cast a glance every so often through the clouds. The sky wasn't so III uch black as it was violet-blue a cool kinda blue that soaks into your skin and lllakes you feel so good you ache with it. And the air turned chill, but it was okay cause it only meant it had that feeling, too. Everything slllelled so sweet, no one ever told you it could be so sweet, and there's really no smell there at all just a feeling a cool breeze lifting the hair from the sweat on the back of your neck, and everything's llloving filling you with that sweet slllell, that violet-blue a cool kind a blue, and that ache, that it's-gonna-rain feeling. 9 �Megan Lindsay driving east the sun setting in the rear view mirror on a desolate stretch of 680 between Council Bluffs and the 80 interchange to Des Moines the combined cornstalks glowing golden in fields organized by barbed wire fences the highway ahead a clear stretch over slow asphalt hills the sun melting on the Iowa-Nebraska border conversing softly in the dim about being lonely and in love 10 �the day turning to dusk, to evening, and finally to night keeping my eyes on the road and aiming somewhere east 11 �Chris Marnach In a Coffin In a coffin, a house, a chair by a window where the sun shines in like the headlights of a car, she sits in self-exiled solitude, the door a coffin lid she nailed down herself. Outside the window, across the street, school yard just reopened, the children laugh and shout and shnek as they play in the falling leaves leaves falling falling like the night she was walking and the headlights slowed and she went faster and the lights stopped and died under the streetlight and the tree and he was out and she ran and he by her hair and she and he on the ground and her nails digging and the leaves falling and Oh God the knife and In the fifth fall she sits in the coffin, in the house, in the chair lit by the headlights of the sun. Her fingers run over the faint pink line on her throat, the frown he gave her, the coffin she built, the days and the nights she knew he would be waiting outside the coffin, the house, for her and he'd nlake that frown smile wide and red. 12 �It is the day the phone tells her that her mother is sick and will die. It's been five falls since the last sight of her nlother's house. The sllloke of burning leaves drifts in through the windows. She has to go see her, Momllla I have to see you once before you, the exhale and the incense and the coffin, this goddanln coffin, lean' t bu t have to. She stands with her III0 ther' s face in her eyes. She goes to the door, turns the handle, shaking, the nails fly from the coffin lid, turning, 1'm doing it, turning, the burning leaves, turning and open and the sun bright and warm and the wind blows in the leaves; they hither in the face like his hands. MOlllIIIa' s face is gone and he's there waiting behind the tree, in the parked car, in the neighbor's house, in her house, in her, and she slallls the door shut, she falls like a leaf to the floor and hallllllers the nails back into the coffin lid. 13 �Carnie Shuff Still Smoking whoever said cracks will break your mother's back, any way? if anything if anything at all it breaks my back it breaks my back following each step you take you keep on walking like everything's gonna be okay like everything's gonna be all right well, it's not and I'lll not and I'lll not gonna follow you anymore you're leaving you say you're gonna go to California to sing in a band, to live life like you have one or something like that you always have these ideas these dreams these ways to make me feel gray and lost even though I'm right here 14 �with you, following you you're gonna leave , . you re gonna sJng you're gonna be happy and you're gonna do every damn thing in life you set out to do while I'm still here, following following these cracks in this sidewalk in this town on my way honle with a cigarette in nly hand 15 �Amanda Prince When We Were Goth When we were goth And loved pilot pens and Old Gold cigarettes When we'd drink in graveyards Screaming songs we'd rather forget Pretending everything's rOlllantic When you're running through the rain at six a.m. Coffee tripping Linoleum swimming Rellliniscing, weren't those the days When we bought out black nail polish At Halloween, Before everyone else was goth and you Could get the damn stuff all year round When we drank Mad Dog by candle light and Sllloked up in your brother's car when we Burned Barbie dolls and watched Twin Peaks in the dark And all I want is passion in llly life again All I want is passion All this silly graveyard running Nipple piercing Coffee humming 1'd give anything for that Feeling 16 �Jessica Wheeler Coffee Pools in my cup black tar poison best part of waking up my ass. The shower hisses pounds ll1 y body like llly own private Niagara Falls and it's just as cold. My eyelids droop lower than llly tits will in twenty years and my fingers fUll1 ble blindly for the perfect slenderness of llly last cigarette just one dall1n cigarette. l7 �Robby Mason Of Shining Mae Days You're Ii vely as light entering the sanctuary in a church of trees. You speak dapples of limelight fil tering through panels of chlorophyll, fractured stained glass allowing lllotes to trickle down upon my face ha ppy sun tears washing llle in a drealll shower. 18 �Kay Liao The Eight Seconds of the Subway H e used to go to his student by taking the subway. The parents of his tutee were very strict. If he was five minutes late, the mother's smile would become very ugly and stiff. If he was ten minutes late, he would not even get a glass of water. He decided to go there by subway, although it was a little more expensive than taking a bus, but at least he wouldn't have to carry the beverage by himself. He could easily find a seat in the last car, but it also shook more. Glancing at the scenes outside the window, he saw the hospital. It had a lot of big windows, and the window frames had a light blue sky color, harmonizing with the body of the com-cars of the subway. "Would the idea of traveling spring up in their minds if they watched through their transparent windows?" he wondered. Spring was just passed. It was when the weather vvas getting hot that he saw the girl. The girl was skinny, and had two braids. She stood behind the window watching. It seemed that she had a lot of things on her mind. He couldn't see clearly her facial features, but her disposition brought a quiet and composed quality, like a picture - Renaldsa's portrait of a girl, very slightly spreading out the sweet light. However, it was the hospital's window. Was she a patient or a special nurse accompanying a patient? A sudden sorrow came into his mind. Beauty sometimes comes with sadness. The second time the subway passed the hospital, he saw the girl standing behind the window again. He couldn't help raising his hands and waving at her. It was like the feeling of waving his hands at the strangers when he was little and was Sitting in the train. The girl seemed to notice it. She bent a 19 �Kay Liao Ii ttle bit and nestled her head up against the window. Although the subway slowed down because it was close to the next stop, it was still moving quickly. Anything outside of his window disappeared. He had to wait till the next time. Would she still be in the hospital? Would she walk to the window? The tutoring job was only for killing time, and he wasn't really serious about earning money. But today, he talked with the parents about increasing the tutoring time from twice to three times a week. The parents were moved by his fervency and prepared a Coke for him, plus a cu p of ice cream. "You must be quarreling with your girlfriend, or else why do you like to have classes?" the little devil scoffed. Some people said that after the subway was opened people's travel became so fast that the characteristics of the city changed. He didn't know. He only knew that he was cautious and anxious about being unable to catch the train. He feared he would miss the chance to see the girl. It was like an appointment they both agreed on. The girl always stood there, with her smile or sometimes waving her hands. He practiced the words that he would say if he would have a chance to talk with her. "Hi, what's your name? I really want to know you. Even if I can only know you for a while, it's still better than nothing." Disconsolate feelings filled his mind, because he gradually came to believe she was a patient because she seemed increasingly pale and emaciated. But on his subway he could only pass the edge of the girl's life for eight seconds at a time. What kind of expectation could he put in these eight seconds? She might disappear behind that window at any moment, and he might end the tutoring job, or not take this subway anymore. He became conscious of this coincidence of their appointment, this rare luck that brought them together in this world. Why did he not get off the subway? he asked 20 �The Eight Seconds of the Subway himself. Maybe it was lack of courage. He really wanted to be like this girl, who had the courage to give herself and the others chances. But he couldn't. How about if he went there and found her? What would the situation be? Now, during eight seconds of sweet time, he at least got her smile. Across the distance and the speed, it was like truth and he could almost touch it. Yes, almost, and it was enough for him. Valentine's Day was coming. He hesitated about what to do, wandering in front of the flower shop. Then, he dE:cided to buy twelve pink roses and have the shop deliver them to the hospital. His first time sending flowers to someone was like doing something that gave him a guilty conscience. His whole body was immersed in an untranquil condition. Would the flower shop send to the wrong person? Would she leave the hospital? Would she guess the flowers were from him? Would she like pink roses? "Happy Valentine's Day. Hope you get well soon," the attached card said. On the next day, he saw her standing behind that window, with a long stem pink rose in her hand. She knew! She knew! She knew - but his eyes suddenly softened because he saw that her long braids were gone. She had a scarf on her head. He understood that chemotherapy made her hair fall out. How could he not have noticed before? He curled up in the seat as if the air-conditioning was too cold in that car. But it wasn't cold inside at all; he just felt weak. "What am I doing? Watching a flower fade?" he asked himself. "But what else could I do?" After the thundershower in the afternoon, he started to worry that the subway might be closed down because of the weather. But it wasn't. The subway came closer to the hospital. There were three people standing behind that window, the girl and two nurses in white beside her. Were they supporting her? If they didn't help her, would she be able to stand on her own? When he got closer, he saw her 21 �Kay Liao smiling and waving at him. Her smiling face, the expression in her eyes, her carriage, slow Iy, were like a farewell ceremony. He pressed close to the window and restrained the urge to groan. Three months, and he didn't even know her name! They hadn't even been introduced to each other! Nothing had started yet! All of these were because he had been so hesitant. The love in his mind was as old as heaven and earth. If they would have to separate on the way, wouldn't that hurt? But he was so willing to see her! What would this be? Would this be love? And he didn't even know her. After this, he might even have no names to call when missing her. It shouldn't be this way. This time when the subway got closer to the hospital, there was no one behind that window. He quietly got off the subway and bought roses from the flower shop on the first floor. The man selling them said, "But we have got no pink roses. How about red roses? They smell so good today." He carried twelve red flowers in his hands and went to the hospital. He got onto the sixth floor-he counted before, it should be the last room on the sixth floor. Walking through the long corridor to the end without hesitation, he saw a special room with only one bed. It was empty. The sanitation worker just finished cleaning up and walked toward him, "Visi ting someone? The person died already. Why didn't you come earlier?" It was too late. Sunlight shined from outside of the window. What clean and bright sunshine. He still didn't make it in time. Walking around this room, he tried to catch something, any trace the girl left. But, the room was really too strange to him, and he couldn't get a clue at all. Then, he stopped in front of the window, watching the subway passing in front of him. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight seconds. It passed. He felt very regretful. If he could only have made up 22 �The Eight Seconds ofthe Subway his mind earlier, gotten off the subway earlier, then, he would still have had a chance to ask, "Hi, what's your name? I want to know you so badly." "I am Eve. What's yours?" He turned around reflexively and saw the girl, who was standing slimly and gracefully in front of him. She still had the scarf on her head, but she looked healthy. "I thought you ... They said you ... " "The one who died was an old grandpa I was taking care of," she smiled healthily. Her illness, her worn look, all was his imagination. Her hair was in a scarf because of her sister's unsuccessful hair cutting which she could only cover up. Those two nurses were her friends, and they stood there curiously. "They said what a generation it is now to have such a boy in the world. Weird," she said. "Then, what did you think?" "I was just wondering when you would get off the subway." He gave her the roses, "I really want to know you. Hope you like the red roses." "If you tell me your name, I will consider it seriously." "Then we'd better get out of here and find a place to talk." "Is your name so long that it will take long to tell me?" "No. It would be my too-good-to-be-true-feelings these months." 23 �24 �Part II "I give it to you not that you l1lay remember time, but that you l1light forget it nou] and then for a moment and not spend all your breath tryi11g to conquer it. Because no battle is ever 1Don he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools./I William Faulkl1er The Sound and the Fury �Robby Mason Haircut Pungent vapors frolll pale blue Barbicide cause llly nostrils to flare as I sit in Frank's barber chair. Each Ace COlllb seelllS to have spent an eterni ty ba thing in that large glass jar, killing off God knows how lllany gerllls and lllaybe even a few stray lice frolll the heads of young farlll boys like my own. One of those combs cultivates furrows through llly hair under the guidance of a hand whose father's hand lllight have done the sallle. Occasional snippets frolll scissors trim back unruly sprouts of hair and the cuttings slide down the front of the Slllock to build up like a silage heap in my lap. Conversation of possible rain showers pork by the hundredweight and how the corn lllight be knee-high well before July, takes an intimate turn when the metallic swish of the straightedge across the strop signals the finishing touches to be done near vital portions of flesh. 26 �Reese and Chad are alnlost out of high school now and the lllissus and I are beginning to wonder whether the land can be milked llluch further, but Frank already knows that and efficiently wipes off the stubbly residue before tucking steamy towels around my neck almost how my father would tuck me into bed at night. Pausing, Frank says, "You've raised a better crop of boys than any corn you ever harvested." 27 �Dave Miriovsky The Joy of Fatherhood As he saw the glove hidden in the ca binet behind the well-stocked bar in his half-furnished basement, he remembered back to the time when he was young and life was fun . He remembered how he spat in his mitt and coolly rubbed it in like they did in the big leagues, how he chewed on the faded laces despite their taste of lightly salted cardboard. He remembered how every spring he trea ted it wi th oil, how his hands glided over the lea ther as delicately as those 28 �of a skilled sculptor, how the George Brett signature in the palm, once so bold and visible, was gradually erased by the application of oil and the passage of his youth. He pressed his face to the tanned cowhide and the aroma of the leathery cologne renlinded hinl of his days in the now-enl pty sandlot by the Casey's on 12th Street. Renloving his nose fronl the confines of the glove's pocket, he closed the cabinet and took the old Rawlings upstairs, a present for his only son's sixth birthday. 29 �Beth Donohue Reflections on a Saddle and Bridle Found in an Attic Worn la tigos glow with a glossy sheen stretched and worn by the brass cinch rings snugged tight ten thousand times on a hundred horses stained with the sweat and dust of untold miles bene a th the Texas sky. Blue-white Spanish conchas glisten with silver and contrast with the rust-flecked iron of the curb bit and the buckles of the bridle made so many years past by loving fingers long since gone. Full-grain leather polished by the touch of time hand -too led glowing with the luster of quality and age tools 30 �of the partnership between nlan and horse as they worked together a century ago. 31 �Randy Clyde Uhl, alum Courting Disappointment Disappointment stops in from time to time to renlind me how nluch I need her. She eyes my verses as if they were baby pictures and over wine we speak of the night they were born. The men go unmentioned, the birth fathers, but I see her eyes sadden as she recognizes traces of them in my words. D. says, "Tell me again about them . . . the ones that left." Asldo I feel my belly kick and she whispers, "You're welcome." Turning to leave she adds, "Forget them." I tell her I do. Every day. 32 �Mandy Bohl Photos His life is in photos They are all lined up in rows The photo albums are his only friends His children have all grown and gone His wife of fifty years has been gone now for a year He sits in his big house all alone He sits with his photos and his memories His mood is lllelancholy As his memories make him glad and glum He waits day by day as he flips the pages Wai ting for the phone, or better yet, the doorbell to ring Nothing And then finally SOllleone is at the door He eagerly rushes to human contact Finally SOllleone to show his photos to The guests look at the photos and listen to the stories Some are genuinely interested, others simply hUlllor the old nlan As he proudly displays his life in photos The guest says good-bye Once again he is left alone with his photos As he flips the pages to look at his photos He wonders who will take care of thenl when he is gone 33 �Dave Miriovsky The Flag in the Schoolhouse As he saw the flag pulled tightly a t each corner by the white-gloved hands of the soldiers, he painfully renlenl bered the wintry days in the schoolhouse, when the class of twelve paid tribute to the soldiers. He remembered how their snlall platoon, looking at the flag hanging from the wall, rifled those words as they pledged their allegiance. The November wind snuck through the window in the one-room schoolhouse, curled the flag and the flag paused, then, returned. 34 �He saw the red and white stripes bleeding into each other, seamlessly connected, by the union of the flag. He remembered fifty w hi te stars and how they floa ted on the ocean-blue background, and he remem bered his thoughts of Dad, how he wondered if Dad would return fro III the war in the jungle. And on this day, five years later, through tears, he saw a larger version of that sallle flag, carefully folded to a triangle by the w hi te-gloved hands of the soldiers, and presented by the general to his proud lllother. 35 �Carnie Shuff Angie's Bridge that sun used to silver the blacktop like how a black-haired kitty purrs in the lunlinescence of its own shine and that yellow school bus would backfire black snloke along the stretches of highway between fields and bridges and pastures and farnls like how the rocks used to shoot off the spokes of our bike tires when we would all race to the nlain street nleat locker if we heard the roaring shifts of the rendering truck rumble into town then we would watch the guts and blood and bones of those dead pigs and cows, and goats slide down off the bed of the truck like how the mashed potatoes would fall off illy spoon at dinner and go plop! and sometimes if we were lucky we got to see pigs c u t i n half and, of course, we would all scream! in awe! and eeww! excitement! until someone would yell "town tag time!" 36 �and then we would all scatter and follow those yellow pac-man dashes in the middle of the blacktop until we saw any perfect hiding spot so we could pray and count and breathe really loud, even though we tried so hard not to and so we played until those yellow street lights can1e on to signal us to go hOll1e for the night like how a mOll1 yells "supper!" out the back door and her voice dashes along through the air above the blacktop until it tags the ears of her child to call hill1 hon1e so he can tell her over dinner all about the bloody guts that were in the rendering truck that day Angie said to me once when we were hiding under the bridge that she didn't really like the sn1ell of those yucky pigs so she wasn't ever gonna go to the meat locker with the rest of us again ever ever but she did every tin1e. 37 �Beth Donohue Sunset The old woman sits heavily in her rocking chair gazing out the window at the waning day the sun shines in on velvet slants warming her gaunt shoulders shrouded in lavender cotton she remenl bers her life a deluge of images falling like the rain at Clarence's funeral the tidy house on tenth street Elsie and her golden hair the unnanled son; their first the War; all those boys she knewgone she is ready - the past beckons in the last corners of the day she reaches out with trembling fingers and smiles. 38 �Chris Marnach The Wasteland T hey sat in the kitchen, the smell of the brewing coffee strong and invigorating, the coffeepot softly purring on the counter. Outside, the early morning sun shone weakly across the horizon, the freshly fallen snow washed in the pinks and golds of the sky. It was well below zero, a cold the sun's struggling light failed to alleviate, a cold that made neither of the men sitting across from each other at the kitchen table too anxious to leave the comfort of the chairs and the kitchen and the coffee, especially for the task at hand. UJ don't know, Marv, it just seems like such a waste is all," Wade said, getting up to fill his and Marv's coffee cups, his eyes resting only for a second on the gun case that sat on the table between them. uJ know, J know," Marv said, leaning back in his chair, resting his hands on his sizable belly. "It's a deal, lemme tell ya. If it were up to me, I'd let everyone of those squealin little mothers live out their lives in piggie paradise, but it ain't up to me. Boss says it's gotta be done. Prices are shit. Hell, pig shit is worth more these days than the actual pig. What's really bullshit, or hogshit, I guess, is, well, you been to the grocery store lately?" uWife does the shopping," Wade said, setting a cup of coffee in front of Marv and then taking a seat with his own cup. "Laura? Where is that pretty young thing?" "She's ou t taking Jayna to basketball practice. I tell you, all that woman ever does is go-go-go. It seems like that's all any of us do. Never really stop to enjoy anything, just go, all the time." "It's a deal, I know." Marv took a sip of his coffee. 39 �Chris Marnach "Y'know, next to Yvonne, your wife makes the best pot of coffeE. you ever did taste. What's her secret?" "Folgers. And I made the coffee." "Oh." Marv took another sip. He smacked his lips and nodded. "Yup, Folgers'd be it. So, as I was sayin, you bought a ham lately?" "Huh?" "Well, you know as well as the next man hog prices are shit. Now, do you think that the price of ham, that's ham, dead cut-up cheap piggie, went down to match the price of a live whole cheap piggie? Hell no. Ham's the same price as it was six months ago. Christ in a Cadillac, someone's getting rich outta this deal, but it sure as hell ain't us. It just ain't payin right now to be raisin the whole live cheap piggies. Boss says to destroy whatever looks like it ain't gonna make it, sick ones, ruptures, runts. Right now they ain't worth the feed they're porkin down on. Get it? Parkin down?" "I got it, Marv." "Costs more to keep em alive than we'd get for em in the end, and if they die before they go to market, that's feed money down the pisser. It's a deal, but hey, don't tell me, tell fuckin Dow Jones." "I know," Wade said. He had just put up three hog confinement buildings and gotten his first shipment of hogs, which filled up one of his buildings two days before. It had been hard for him to give up the self-reliant way of farming that he and his father and grandfather before him had used. But farming wasn't farming anymore; it was business, and as the twentieth century slipped into the twenty-first and family farms slipped into the dust, it was clear that the only way was to go was corporate or go broke. He had put up the buildings in the hope of staying afloat, maybe even making a little extra money, maybe even having a little more time on his hands. And then the hog prices dropped to the 40 �The Wasteland lowest they'd been since 1945. And now this. If there was one thing Wade hated, it was waste. And he couldn't get it out of his head that this was all this was - a waste. "I better get the boy up," Wade said, standing and walking to the foot of the stairs. "J ustin!" he yelled. From a room at the top of the stairs came a half-shouted, half-asleep, completely unintelligible response. "Time to go to work!" Wade yelled again. Again, another unintelligible response. "He'll be down in a minute," Wade said, turning away from the stairs and sitting back down at the kitchen table. "Conna be a farmer like his old man?" Marv asked, sipping his coffee. A smirk lifted the corner of Wade's mouth, and he let out a little chuckle. The phone rang. Wade got up and answered it. "Well, hello Yvonne," Wade said, looking over at Marv. "You wanna talk to your husband?" He listened, then laughed. "Hell no, she says," Wade smiled at Marv. "She says I got a better ass." Marv lifted his nose in indignation. "You may have a better ass, but I'll guarantee I got a bigger-" "What's that, Yvonne?" Wade said, stifling a laugh. "She says, Marv, don't be such a damn softie when it comes to those hogs. She says to waste those sick little bastards like you was still working for the Post Office." "You tell her not to worry," Marv said. "Hugs In kisses, Pookie." "What?" Wade stared at Marv. "Tell her hugs In kisses. Not you, shithead." Wade told her this, then looked back at Marv. "She says she likes the way I say it better, but hugs In kisses anyway. Wookie Bear." Wade hung up the phone j , 41 �Chris Marnach and looked down at Marv. "Wookie Bear?" "We're in love," Marv said, his nose still pointed in the air. "Even after twenty-seven years, we're still cute." "Cute wasn't exactly the word I was thinking of." They heard heavy footfalls descending the stairs. Into the kitchen walked Wade's sixteen-year-old son, Justin. "Y' ever seen the dead walk, Marv?" Wade said, grinning at his son. Justin grinned, somewhat ferociously, back at his father. "So, this is the future farmer," Marv said. "Yeah," Justin said, looking down at him. "Nose ring gave it away, huh." Justin plopped down in a chair at the table, looked at the gun case, glanced quickly at Marv, then looked out the window. His black hair stuck up in every direction; his dark eyes were bloodshot. Wade suspected he had been out drinking the night before, but then again, Justin always looked and acted like hell in the morning. As he looked at his son, Wade wondered at his appearance. Both Wade, Laura, and their fourteen-year-old daughter Jayna were blonde, blue-eyed, and tall. Justin was small and dark. That and the four earrings and nose ring distinguished him not only from the rest of the family, but also from many members of their small community, who were not used to seeing flashing metal sticking out of so many places on someone's face. "Don't get too comfortable," Wade said to Justin. He then turned to Marv. "You ready? Might as well get this over with." Marv slurped down the rest of his coffee and stood. He struggled briefly to snap the buttons of his coat across his expansive belly. Wade and Justin exchanged amused glances behind his back. Marv took the gun case from the 42 �The Wasteland table. "You just better hope I don't revert back to my Vietnam days," Marv said as they went out the door into the biting cold. "Or none of those little pork chops are gonna be standing." "Shit, Marv, you were never in Nam," Wade said, laughing. Marv climbed into his truck. "Sure I was," he said in a tone that made it impossible to tell if he was kidding or not. Wade looked at him a moment, then went to his own truck. Justin climbed in the passenger seat and they set out on the ten-mile drive to the hog buildings. "How you feeling this morning?" Wade asked as he drove. "Fine." Justin said, staring out the window. "Been drinking last night?" "No." "You smell like an ashtray." "We went bowling. Bowling alley smells like an ashtray." "Oh. What was your score?" Justin looked at him with a smirk on his face. "I got a 96, Caitlyn got a 106, Autumn got an 87, and Oliver got 194." Justin's smirk bloomed into a grin. "You wanna call the bowling alley and fingerprint the ball too?" "I don't think you should be hanging out with Oliver Coyle." Justin's grin fell. "Why?" "People say he's on drugs." A short, bitter laugh came out of Justin's mouth. "I'm sure people say the same thing about me." He looked at Wade, his finger flicking his nose ring back and forth. "So you ready for this?" Wade said. He wanted to change the subject. He was worried about his son. Justin 43 �Chris Marnach hated people judging him on how he looked, but how did he expect not to be judged when he seemed to do anything just to get looked at? Maybe in New York or California where lots of people looked like that he could get away with it, but not here. And as hard as Wade tried not to, he judged Justin just as much as the people of their community did. He could never say so to his son, though. He kept his silence. "You know how ready I am," Justin said, looking back out the window. "You don't have to be in there when the shooting starts." Wade looked over at him as they pulled into the drive of the hog lot. "You know 1'm looking forward to this as much as you are." "Yeah," Justin said as Wade parked the truck. "Thanks," he said softly. They got out of the truck as Marv pulled up behind them and parked. He climbed out of the truck, gun case in hand. He took a deep breath and exhaled, his breath like a plume of smoke in the frigid air. "Yep, it was on a cold morning like this we landed in Nam," Marv said, walking over to Wade and Justin. "Isn't Vietnam a jungle?" Justin said, a grin on his face. "And isn't a jungle usually hot?" "Not that morning, son," Marv said in that same indistinguishable tone he had used with Wade earlier. He turned to walk toward the office between the hog buildings. "Not that morning." Justin looked at Wade. Wade shrugged his shoulders and they followed Marv into the office. Marv opened the gun case and took out the gun. He looked it over, loaded it, and held it out to Justin. "You wanna take out a few of the little bacon bits, kiddo?" Marv asked, a twinkle in his eye. "Let out some of that teen-age anger?" 44 �The Wasteland "You go ahead," Justin said, straight-faced. "I'm sure middle-aged anger's a whole lot worse." "J ustin," Wade said, a warning in his voice. "Your boy's a smart ass, Wade," Marv said, still looking at Justin with the twinkle in his eye. "I like him. Plenty of dumb asses out there; smart one's good for a change." "Thanks," Justin said. "I think." Marv set the gun on the desk, took out his wallet, and handed Justin a ten-dollar bill. "Go to town for me and get some bullets, sonny," Marv said. "I'll be runnin low after today. You can keep the change. Just don't be spendin all that on candy or drugs or anything like that." "Gee, not even some heroin?" Justin said, a pleading look in his eyes. "Trust me, boy, smack's a fuckin deal. You don't wanna mess with that shit. I know. Fuck, we did some crazy shit in Nam." Once again, Marv's tone was indistinguishable. Justin looked at Marv, looked over at Wade, and looked back at Marv, a perplexed look on his face. "Urn, okay, I'm gonna go," Justin said. "Can I take the truck?" "Here," Wade said, throwing Justin the keys. "Be careful. Roads are a little iCY." "I know. I'll be back in little bit. Thanks Marv," Justin said as he walked out the door. "You got a good kid, Wade," Marv said as they watched Justin drive off. "Real spitfire. He'll go far." "I'm sure he will." "You hate that fuckin bull ring he's got, don't ya?" "You could say that." "It's a deal. All about the changin of the times. One generation's gotta be different from the rest. You got no room to talk, neither. I heard stories about you in your hell45 �Chris Marnach raisin days, tearin around here on a motorcycle, drinkin beer, bein a royal pain in your parents' asses." "Shit, I was a good kid." "My beautiful ass you were. I wasn't no hallelujah singin angel myself. Those were crazy fuckin times. Shit, in Nam-" "What's the deal with this Nam shit?" Wade said, laughing. "You never mentioned anything about being in Vietnam before today." "And you never mentioned nothin about hatin the boy's nose ring before today, but that don't mean you didn't hate it before you mentioned it." Marv grinned at him. Wade laughed. "Fine, Marv, whatever you say." "Didn't want to be here for the slaughter, did he?" Marv said, his face growing serious. "No." "I understand. Don't want to be here for it myself. But I suppose," Marv picked up the gun and an extra box of hullets, "we might as well get this shit over with." They walked in silence to the hog building. It was a long low building, dusty and loud with the squeals of hogs. There were thirty pens on each side of the building. Wade had sorted through the hogs yesterday, picking out all of the sick looking ones, and put them all in the fourteenth pen. Wade and Marv walked up the long alleyway to the sick pen. "How many you got here?" Marv asked. "Twenty-eight. There's about ten in there, the ones with the blue marks, that I thought might pull through. You can judge for yourself." "Shit, Wade," Marv said, releasing the safety on his gun. "Let the massacre begin." "You're a good shot, right? You ain't gonna shoot up my building?" 46 �The Wasteland "Not to worry, Wade. Back in Nam, I was a marksman." Marv took aim at the head of a very ill-looking hog standing near the cement wall of the pen. "God take your poor shit-eatin piggie souls," Marv said, and pulled the trigger. The crack of the gunshot echoed throughout the building. The pig's head snapped back, blood shot out of the wound. The pig fell over on its side, convulsing, tWitching, rolling in its own blood on the shitcovered the floor. It finally stopped moving as another shot was fired, its eyes bulging, its mouth gaping, its blood pooling under it. Every hog in the building was up, squealing and running. Wade watched the blood and the falling, the convulsing and the dying, but only because he forced himself. Another shot. And another. They all died the same way, rolling in their own shit. Marv kept firing. He didn't even seem to be looking at the hogs. It was like he was somewhere else. Sweat was starting to roll down his face. He fired. He reloaded his gun and fired again. The hogs were screaming. The building was getting hazy with gun smoke. Wade's ears were ringing from the blasts and from the screaming of the hogs. Another shot, another hog fell, more blood mixed with the shit that covered the hogs as they thrashed and died. Again and again. He turned away, tried to shut his ears to the deafening noise, but couldn't. And then the gunfire stopped. Wade turned around and looked at Marv. He was pale, sweating, breathing heavy. The gun was still pointing into the pen. Marv's arm lowered slowly. The hogs in the surrounding pens were still up and running in pathetic circles, screaming - in every pen but the fourteenth. Two hogs stood stock-still in the middle of twenty-six blood and shit covered corpses. Blood spattered the walls of the pen. Blood spattered the two live pigs left in the pen. Here and 47 �Chris Marnach there were chips out of the cement. "Jesus," Wade said under his breath. "You need me for anything else, Wade?" Marv asked. His voice was quiet. Marv's voice was never quiet. "No, Marv, you go ahead," Wade said, looking at him. "Justin should be back with your bullets pretty soon if you want to wait." "That's okay. I'll get em some other time. Gimrne a call. We'll grab a beer." Marv walked off down the alleyway, still panting and sweating. "Thanks, Marv," Wade called after him. "Don't thank me," Marv said as the door closed behind him. Wade shook his head. He looked back at the pen. The combination of the shit and the blood smeared on the dead pigs made it look like they were already rotting. The smell was horrible. It looked like a picture of a mass grave. Two live hogs stood in the middle of it. Wade put on his gloves and climbed into the pen. The floor was sticky. He grabbed one of the hogs by the hind legs. It squealed and fought. He lifted it over the edge of the pen and dropped it into the next pen. "Lucky son of a bitch," Wade said as he watched the blood-spattered pig mingle with the other pigs in the pen. Wade turned to grab the other hog, but then he saw the two small holes in the side of its neck and head, and the trails of blood running down. "Guess you weren't so lucky. Fuck." Wade climbed out of the pen. "Some marksman you were, Marv," Wade said to himself as he walked over to the shelf in the front of the building and got the hammer. He climbed back into the pen. The hog was staring at him, its body tenSing, ready to run. He raised the hammer. "You poor dumb son of a bitch," Wade said as he 48 �The Wasteland brought the hammer down as hard as he could. The pig tried to dodge but a dull thud sounded as the hammer slammed down onto the hog's skull. The hog squealed and dropped to the ground. Then it tried to stand back up. "Dammit," Wade said and swung the hammer again. The hog fell over on its side, convulsing, breathing weakly, low squeals and blood issuing from its mouth. It would die soon enough. Wade looked up and saw Justin standing in the doorway, Marv's bullets in hand. "Is it done?" Justin said. "Yeah. Marv left one alive with two bullets in its head. Just putting it out of its misery," Wade said as he climbed out of the pen. Justin walked up to Wade. He glanced into the pen, then looked away quickly. Wade thought he heard him say "shit" under his breath. "It ain't pretty," Wade said. "No," Justin said, facing away from the pen. "Where's Marv? I got his bullets." "He had to go. Why don't you go and get the cart. You can put those bullets in the office while you're out there." Wade opened the door to the pen as Justin went out to get the cart. Wade would wash it out tomorrow, but he wanted to get the bodies out as soon as possible. Justin came back in, pushing the cart in front of him. He pushed it up to the pen. "Well, here we go," Wade said, grabbing one front leg and one hind leg of a dead hog, picking it up, and throwing it into the cart. It was a disgusting job. But Wade had done worse. A friend of his had gone away for the weekend last summer, leaving his hog buildings unattended. The cooling system had broken. Three-fourths of his hogs had died from over-heating and suffocation. The man came home to 49 �Chris Marnach bloated, red, swollen corpses. Wade had helped haul out the dead. The smell was sickening. At one point one of the other men helping ran outside and vomited on the ground. It was horrible. Wade pushed the thoughts out of his mind. He lifted and threw the dead hogs methodically, mechanically, trying to keep the thought of what he was doing out of his head. As Wade threw one of the hogs, a piece of its brain flew off and landed on the wall near Justin. Justin stepped back, his face going pale. "You okay?" Wade asked. "Yeah," Justin said, the color returning to his face. "I'm fine." Wade came to the hog that he had hit with the hammer. It was still alive. Barely. It was breathing shallowly, and every once in a while it would twitch. Wade picked it up like the others and threw it on top of the dead hogs in the cart. It started to squeal. "That one's still alive," Justin said, looking at Wade. "It'll be dead soon enough," Wade said, trying to block out the squealing. "Got two bullets in its head and two hammer dents. It's just taking its time." Wade picked up a dead hog and threw it on top of the slightly living one. And then another. The hog that still li ved screamed, twitching and thrashing under the dead ones. Wade looked up and saw Justin staring at it. He saw him starting to turn green. "Do you need me here right now?" Justin said softly. "No. You okay?" "I just need to go outside for a while." "Go ahead." He watched Justin walk quickly out the door. The hog's screaming stopped in a choked gurgle. It stopped thrashing. It jOined its penmates. 50 �The Wasteland Wade shook his head. Goddarnmit. It was starting to get to him. What a fucking waste. Goddammit. Goddammit. He picked up the bloody hammer that was lying on the floor of the pen and threw it down the alleyway. The only time he ever brought down a hog was if it was going to die, not if it might die. And now some corporate fuck who didn't know a goddamn thing about the land or the livestock or the farms or the farmers was making him haul a cart of dead bloody shitty hogs because the almighty goddamn Dow fucking Jones says we ain't gonna pay shit to you so kill your livestock and let em fucking rot. What a waste. What a goddamn fucking waste. And that was the way it was. No way to get around it. No way to rebel. Do what Mr. Corporate Fuck says and get a check, feed your family, put your kids through college, while still doing some semblance of what you love. Don't do it and don't get a check and lose the farm. It was pointless to rage against it. Nothing would change. This wouldn't be the last time he would be doing this. He knew that. Go along with it. Accept it. There was no other way. The cart was full. The rest of the corpses would have to wait until Trip Number Two. Wade grabbed the handles and pushed the cart down the alleyway and out the door. The sun was high now, the sky a light icy blue. It was very cold. The residual heat from the carcasses rose like smoke from the cart. The snow was hard and crunched as he pushed the cart over it. A biting breeze blew the smell of cigarette smoke to Wade's nostrils. He felt his temper rise again. He stormed around the side of the building and found Justin blowing out a plume of smoke. Justin's eyes widened when he saw Wade. Wade opened his mouth to commence yelling, but then he saw how pale Justin was, and how the hand that held the smoldering cigarette shook, and he knew that the 51 �Chris Marnach The Wasteland shaking of Justin's hand was not just from the cold. The shout in his throat choked. His anger died. "Don't ever let your mother see you doing that," Wade said, very softly, and turned away. He felt hollow, defeated. He went back to the cart and pushed it over near the driveway, the place where the rendering truck would pick up the corpses. What a waste. He tipped the cart over, watched the steaming corpses slide to the ground. The snow turned red. He felt so drained. So lifeless. He looked at the pile of the dead on the ground and shook his head. "What a waste," Wade said to himself. "What a goddamn waste." He pushed the cart, slowly, back to the building. 52 �Part III 'We turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel, and looked at each other for the last til1le." Jack Kerouac On the Road General RevielV of the Sex Situation Woman wants I1lonogal11Y; Man delights in novelty. Love is wOfnan's lnoon and sun; Man has other for111s offun. Woman lives but in her lord; Count to ten, and man is bored. With this the gist and sunl of it, What earthly good can COttle of it? Dorothy Parker �Amanda Prince Barefoot November there's a ring of crystals around a full moon barefoot, on the cold cement i wait for snow to melt holding my coa t around TIle sitting in front of my house i wish my life was like that song the one where you show up at five a.TI1. in your winter coa t crying and i tell you it's not only okay, it'll be beautiful and we cuddle through layers of sweatshirts and your navy blue peacoat but in that dream, TIly hair's red and that night my hair was fuck-you pink in the microwaved radioactive peach-colored dawn like you could drink it- and it would taste like a fuzzy navel or you could take a Polaroid and send it to your grandTIla 54 �better than a hallnlark card but maybe not if m thinking in the four a.m. emptiness drinking a bud lite i stole from my parent's refrigerator wearing an ugly yellow sweater giving up and putting my shoes back on. 55 �Megan Lindsay wind The wind is steady and strong, bitter and invincible, invisibly freeing snow airborne against the black backdrop of night (I'nl watching for clues in your eyes) the cold sneaks into nl y shoes through the laces and past the leather tongues (nly toes are sore fronl wanting) the weatherman said "it's only seventeen degrees below zero out there tonight" and as we sit, not talking, staring our separate ways, I feel nly blood chill and my pulse slow I kiss the ice on the inside of the window carefully, pull away and check your reaction the wet print from my cold lips freezes over calnl and quick (I don't want to be cold on the inside with you) 56 �Robby Mason Merry Primavera first puddle of spring exotic liquor of snow courts drunk sunlnler thoughts 57 �Megan Lindsay Excerpts from last summer JunelJuly Some nights I just did the dishes and fell asleep on the couch, watching Lifetime Television and waiting for you to stun1 ble through ou r front door, your silhouette in the pixilated light swaying, staying sweet, even though my in1age of you turned stale and bitter and that one perfect photographic memory of last spring (when we stayed up all night and watched the sun heat up the day so slowly, but steadily, and I com posed poetry for you with the window wide open) faded, so slowly but steadily August Awake, I dreamed of Kerouac and N eruda, longing for the synchronici ty and experience of that one slow, but steady, perfect line, convinced that 58 �there was poetry there somewhere in the way that fall descended so slowly, but steadily, into our bed 59 �Amanda Prince how to dump a useless man I would write a poem if it would help, I would sit in that car with you for three days straight as you drove through the entire tri-state area scouring every strip bar and juice bar and gentleman's club for his car if I thought it would help you get over this and I'm past the days of self-righteous blathering about how you need to just dUlllp him and say fuck it and get it over with, I hope, cuz Marsha was right when she said nineteen-year-olds giving other nineteen-year-olds advice about love is completely insane cuz I'd probably do the same for sOlllething as stupid as a boy and you've suffered the same too-high-pitched laughs of fake "I'm okays" frolll me and as I sit in this car what I'm trying to convey with my silence and stories about grade school four-square mishaps is, "I understand" we can drive for days till you're over this honey, we can drive for days GO �Sonnet Conover Late Night Awakening I scramble d o w n fronl nly bed as swift as a squirrel scaling a tree. He's there. Talking and tittering in a group of students an hour after he was supposed to call Me. Images of hugs and idle chatter. Pitifully, I view this scene, unrevealed to hinl. Clanloring back to bed I anl disgusted with myself f a I 1 n g for yet another ass hole. 61 �Megan Lindsay your grace I get cheaper and cheaper every nlinute that I pass, sitting here on the bed, singing Amazing Grace bottle of w hi te zinfandel in one hand Canlel Light in the other You will spend thirty-four dollars at the strip bar tonight and bitch about loaning me five dollars for Taco Bell tomorrow /WID sweet the sound, that saved a Iuretch like me I locked the bedroom door Every day and Saturday I tell myself that on Sunday I'll be gone I am struggling broke stressed-out and you are eagerly shoving dollar bills into the G-string bikini of a woman bobbing her tits in your face she's just trying to make a living 62 �and you're just trying to make a night "that's the price" they say "of love" I say it's that one thought locked in my nlind tha t lllakes nle an easy sale I once (vas lost, but now I am found, was blind but now I see just that one thought in my stomach rebounding the wine and cigarettes and dancers and nights alone how precious is your grace 63 �Dave Miriov5;ky The nlan slanlmed the door wondering why his new wife always opened it. 64 �Jessica Wheeler Porn Connoisseur Red suede shoes meander avenues looking up the skirts of strippers. Wicky-wicky-wack. Dig. 65 �Josh Call Faithful Black lights shining in the lust-filled eyes of a D1an, drooling like the foaD1 clinging to a freshly drawn beer. A lonely ll1an sitting, the shade of gold on his hand, a IUll1p of indignation and disgust nestled away in the oblivion of his shirt-front pocket. Such a man is seen everywhere, eyes following the bounce of pierce-nippled breasts, jiggling absurdly to nall1eless ll1usic. Such a man's eyes are filled with wonder, and the miracles of drunken horny flexibility, that ll10ve like a chorus line a handsbreath from his outstretched tongue. Such a good man, building walls around himself, in hard-earned dollars, sneering at the eternally out-of-reach pussy taunting him as harshly as a shrewish wife's tongue 66 �So does this nlan si this chair worn perfectly to the fornl of his ratted jeans, while nanleless faces of drunk sincerity and desire whisper to hinl invitingly ... "Back again tonight? Are you having a good time?" 67 �Carnie Shuff The Butterfly so sexy, so wild, so evil she whispered eternal sounds of flutter into my ear her gold dust dived into the air with each tiny trustle of her broken wing she told me the story it was the spider, she said that broke her wing "itwazz de day wit blue skies" she was in mid-flight until suddenly she ovulated right into his web II face to face vee stared" she, paralyzed by his silk he, paralyzed by her beauty both seduced in this cocoon of love 1/ i twazz sucha bootifull ting" her words still linger In my ears from yesterday's nl0urning hour 68 �she was so sexy, so wild so evil she said there was no nlore to tell only a broken wing to sing about the sighs of wingache then she laughed with a luster and kissed my ear she hissed and fluttered away she left a mark on my heart yesterday and now, I, too am paralyzed by her poisoned tongue 69 �Amanda Prince Raygun for m and m I have a cat named Raygun. She's jet black with white socks and won't cuddle with anyone. My friend Claudia named her. Raygun is walking around the basement, knocking over ashtrays, while me and Claudia sit in bean bag chairs, smoking and watching an A&E special on Betty Page. "Damn, she's hot," Claudia says. I say, "Yeah." It's August and unusually cold. This summer has been rainy and endless. Wet gray days blend with other wet gray days. I'm sitting here in my black sweater and slip, staring at the TV and the end of my cigarette. The sound of cars driving by on wet pavement mixes with Claudia's short impatient breaths. Claudia's like my best friend; no, we're no best friends; we're more like Siamese twins who were never separated. There's some invisible connection no one else can see, at least that's what she always says. We look nothing alike. She's tall, beautiful, with bright curly hair and a loud, lipstick-drenched mouth. She has weird pointy teeth. I'm short, with straight blonde hair; I have ugly skinny legs that bruise easily. She's sitting in the orange beanbag chair, thrown on the floor across from the green loveseat. She's wearing her green converse tennis shoes-the ones that were hi-tops then she cut them off and drew swirls and stars on them with a pilot pen, and a big silver L and a big silver R on their proper sides. She's picking at the callused skin around the tips of her fingernails and staring off into empty space. Her pupils grow, and her left eye slides ever so slightly off center. She looks like she's trying to focus on the empty space, trying to see 70 �Raygun what it is that hangs out between things. She's breathing slowly, petting the cat, stopping to run her hands through her hair, pulling it all up into a ponytail, then letting it all fall down on her shoulders again. I see the thin razor marks on the fleshy part of her upper arms. I think I want to run my fingers over them, put my lips over them and make them disappear, fade and disappear, leaving her unscarred and whole again. My stomach turns. One night she drank four ounces of Robitussin OM, thick grape flavored cough syrup and put her hand through some boy's basemen t window. I dragged her home through the ki tchen, where she threw glasses and her mother's dishes, and then into her room. I went into her bathroom to splash some water on my face and came back to find her carving thin lines into her arms, shaking. That was Claudia then, but she's better now. There were the doctors, the pink pills, and the night she took them with crank and vodka and ended up pulling her hair ou t in the emergency room, strapped to the metal bed. She was squeezing my hand so hard it hurt whispering, "Maddy, you gotta stay with me, you gotta keep talking to me." Her brother drove her home that night. I was just numb after it all, but worrie·d, in the way that I'm used to being worried. I don't know what it takes, Band-Aids and long stretches of time, I guess. Somebody buys new dishes and Claudia usually wears long sleeved shirts. It's not all doom and gloom. Sometimes we still run around barefoot, and sometimes we just sit down here doing nothing. Her drawings are tacked up all over the fake wood-grain panels in my basement. Hanging over the overstuffed loveseat is a big, black-and-white, charcoal drawing of me, with big crazy doe eyes and ratty hair. It says, "To my Maddy with much love" on the bottom. Claudia points to the picture with her lit cigarette. I'm looking off the page at something in 71 �Amanda Prince the distance, but I don't know what. She says, uThat's my favorite one, it shows your eyes~ your eyes are so crazy and sad, Maddy, like you're so much older, or know more than me or something." uWhatever, moonbeam." uOh, fuck off." Claudia makes smoke rings in the air and tries to grab them. She breathes out another puff of smoke and says, uI'm so fucking bored." Then she turns her green eyes right at me. "You wanna get high, Maddy?" I curl into a ball on the ratty blue beanbag, picking little styrofoam bits out of the holes Raygun scratched into it. "I dunno, whatever." Claudia is still staring at me. "C'mon," she says. "We can go get rural or something." "Getting rural" is something we used to do a lot in high school. We'd drive in Claudia's blue Buick out past cornfield after cornfield, onto dirt roads and into weird, empty, creepy parts of Nebraska, looking for somewhere to smoke. We'd get high and tell stories. "I don't really feel like doing anything," I say. "So you wanna just sit on your ass and be lame?" "I don't know. Okay, I don't care." I can tell she's getting pissed cause she's still staring. It's like she's trying to drill a hole through me, crawl into my eyes and look at my brain. I'm sick of her eyes. I just want her to leave now. Raygun walks by, and I reach out to pet her, but she just arches her back and tries to bite me. A few weeks ago me and "the boy," as Claudia affectionately calls him, went out to Stone Park to get high. It was a beautiful fall day. I started screaming, "Dude, fall is so sexy, fall is so fucking sexy, it's like summer's just coming up and kissing winter right on the lips, and on days like this they use tongue, and in 72 �Raygun the middle of all that heat and cold is like, fall, and it's all about change, and warm sweaters, and that kind of weather where it's cold but you wear a little tank top anyways, just to feel that sexy fall chill brushing you all over lightly." I took my shirt off and ran down the trail, and the boy laughed so hard he wet himself. "Star sign Scorpio fucker who-oh who-oh" Claudia sings under her breath. I think she's in one of her good moods. It's hard to tell. I get so mad at her. I don't know if it's just some thing inside me, like maybe I was born to overreact. Maybe it's because it's hard to lose people, or feel like you are, maybe I'm just too afraid of losing people, maybe I should talk to her and maybe I should stop staring at the picture on my mirror that says" figure this out for yourself." We're way drunk, singing Christmas carols for no reason. Claudia's holding my hand screaming, "Merry Christmas, merry fucking Christmas," but it's not even Christmas-it's the middle of July - and we're walking through downtown holding hands, singing ou t loud. I tell her I can see it snowing in her eyes. Slurring my speech. The stars spin above us; we crash into each other on the sidewalk. Her hand brushes my hip. I kiss her on the cheek and sing "lean on me, when you're not strong la da da," and we bust into a chorus of that whole summer camp thing, laughing and running races from stoplight to stoplight. 3:00 a.m., kind of fucked up, typing in my room with a bad tummy ache. Silence is louder than any noise, I've decided. I've decided her eyes have iced over, and I've decided I'm a very bad friend. The boy is probably at home sleeping, wish he was here. He'd give me fruit-flavored Turns and two-percent milk to wash them down with. He's good that way. 73 �Amanda Prince Claudia's asleep, or pretending to be again. Seems like it's all she does anymore. Claudia's a good kisser. I know cause we'd make au t in photo booths at the mall, the one's with a video camera that shows on a TV outside the booth, and kids would walk by and paint and say stuff like, UMommy, is that two girls kissing?" We got a real kick out of that in high school. We don't kiss much anymore, even just to scare away drunk guys at Perkins or to get free drinks at parties. I guess it's sort of a stupid high school thing - doing shocking shi t just to get a rise out of people- but it was kind of fun to be shocking, kind of gets your blood going. Tonight she's wearing her slinky, black, rock-star pants, and she curled her hair with soda cans, so it's all big and crazy. She's lining her eyes in the mirror with a black pencil. She's getting ready to go out. She looks over her shoulder and says, "Hey, doll, you gonna go to Bill's with me?" I say, "Sure," cause if don't I know she'll whine until I do. I put on my slinky, sexy, black dress that makes me look like I have tits. I guess I'm really ready to get out and do something. So we end up at this guy named Bill's house and drink a whole bunch of martinis made with gin and "noilly prat" vermouth, we got a kick out of that: "noilly prat." I have no idea how you pronounce that. We fell down drunk on each other, laughing, and we called the boy and he came over and sat on my lap and gave me kisses while Claudia got him beers and we cuddled like a bunch of silly drunk kids. Claudia drove us home while I made out with the boy, smelling like sweet smelly whiskey and honey and cigarettes; I looked like shit, but I didn't care. Tears are rolling out of my eyes onto my cheeks. In the back of my head I'm watching myself dripping snot and salty 74 �Raygun tears all over the phone. I'm whispering, "I miss you, I need you here." I'm listening to his breath. He's hesitating, carefully picking his words. "Madeline, I need to go to bed." I let out a long breath, one that says, I think, please please, don't hang up . I'm so fucking lonely tonight, and I can't sleep. I'd just say that if I wasn't so afraid. He says, "I love you, but I have to go." Then he says goodnight and with a click he's gone, and I'm sitting in the dark. [ look at Claudia, in the other room, passed out on the loveseat. I'm sure she's lost in her dreams of angels and prom dresses and tangerines, all the things she tells me about. I watch the light from the moon streak across her red hair, making her face look eerie and blue. I lean back in my orange vinyl beanbag and stare at the glow-in-the dark stars we put on the ceiling last summer and think, "So this is what it comes down to." It's been one of those weeks. Lately, every week has been one of those weeks. I'm really not this bummed all the time. It's just that winter here is cold and boring, and I can feel it sneaking up too quick. I feel stuck in this town, even though Claudia always says we're gonna go somewhere, but we don't. I don't know why. Memories sneak up, like memories tend to do, when the light from the moon slips into my basement at four a.m. It's too early to go to sleep, too late to wake up, or something like that. Raygun stirs in her pile of blankets, running through fields of catnip in her dreams. I touch my stomach and suck it into my body, feeling my ribs stick out from under my skin. My grandma says I should eat more, which I guess is what grandmas are supposed to say. I'm not hungry, though. 75 �Amanda Prince A memory- We drive, holding hands, completely silent as the beams from the streetlights enter the car, casting on his face bars of white light that scream backwards as we drive faster; the road rushing by in a gray-black blur, a river of pavement running. I can't see it, but r know it's there. I take bitter swigs out of a bottle of vodka I stole from my parent's garage. It burns my throat and makes my head heavy as the stars rush by, blurred and sleepy. The boy is older than me, by at least two years, I think. I must have met him at school, sneaking Cigarettes between art classes and drug deals. His face is feminine and delicate, with those high cheekbones and long eyelashes. He sits with all the punk kids at their very own lunch table, with their old lunchboxes covered in stickers cataloging all the obscure indie bands they've seen, their big shoes, and dark eyeliner. I've been sitting alone, not going to lunch at all, or sitting in the bathroom smoking joints with the long-haired metal girls from my English class. "So do you wanna go somewhere?" His voice is quiet, like everything he says is a big secret; a big secret, serious thing. I don't say anything, I just take another drink. He looks at me weird and says, " Are you okay?" He squeezes my hand and runs his thumbs up and down my palm, like he cares or something. I can't believe I'm here, in this car at two in the morning, driving up and down the streets downtown, past boarded-up shops and closed coffee bars, drinking vodka and listening to his breath and watching my reflection in the window. My reflection is distorted, pulled-out and skinny, changing as the light swirls in and out of the car. My hand on my knee, my thick black tights, my velvet skirt. 76 �Raygun Another memoryI met him three years ago. It must have been. Claudia took me to this dingy, dirty, little punk club and introduced me to him. He was wearing dark blue jeans and a black vneck sweater. He looks young when I think about it now, but back then he seemed older and more confident. He bummed me a cigarette, and I coughed and choked on it. Then we all drove ou t to Stone Park and listened to some tape that Claudia had re-wound so it played backwards. We listened to it, driving on narrow roads through trees that closed in from every direction, leafless, gnarled, and threatening. Claudia was crazier back then; tall, beautiful, and crazy. That same night, we smoked pot in her blue Buick and then she took off her shirt and ran through the park, screaming at the top of her lungs, laughing and singing. She ran up to me and looked at me with her crazy eyes. "C'mon Maddy, get wild." The pot made me feel sort of dizzy, tingly all over, and kind of sick, but sort of crazy, too. The winter air was cold and dangerous, but right then I didn't care. I pulled my thick sweater over my head and felt the cold against my bare skin. Claudia pulled me along the trail, kissing my cheek and singing songs I didn't know. The boy watched from the hood of Claudia's car, smoking a cigarette and laughing at us. The other day I dreamed that Claudia packed her bags and took off to California. I have this picture of her, red hair flying against a gray sky. Her thumb pointed towards it, her eyes determined and fierce. But then I woke up and saw her snoring on the sofa. I smoked a cigarette and drank a Cll p of coffee. I called the boy and apologized for being such a sappy mess the other night. He didn't seem to mind. He came over and I got lost in 77 �Amanda Prince Raygun his skin for a few hours. Then we fell asleep, curled up under a ratty blanket on the basement floor. I woke up around two o'clock, and Claudia was gone. Raygun was curled up on the warm place her body had left on the ratty loveseat. 78 �Part IV "The 111rtll that hath no 'music in hinlself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagelns, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus; Let no such nlan be trusted. Mark the nlusic." William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice "Forever che111ical You trade a piece of your sou I With no return A1ld who you think you know Does1l't kn070 you at all Their drain is needless S0l11e day we'1l7oave hello And wish we'd never waved goodbye To this romance We'll dri1lk lip every line And shoot up every word Till there's nOli/ore Crashing down Crashing down 11ly friends Gnly love Gnly love can win So cry these tears we'll cry as all We've held so long to fall apart As the curtain falls we bid YOIl all goodllight" The S11lasiIing Pllmpkins "This Time" 79 �Beth Donohue Carousel color light calliope music clashing as the child ren screalll with delight and the wooden steeds rear and gallop in a circle whirling in the SUllllller night horses gleallling wi th jewels and fresh paint flashing brass poles tossing lllanes sculpted legs frozen power spinning flying with the music of fantasy. 80 �Amanda Prince Good Advice You don't say much I guess I know what you're saying I'm trying to be with the silence and forget filling it up with Awkward questions like a mom driving you home going "How's school going? Boyfriends? Family?" These are just starting points and you would look at me like "you already know" and I do so I'm sitting here just trying to feel this silence and I'd say, "Honey I know you're hurting," but I see your sharp spaces, sometimes you need to not hear me running my mouth like I know what I'm talking about because most of the time I don't and I'm working on just listening because I need to hear something different than the sound of my voice making up stories that are only partially true and I usually only cry when I'm alone and yeah it's hard for me to talk about. Boyfriends? Car? Family? Pause. Breathe. Wait for response. You're looking at me like "I'm scared" and I'm looking at you like, "You're so beautiful." Give me a quarter. I'll solve all your problems. "Dump your boyfriend. Quit your job." Next. Give me a quarter; I'll solve all your problems and even give you a little tip: "Blow jobs are a bad substitute for conversation" Put it in a fortune cookie. Dump your boyfriend. I'm trying to listen, but okay I admit it, I still think I'm right. 81 �Chris Marnach Streetsongs Peddlers in the street, sellin their wares, singin out their sales Streetsongs . . . A woman sellin magazines A man sellin newspapers Can ya hear ern? A wonlan sellin Holy Water A man sellin Hotel Bibles Hear em sing? A woman sellin meth A man sellin coke Mmmmm . .. sing it. . . . A woman sellin herself A man sellin his soul Ooooooaaaaahhhhhh The singin, ringin out like the songs of Angels in Hell sing in Hosannas on High Baby, can you hear the streetsongs? And I bought a magazine, for the articles, a' course, cuz I couldn't bear the headlines, and I blessed myself with Holy Water in a Mickey's bottle, flipped thru a Motel 6 King Janles and screamed to Jesus as bat-winged demons made love in the clouds and cherubs fucked in the streets Sing it to Sweet Motel 6 Jesus! And I bought her with my green money and she bought me with her green eyes I I 82 �Ooohhh Ahhhmazing Grace, how sweet thy moan Ooooooaaaahhhhhhhhhhh Oh, I snorted my soul away, yes, I snorted my soul awayawaywaywayaway And Gracie's asleep, and I'm sittin on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands, streetlamp lightin my misery, and I hear the drunks singin to their paperbagwine, singin to Sweet Motel 6 Jesus singin singin singin to Jesus sing it Can ya hear it, Baby, can ya hear it? OoooooGodaaaahhhhhhhh the streetsongs ... 83 �Amanda Prince Friday Night at Bill's the girls dress up we show up late wearing blue-hooded sweatshirts searching for beer and Frank Sinatra there are people here I will never know or never want to one of the skinny ll1elanoll1a girls tanned orange and gross is showing a guy in a baseball cap her new underwear Lee leans over and says "what a skank" I try to act offended and say "yeah, ll1aybe but she's really pretty nice" I am sitting on the green sofa between Matt and Lee, both with bony hips and loud laughs at 4:30 a.m. Bill breaks open a glow stick the kind you get at the Rollerama or for Halloween I all1 drunk, someone is yelling someone says they smell a gas leak I don't care the living room is a constellation bodies move defined by stars I crawl onto the sofa next to you and curl up in your arms 84 �and watch the stars in nly head form on your skin we stunl ble into Ben's roonl to warnl sheets and whispers 85 �Jessica Wheeler James Dean wanna be black leather blue jeans smokes crushed beneath your heel cool Bryce Gerking Fat sweaty Elvis Prescription rhinestone abuse Thankyouverymuch 86 �Amanda Prince Scenes from an adolescent late-night drive you said "we're just a bunch of skinny geeks who know how to get it on" and I said "skinny geeks who know how to get it on" that's a poem right there that's beautiful I said "I saw a ghost" and we drove kissing scared trying to explain my position in the world I said "I don't hate all lllen, just the stupid ones I nlean, cuz there's good men they just lllake the bad ones look worse" and I thought just cause I'm angry doesn't lllean it's about you "We nless around, we don't talk much" The girl in the snazzy pants with the black and white Richenbacher is standing right in front of llle she's a rock star she's beautiful and I' nl dancing like an idiot 87 �Megan Lindsay Secret Songs (for someone who forgot) I. i always wanted to be a rock star and woo all the green-eyed boys II. The trees outside look sick. They're black with rain, the bare branches exploding at the tips wi th the fungus-like foliage of spring. III. sometimes she swims in my veins like a drug 88 �Secret Songs (for someone who forgot) N. I saw behind your eyes today. I looked real close and saw forever there. And then you blinked and I swore off love 'til summer. V. the stars shrink in the reced ing velvet sky the longer I stare I jump higher and higher trying to touch Orion's belt the day confronts the moon leaving nle sore calves as a renlinder that I can't get close enough to anything dawn breaks and I roll on through the morning trying to fix it VI. when I was little we took day trips to the nlountains and I renleOl ber there was alw ays a cooler in the back seat with soda pop and sandwiches that illy nlOOl made 89 �Megan Lindsay and wrapped up into tight cellophane squares and . every ten nlinutes we'd have to stop to pick up rocks on the side of the road because my brother and I collected rocks and once we were walking on big rocks · across a strealll and I slipped and fell and I got llly right foot all wet and we drove honle with llly wet sock on the car antenna and it didn't fly off like I thought it was going to because, like I said, "\Ie stopped every ten lllinutes so nly brother and I could pick up rocks VU. You steal llly shadows while I'm out chasing the llloon running in circles a t the length of my chain VIII. One of those sappy old-fashioned love songs is playing on the radio. I sing along. Just because I know the words. IX. there's a Polaroid picture of her taped to the wall she's wearing sunglasses, 90 �Secret Songs (for someone who forgot) a drunken grin, and a new haircut. it was the summer after the spring, after the rape, and i didn't know yet we drank and shared stories it wasn't summer, it was labor day we threw rocks through his windows i wonder if that's what Wordsworth meant by "spots of time" how a memory can take you back farther than you want to go x. the rain stopped it snlells like new leaves I shut the window. 91 ���� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Kiosk: Volume 62 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Kiosk contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ponder, Marcie Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2014-01-23 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2015-07-15 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2015-07-15 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF 7.53 MB 96 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Kiosk-Vol62_KDC_2000_01-01_01.pdf Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College. Through its several titles—Manuscript, Perspectives, and Kiosk—the magazine has a long history of celebrating creative writing and art on campus. It began publication in 1938 under the title of Manuscript before changing its name to Perspectives in 1953. Then in 1971 it took another name that it is known by currently: Kiosk. It is still published annually by the Morningside College English Department. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1938- Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Morningside College Library Morningside College English Department Ponder, Marcie: Digital Creator Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical PDF Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Title A name given to the resource Kiosk Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource "The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children," (The Kiosk, 2003). Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. The Kiosk Published by the English Department of Morningside College 1999-2000 KIOSK STAFF Editors in Chief Poetry Editors Prose Editors Megan Lindsay Chris Marnach Robby Mason Julie Moser Canlie Shuff Hea ther Buckingham Tiffany Newell James Smith Layout and Design Marcie Ponder Graphics Chris Marnach Photos Megan Lindsay Faculty Advisor Dr. Stephen Coyne SPECIAL THANKS To This Year's Judge, Lisa Sandlin Dr. Janet Philipp, Interim Vice President and Dean of the College Ca thee Phillips Marcie Ponder Dr. Tom Poston Copyright 2000 by Tile Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children. CREATIVE WRITINGAWARD WINNERS First Place ................... liThe Wasteland" by Chris Marnach Second Place ............................. "Raygun" by Amanda Prince Third Place ...................... liThe Butterfly" by Carnie Shuff Honorable Mention "how to dump a useless man" by Amanda Prince ABOUT THIS YEAR'S JUDGE Lisa Sandlin has published two short story collections, The Fatllous Thing about Death and, in 1997, Message to the Nurse of Oremns, which won the Texas Institute of Letters' Best Book of Fiction for that year. Her work has appeared in Soutlnvest Review, Shenandoah, CrazyllOurse, StoryQuarterly, The NezD York TiJlles Book Reviezv, and elsewhere, and been featured on audio-cassette as part of the Dallas Museum of Art's "Texas-Bound" series. Originally fronl Texas, she now lives in Nebraska and teaches at Wayne State College. All entries are judged blindly by the editors, and no entry receives special consideration. Editors are eligible for the contest; however, they are not eligible for the prize money. / TABLE OF CONTENTS Heather Buckingham Jessica Wheeler Megan Lindsay Chris Marnach Camie Shuff Amanda Prince Jessica Wheeler Robby Mason Kay Liao Part I The Road More Travelled ........................................ 8 Blue ............................................................................. 9 driving easL .............................................................. 10 In a Coffin ................................................................. 12 Still Snloking ............................................................ 14 When We Were Goth .............................................. 16 Coffee ........................................................................ 17 Of Shining Mae Days .............................................. 18 The Eight Seconds of the Subway ......................... 19 Randy Clyde Uhl Mandy Bohl Dave Miriovsky Camie Shuff Beth Donohue Chris Marnach Part II Haircut ...................................................................... 26 The Joy of Fa therhood ............................................ 28 Reflections on a Saddle and Bridle Found in an Attic .................................................... 30 Courting Disa ppointment ..................................... 32 Photos ....................................................................... 33 The Flag in the Schoolhouse .................................. 34 Angie's Bridge ......................................................... 36 Sunset. ....................................................................... 38 The Wasteland ......................................................... 39 Amanda Prince Megan Lindsay Robby Mason Megan Lindsay Amanda Prince Sonnet Conover Megan Lindsay Dave Miriovsky Jessica Wheeler Josh Call Camie Shuff Amanda Prince Part III Barefoot Novemeber ............................................... 54 wind .......................................................................... 56 Merry Prinlavera ..................................................... 57 Excerpts from last summer. ................................... 58 how to dump a useless man .................................. 60 Late Night Awakening ........................................... 61 your grace ................................................................ 62 (untitled haiku) ........................................................ 64 Porn Connoisseur ................................................... 65 Faithful ..................................................................... 66 The Butterfly ............................................................ 68 Raygun ..................................................................... 70 Beth Donohue Amanda Prince Chris Marnach Amanda Prince Jessica Wheeler Bryce Gerking Amanda Prince Megan Lindsay Part IV Carousel .................................................................... 80 Good Advice ............................................................ 81 Streetsongs ............................................................... 82 Friday Night at Rill's .............................................. 84 (untitled haiku) ........................................................ 86 (untitled haiku) ........................................................ 86 Scenes from an adoescent late night drive .......... 87 Secret Songs (for someone who forgot) ............... 88 Robby Mason Dave Miriovsky Beth Donohue 6 Part I ilS0111ewhere along the line I kneeD there would be girls, visions, everything; s0111ezuhere along the line I kneu7 the pearl eDould be handed to me" Jack Kerouac On the Road Heather Buckingham The Road More Traveled Tinle tick-tocking away Life: intangible, unstoppable a Dali picture eroding in a modern museUlll hours of moves seconds at stop-signs waiting writing checks sOlllebody else's story days spinning slowly the alarlll deep down inside llle and inside you is going to erupt spilling out in one great rush all the pent-up pieces of poetry the split-seconds that we miss every day the only way to catch tillle is to listen for the silent words the unspoken living aging Rembrandt's self-portrait passing we stop time when we invent 8 Jessica Wheeler Blue The night had that it's-gonna-rain feeling. You could sense it dripping off the trees, rolling off the tongues of stars that cast a glance every so often through the clouds. The sky wasn't so III uch black as it was violet-blue a cool kinda blue that soaks into your skin and lllakes you feel so good you ache with it. And the air turned chill, but it was okay cause it only meant it had that feeling, too. Everything slllelled so sweet, no one ever told you it could be so sweet, and there's really no smell there at all just a feeling a cool breeze lifting the hair from the sweat on the back of your neck, and everything's llloving filling you with that sweet slllell, that violet-blue a cool kind a blue, and that ache, that it's-gonna-rain feeling. 9 Megan Lindsay driving east the sun setting in the rear view mirror on a desolate stretch of 680 between Council Bluffs and the 80 interchange to Des Moines the combined cornstalks glowing golden in fields organized by barbed wire fences the highway ahead a clear stretch over slow asphalt hills the sun melting on the Iowa-Nebraska border conversing softly in the dim about being lonely and in love 10 the day turning to dusk, to evening, and finally to night keeping my eyes on the road and aiming somewhere east 11 Chris Marnach In a Coffin In a coffin, a house, a chair by a window where the sun shines in like the headlights of a car, she sits in self-exiled solitude, the door a coffin lid she nailed down herself. Outside the window, across the street, school yard just reopened, the children laugh and shout and shnek as they play in the falling leaves leaves falling falling like the night she was walking and the headlights slowed and she went faster and the lights stopped and died under the streetlight and the tree and he was out and she ran and he by her hair and she and he on the ground and her nails digging and the leaves falling and Oh God the knife and In the fifth fall she sits in the coffin, in the house, in the chair lit by the headlights of the sun. Her fingers run over the faint pink line on her throat, the frown he gave her, the coffin she built, the days and the nights she knew he would be waiting outside the coffin, the house, for her and he'd nlake that frown smile wide and red. 12 It is the day the phone tells her that her mother is sick and will die. It's been five falls since the last sight of her nlother's house. The sllloke of burning leaves drifts in through the windows. She has to go see her, Momllla I have to see you once before you, the exhale and the incense and the coffin, this goddanln coffin, lean' t bu t have to. She stands with her III0 ther' s face in her eyes. She goes to the door, turns the handle, shaking, the nails fly from the coffin lid, turning, 1'm doing it, turning, the burning leaves, turning and open and the sun bright and warm and the wind blows in the leaves; they hither in the face like his hands. MOlllIIIa' s face is gone and he's there waiting behind the tree, in the parked car, in the neighbor's house, in her house, in her, and she slallls the door shut, she falls like a leaf to the floor and hallllllers the nails back into the coffin lid. 13 Carnie Shuff Still Smoking whoever said cracks will break your mother's back, any way? if anything if anything at all it breaks my back it breaks my back following each step you take you keep on walking like everything's gonna be okay like everything's gonna be all right well, it's not and I'lll not and I'lll not gonna follow you anymore you're leaving you say you're gonna go to California to sing in a band, to live life like you have one or something like that you always have these ideas these dreams these ways to make me feel gray and lost even though I'm right here 14 with you, following you you're gonna leave , . you re gonna sJng you're gonna be happy and you're gonna do every damn thing in life you set out to do while I'm still here, following following these cracks in this sidewalk in this town on my way honle with a cigarette in nly hand 15 Amanda Prince When We Were Goth When we were goth And loved pilot pens and Old Gold cigarettes When we'd drink in graveyards Screaming songs we'd rather forget Pretending everything's rOlllantic When you're running through the rain at six a.m. Coffee tripping Linoleum swimming Rellliniscing, weren't those the days When we bought out black nail polish At Halloween, Before everyone else was goth and you Could get the damn stuff all year round When we drank Mad Dog by candle light and Sllloked up in your brother's car when we Burned Barbie dolls and watched Twin Peaks in the dark And all I want is passion in llly life again All I want is passion All this silly graveyard running Nipple piercing Coffee humming 1'd give anything for that Feeling 16 Jessica Wheeler Coffee Pools in my cup black tar poison best part of waking up my ass. The shower hisses pounds ll1 y body like llly own private Niagara Falls and it's just as cold. My eyelids droop lower than llly tits will in twenty years and my fingers fUll1 ble blindly for the perfect slenderness of llly last cigarette just one dall1n cigarette. l7 Robby Mason Of Shining Mae Days You're Ii vely as light entering the sanctuary in a church of trees. You speak dapples of limelight fil tering through panels of chlorophyll, fractured stained glass allowing lllotes to trickle down upon my face ha ppy sun tears washing llle in a drealll shower. 18 Kay Liao The Eight Seconds of the Subway H e used to go to his student by taking the subway. The parents of his tutee were very strict. If he was five minutes late, the mother's smile would become very ugly and stiff. If he was ten minutes late, he would not even get a glass of water. He decided to go there by subway, although it was a little more expensive than taking a bus, but at least he wouldn't have to carry the beverage by himself. He could easily find a seat in the last car, but it also shook more. Glancing at the scenes outside the window, he saw the hospital. It had a lot of big windows, and the window frames had a light blue sky color, harmonizing with the body of the com-cars of the subway. "Would the idea of traveling spring up in their minds if they watched through their transparent windows?" he wondered. Spring was just passed. It was when the weather vvas getting hot that he saw the girl. The girl was skinny, and had two braids. She stood behind the window watching. It seemed that she had a lot of things on her mind. He couldn't see clearly her facial features, but her disposition brought a quiet and composed quality, like a picture - Renaldsa's portrait of a girl, very slightly spreading out the sweet light. However, it was the hospital's window. Was she a patient or a special nurse accompanying a patient? A sudden sorrow came into his mind. Beauty sometimes comes with sadness. The second time the subway passed the hospital, he saw the girl standing behind the window again. He couldn't help raising his hands and waving at her. It was like the feeling of waving his hands at the strangers when he was little and was Sitting in the train. The girl seemed to notice it. She bent a 19 Kay Liao Ii ttle bit and nestled her head up against the window. Although the subway slowed down because it was close to the next stop, it was still moving quickly. Anything outside of his window disappeared. He had to wait till the next time. Would she still be in the hospital? Would she walk to the window? The tutoring job was only for killing time, and he wasn't really serious about earning money. But today, he talked with the parents about increasing the tutoring time from twice to three times a week. The parents were moved by his fervency and prepared a Coke for him, plus a cu p of ice cream. "You must be quarreling with your girlfriend, or else why do you like to have classes?" the little devil scoffed. Some people said that after the subway was opened people's travel became so fast that the characteristics of the city changed. He didn't know. He only knew that he was cautious and anxious about being unable to catch the train. He feared he would miss the chance to see the girl. It was like an appointment they both agreed on. The girl always stood there, with her smile or sometimes waving her hands. He practiced the words that he would say if he would have a chance to talk with her. "Hi, what's your name? I really want to know you. Even if I can only know you for a while, it's still better than nothing." Disconsolate feelings filled his mind, because he gradually came to believe she was a patient because she seemed increasingly pale and emaciated. But on his subway he could only pass the edge of the girl's life for eight seconds at a time. What kind of expectation could he put in these eight seconds? She might disappear behind that window at any moment, and he might end the tutoring job, or not take this subway anymore. He became conscious of this coincidence of their appointment, this rare luck that brought them together in this world. Why did he not get off the subway? he asked 20 The Eight Seconds of the Subway himself. Maybe it was lack of courage. He really wanted to be like this girl, who had the courage to give herself and the others chances. But he couldn't. How about if he went there and found her? What would the situation be? Now, during eight seconds of sweet time, he at least got her smile. Across the distance and the speed, it was like truth and he could almost touch it. Yes, almost, and it was enough for him. Valentine's Day was coming. He hesitated about what to do, wandering in front of the flower shop. Then, he dE:cided to buy twelve pink roses and have the shop deliver them to the hospital. His first time sending flowers to someone was like doing something that gave him a guilty conscience. His whole body was immersed in an untranquil condition. Would the flower shop send to the wrong person? Would she leave the hospital? Would she guess the flowers were from him? Would she like pink roses? "Happy Valentine's Day. Hope you get well soon," the attached card said. On the next day, he saw her standing behind that window, with a long stem pink rose in her hand. She knew! She knew! She knew - but his eyes suddenly softened because he saw that her long braids were gone. She had a scarf on her head. He understood that chemotherapy made her hair fall out. How could he not have noticed before? He curled up in the seat as if the air-conditioning was too cold in that car. But it wasn't cold inside at all; he just felt weak. "What am I doing? Watching a flower fade?" he asked himself. "But what else could I do?" After the thundershower in the afternoon, he started to worry that the subway might be closed down because of the weather. But it wasn't. The subway came closer to the hospital. There were three people standing behind that window, the girl and two nurses in white beside her. Were they supporting her? If they didn't help her, would she be able to stand on her own? When he got closer, he saw her 21 Kay Liao smiling and waving at him. Her smiling face, the expression in her eyes, her carriage, slow Iy, were like a farewell ceremony. He pressed close to the window and restrained the urge to groan. Three months, and he didn't even know her name! They hadn't even been introduced to each other! Nothing had started yet! All of these were because he had been so hesitant. The love in his mind was as old as heaven and earth. If they would have to separate on the way, wouldn't that hurt? But he was so willing to see her! What would this be? Would this be love? And he didn't even know her. After this, he might even have no names to call when missing her. It shouldn't be this way. This time when the subway got closer to the hospital, there was no one behind that window. He quietly got off the subway and bought roses from the flower shop on the first floor. The man selling them said, "But we have got no pink roses. How about red roses? They smell so good today." He carried twelve red flowers in his hands and went to the hospital. He got onto the sixth floor-he counted before, it should be the last room on the sixth floor. Walking through the long corridor to the end without hesitation, he saw a special room with only one bed. It was empty. The sanitation worker just finished cleaning up and walked toward him, "Visi ting someone? The person died already. Why didn't you come earlier?" It was too late. Sunlight shined from outside of the window. What clean and bright sunshine. He still didn't make it in time. Walking around this room, he tried to catch something, any trace the girl left. But, the room was really too strange to him, and he couldn't get a clue at all. Then, he stopped in front of the window, watching the subway passing in front of him. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight seconds. It passed. He felt very regretful. If he could only have made up 22 The Eight Seconds ofthe Subway his mind earlier, gotten off the subway earlier, then, he would still have had a chance to ask, "Hi, what's your name? I want to know you so badly." "I am Eve. What's yours?" He turned around reflexively and saw the girl, who was standing slimly and gracefully in front of him. She still had the scarf on her head, but she looked healthy. "I thought you ... They said you ... " "The one who died was an old grandpa I was taking care of," she smiled healthily. Her illness, her worn look, all was his imagination. Her hair was in a scarf because of her sister's unsuccessful hair cutting which she could only cover up. Those two nurses were her friends, and they stood there curiously. "They said what a generation it is now to have such a boy in the world. Weird," she said. "Then, what did you think?" "I was just wondering when you would get off the subway." He gave her the roses, "I really want to know you. Hope you like the red roses." "If you tell me your name, I will consider it seriously." "Then we'd better get out of here and find a place to talk." "Is your name so long that it will take long to tell me?" "No. It would be my too-good-to-be-true-feelings these months." 23 24 Part II "I give it to you not that you l1lay remember time, but that you l1light forget it nou] and then for a moment and not spend all your breath tryi11g to conquer it. Because no battle is ever 1Don he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools./I William Faulkl1er The Sound and the Fury Robby Mason Haircut Pungent vapors frolll pale blue Barbicide cause llly nostrils to flare as I sit in Frank's barber chair. Each Ace COlllb seelllS to have spent an eterni ty ba thing in that large glass jar, killing off God knows how lllany gerllls and lllaybe even a few stray lice frolll the heads of young farlll boys like my own. One of those combs cultivates furrows through llly hair under the guidance of a hand whose father's hand lllight have done the sallle. Occasional snippets frolll scissors trim back unruly sprouts of hair and the cuttings slide down the front of the Slllock to build up like a silage heap in my lap. Conversation of possible rain showers pork by the hundredweight and how the corn lllight be knee-high well before July, takes an intimate turn when the metallic swish of the straightedge across the strop signals the finishing touches to be done near vital portions of flesh. 26 Reese and Chad are alnlost out of high school now and the lllissus and I are beginning to wonder whether the land can be milked llluch further, but Frank already knows that and efficiently wipes off the stubbly residue before tucking steamy towels around my neck almost how my father would tuck me into bed at night. Pausing, Frank says, "You've raised a better crop of boys than any corn you ever harvested." 27 Dave Miriovsky The Joy of Fatherhood As he saw the glove hidden in the ca binet behind the well-stocked bar in his half-furnished basement, he remembered back to the time when he was young and life was fun . He remembered how he spat in his mitt and coolly rubbed it in like they did in the big leagues, how he chewed on the faded laces despite their taste of lightly salted cardboard. He remembered how every spring he trea ted it wi th oil, how his hands glided over the lea ther as delicately as those 28 of a skilled sculptor, how the George Brett signature in the palm, once so bold and visible, was gradually erased by the application of oil and the passage of his youth. He pressed his face to the tanned cowhide and the aroma of the leathery cologne renlinded hinl of his days in the now-enl pty sandlot by the Casey's on 12th Street. Renloving his nose fronl the confines of the glove's pocket, he closed the cabinet and took the old Rawlings upstairs, a present for his only son's sixth birthday. 29 Beth Donohue Reflections on a Saddle and Bridle Found in an Attic Worn la tigos glow with a glossy sheen stretched and worn by the brass cinch rings snugged tight ten thousand times on a hundred horses stained with the sweat and dust of untold miles bene a th the Texas sky. Blue-white Spanish conchas glisten with silver and contrast with the rust-flecked iron of the curb bit and the buckles of the bridle made so many years past by loving fingers long since gone. Full-grain leather polished by the touch of time hand -too led glowing with the luster of quality and age tools 30 of the partnership between nlan and horse as they worked together a century ago. 31 Randy Clyde Uhl, alum Courting Disappointment Disappointment stops in from time to time to renlind me how nluch I need her. She eyes my verses as if they were baby pictures and over wine we speak of the night they were born. The men go unmentioned, the birth fathers, but I see her eyes sadden as she recognizes traces of them in my words. D. says, "Tell me again about them . . . the ones that left." Asldo I feel my belly kick and she whispers, "You're welcome." Turning to leave she adds, "Forget them." I tell her I do. Every day. 32 Mandy Bohl Photos His life is in photos They are all lined up in rows The photo albums are his only friends His children have all grown and gone His wife of fifty years has been gone now for a year He sits in his big house all alone He sits with his photos and his memories His mood is lllelancholy As his memories make him glad and glum He waits day by day as he flips the pages Wai ting for the phone, or better yet, the doorbell to ring Nothing And then finally SOllleone is at the door He eagerly rushes to human contact Finally SOllleone to show his photos to The guests look at the photos and listen to the stories Some are genuinely interested, others simply hUlllor the old nlan As he proudly displays his life in photos The guest says good-bye Once again he is left alone with his photos As he flips the pages to look at his photos He wonders who will take care of thenl when he is gone 33 Dave Miriovsky The Flag in the Schoolhouse As he saw the flag pulled tightly a t each corner by the white-gloved hands of the soldiers, he painfully renlenl bered the wintry days in the schoolhouse, when the class of twelve paid tribute to the soldiers. He remembered how their snlall platoon, looking at the flag hanging from the wall, rifled those words as they pledged their allegiance. The November wind snuck through the window in the one-room schoolhouse, curled the flag and the flag paused, then, returned. 34 He saw the red and white stripes bleeding into each other, seamlessly connected, by the union of the flag. He remembered fifty w hi te stars and how they floa ted on the ocean-blue background, and he remem bered his thoughts of Dad, how he wondered if Dad would return fro III the war in the jungle. And on this day, five years later, through tears, he saw a larger version of that sallle flag, carefully folded to a triangle by the w hi te-gloved hands of the soldiers, and presented by the general to his proud lllother. 35 Carnie Shuff Angie's Bridge that sun used to silver the blacktop like how a black-haired kitty purrs in the lunlinescence of its own shine and that yellow school bus would backfire black snloke along the stretches of highway between fields and bridges and pastures and farnls like how the rocks used to shoot off the spokes of our bike tires when we would all race to the nlain street nleat locker if we heard the roaring shifts of the rendering truck rumble into town then we would watch the guts and blood and bones of those dead pigs and cows, and goats slide down off the bed of the truck like how the mashed potatoes would fall off illy spoon at dinner and go plop! and sometimes if we were lucky we got to see pigs c u t i n half and, of course, we would all scream! in awe! and eeww! excitement! until someone would yell "town tag time!" 36 and then we would all scatter and follow those yellow pac-man dashes in the middle of the blacktop until we saw any perfect hiding spot so we could pray and count and breathe really loud, even though we tried so hard not to and so we played until those yellow street lights can1e on to signal us to go hOll1e for the night like how a mOll1 yells "supper!" out the back door and her voice dashes along through the air above the blacktop until it tags the ears of her child to call hill1 hon1e so he can tell her over dinner all about the bloody guts that were in the rendering truck that day Angie said to me once when we were hiding under the bridge that she didn't really like the sn1ell of those yucky pigs so she wasn't ever gonna go to the meat locker with the rest of us again ever ever but she did every tin1e. 37 Beth Donohue Sunset The old woman sits heavily in her rocking chair gazing out the window at the waning day the sun shines in on velvet slants warming her gaunt shoulders shrouded in lavender cotton she remenl bers her life a deluge of images falling like the rain at Clarence's funeral the tidy house on tenth street Elsie and her golden hair the unnanled son; their first the War; all those boys she knewgone she is ready - the past beckons in the last corners of the day she reaches out with trembling fingers and smiles. 38 Chris Marnach The Wasteland T hey sat in the kitchen, the smell of the brewing coffee strong and invigorating, the coffeepot softly purring on the counter. Outside, the early morning sun shone weakly across the horizon, the freshly fallen snow washed in the pinks and golds of the sky. It was well below zero, a cold the sun's struggling light failed to alleviate, a cold that made neither of the men sitting across from each other at the kitchen table too anxious to leave the comfort of the chairs and the kitchen and the coffee, especially for the task at hand. UJ don't know, Marv, it just seems like such a waste is all," Wade said, getting up to fill his and Marv's coffee cups, his eyes resting only for a second on the gun case that sat on the table between them. uJ know, J know," Marv said, leaning back in his chair, resting his hands on his sizable belly. "It's a deal, lemme tell ya. If it were up to me, I'd let everyone of those squealin little mothers live out their lives in piggie paradise, but it ain't up to me. Boss says it's gotta be done. Prices are shit. Hell, pig shit is worth more these days than the actual pig. What's really bullshit, or hogshit, I guess, is, well, you been to the grocery store lately?" uWife does the shopping," Wade said, setting a cup of coffee in front of Marv and then taking a seat with his own cup. "Laura? Where is that pretty young thing?" "She's ou t taking Jayna to basketball practice. I tell you, all that woman ever does is go-go-go. It seems like that's all any of us do. Never really stop to enjoy anything, just go, all the time." "It's a deal, I know." Marv took a sip of his coffee. 39 Chris Marnach "Y'know, next to Yvonne, your wife makes the best pot of coffeE. you ever did taste. What's her secret?" "Folgers. And I made the coffee." "Oh." Marv took another sip. He smacked his lips and nodded. "Yup, Folgers'd be it. So, as I was sayin, you bought a ham lately?" "Huh?" "Well, you know as well as the next man hog prices are shit. Now, do you think that the price of ham, that's ham, dead cut-up cheap piggie, went down to match the price of a live whole cheap piggie? Hell no. Ham's the same price as it was six months ago. Christ in a Cadillac, someone's getting rich outta this deal, but it sure as hell ain't us. It just ain't payin right now to be raisin the whole live cheap piggies. Boss says to destroy whatever looks like it ain't gonna make it, sick ones, ruptures, runts. Right now they ain't worth the feed they're porkin down on. Get it? Parkin down?" "I got it, Marv." "Costs more to keep em alive than we'd get for em in the end, and if they die before they go to market, that's feed money down the pisser. It's a deal, but hey, don't tell me, tell fuckin Dow Jones." "I know," Wade said. He had just put up three hog confinement buildings and gotten his first shipment of hogs, which filled up one of his buildings two days before. It had been hard for him to give up the self-reliant way of farming that he and his father and grandfather before him had used. But farming wasn't farming anymore; it was business, and as the twentieth century slipped into the twenty-first and family farms slipped into the dust, it was clear that the only way was to go was corporate or go broke. He had put up the buildings in the hope of staying afloat, maybe even making a little extra money, maybe even having a little more time on his hands. And then the hog prices dropped to the 40 The Wasteland lowest they'd been since 1945. And now this. If there was one thing Wade hated, it was waste. And he couldn't get it out of his head that this was all this was - a waste. "I better get the boy up," Wade said, standing and walking to the foot of the stairs. "J ustin!" he yelled. From a room at the top of the stairs came a half-shouted, half-asleep, completely unintelligible response. "Time to go to work!" Wade yelled again. Again, another unintelligible response. "He'll be down in a minute," Wade said, turning away from the stairs and sitting back down at the kitchen table. "Conna be a farmer like his old man?" Marv asked, sipping his coffee. A smirk lifted the corner of Wade's mouth, and he let out a little chuckle. The phone rang. Wade got up and answered it. "Well, hello Yvonne," Wade said, looking over at Marv. "You wanna talk to your husband?" He listened, then laughed. "Hell no, she says," Wade smiled at Marv. "She says I got a better ass." Marv lifted his nose in indignation. "You may have a better ass, but I'll guarantee I got a bigger-" "What's that, Yvonne?" Wade said, stifling a laugh. "She says, Marv, don't be such a damn softie when it comes to those hogs. She says to waste those sick little bastards like you was still working for the Post Office." "You tell her not to worry," Marv said. "Hugs In kisses, Pookie." "What?" Wade stared at Marv. "Tell her hugs In kisses. Not you, shithead." Wade told her this, then looked back at Marv. "She says she likes the way I say it better, but hugs In kisses anyway. Wookie Bear." Wade hung up the phone j , 41 Chris Marnach and looked down at Marv. "Wookie Bear?" "We're in love," Marv said, his nose still pointed in the air. "Even after twenty-seven years, we're still cute." "Cute wasn't exactly the word I was thinking of." They heard heavy footfalls descending the stairs. Into the kitchen walked Wade's sixteen-year-old son, Justin. "Y' ever seen the dead walk, Marv?" Wade said, grinning at his son. Justin grinned, somewhat ferociously, back at his father. "So, this is the future farmer," Marv said. "Yeah," Justin said, looking down at him. "Nose ring gave it away, huh." Justin plopped down in a chair at the table, looked at the gun case, glanced quickly at Marv, then looked out the window. His black hair stuck up in every direction; his dark eyes were bloodshot. Wade suspected he had been out drinking the night before, but then again, Justin always looked and acted like hell in the morning. As he looked at his son, Wade wondered at his appearance. Both Wade, Laura, and their fourteen-year-old daughter Jayna were blonde, blue-eyed, and tall. Justin was small and dark. That and the four earrings and nose ring distinguished him not only from the rest of the family, but also from many members of their small community, who were not used to seeing flashing metal sticking out of so many places on someone's face. "Don't get too comfortable," Wade said to Justin. He then turned to Marv. "You ready? Might as well get this over with." Marv slurped down the rest of his coffee and stood. He struggled briefly to snap the buttons of his coat across his expansive belly. Wade and Justin exchanged amused glances behind his back. Marv took the gun case from the 42 The Wasteland table. "You just better hope I don't revert back to my Vietnam days," Marv said as they went out the door into the biting cold. "Or none of those little pork chops are gonna be standing." "Shit, Marv, you were never in Nam," Wade said, laughing. Marv climbed into his truck. "Sure I was," he said in a tone that made it impossible to tell if he was kidding or not. Wade looked at him a moment, then went to his own truck. Justin climbed in the passenger seat and they set out on the ten-mile drive to the hog buildings. "How you feeling this morning?" Wade asked as he drove. "Fine." Justin said, staring out the window. "Been drinking last night?" "No." "You smell like an ashtray." "We went bowling. Bowling alley smells like an ashtray." "Oh. What was your score?" Justin looked at him with a smirk on his face. "I got a 96, Caitlyn got a 106, Autumn got an 87, and Oliver got 194." Justin's smirk bloomed into a grin. "You wanna call the bowling alley and fingerprint the ball too?" "I don't think you should be hanging out with Oliver Coyle." Justin's grin fell. "Why?" "People say he's on drugs." A short, bitter laugh came out of Justin's mouth. "I'm sure people say the same thing about me." He looked at Wade, his finger flicking his nose ring back and forth. "So you ready for this?" Wade said. He wanted to change the subject. He was worried about his son. Justin 43 Chris Marnach hated people judging him on how he looked, but how did he expect not to be judged when he seemed to do anything just to get looked at? Maybe in New York or California where lots of people looked like that he could get away with it, but not here. And as hard as Wade tried not to, he judged Justin just as much as the people of their community did. He could never say so to his son, though. He kept his silence. "You know how ready I am," Justin said, looking back out the window. "You don't have to be in there when the shooting starts." Wade looked over at him as they pulled into the drive of the hog lot. "You know 1'm looking forward to this as much as you are." "Yeah," Justin said as Wade parked the truck. "Thanks," he said softly. They got out of the truck as Marv pulled up behind them and parked. He climbed out of the truck, gun case in hand. He took a deep breath and exhaled, his breath like a plume of smoke in the frigid air. "Yep, it was on a cold morning like this we landed in Nam," Marv said, walking over to Wade and Justin. "Isn't Vietnam a jungle?" Justin said, a grin on his face. "And isn't a jungle usually hot?" "Not that morning, son," Marv said in that same indistinguishable tone he had used with Wade earlier. He turned to walk toward the office between the hog buildings. "Not that morning." Justin looked at Wade. Wade shrugged his shoulders and they followed Marv into the office. Marv opened the gun case and took out the gun. He looked it over, loaded it, and held it out to Justin. "You wanna take out a few of the little bacon bits, kiddo?" Marv asked, a twinkle in his eye. "Let out some of that teen-age anger?" 44 The Wasteland "You go ahead," Justin said, straight-faced. "I'm sure middle-aged anger's a whole lot worse." "J ustin," Wade said, a warning in his voice. "Your boy's a smart ass, Wade," Marv said, still looking at Justin with the twinkle in his eye. "I like him. Plenty of dumb asses out there; smart one's good for a change." "Thanks," Justin said. "I think." Marv set the gun on the desk, took out his wallet, and handed Justin a ten-dollar bill. "Go to town for me and get some bullets, sonny," Marv said. "I'll be runnin low after today. You can keep the change. Just don't be spendin all that on candy or drugs or anything like that." "Gee, not even some heroin?" Justin said, a pleading look in his eyes. "Trust me, boy, smack's a fuckin deal. You don't wanna mess with that shit. I know. Fuck, we did some crazy shit in Nam." Once again, Marv's tone was indistinguishable. Justin looked at Marv, looked over at Wade, and looked back at Marv, a perplexed look on his face. "Urn, okay, I'm gonna go," Justin said. "Can I take the truck?" "Here," Wade said, throwing Justin the keys. "Be careful. Roads are a little iCY." "I know. I'll be back in little bit. Thanks Marv," Justin said as he walked out the door. "You got a good kid, Wade," Marv said as they watched Justin drive off. "Real spitfire. He'll go far." "I'm sure he will." "You hate that fuckin bull ring he's got, don't ya?" "You could say that." "It's a deal. All about the changin of the times. One generation's gotta be different from the rest. You got no room to talk, neither. I heard stories about you in your hell45 Chris Marnach raisin days, tearin around here on a motorcycle, drinkin beer, bein a royal pain in your parents' asses." "Shit, I was a good kid." "My beautiful ass you were. I wasn't no hallelujah singin angel myself. Those were crazy fuckin times. Shit, in Nam-" "What's the deal with this Nam shit?" Wade said, laughing. "You never mentioned anything about being in Vietnam before today." "And you never mentioned nothin about hatin the boy's nose ring before today, but that don't mean you didn't hate it before you mentioned it." Marv grinned at him. Wade laughed. "Fine, Marv, whatever you say." "Didn't want to be here for the slaughter, did he?" Marv said, his face growing serious. "No." "I understand. Don't want to be here for it myself. But I suppose," Marv picked up the gun and an extra box of hullets, "we might as well get this shit over with." They walked in silence to the hog building. It was a long low building, dusty and loud with the squeals of hogs. There were thirty pens on each side of the building. Wade had sorted through the hogs yesterday, picking out all of the sick looking ones, and put them all in the fourteenth pen. Wade and Marv walked up the long alleyway to the sick pen. "How many you got here?" Marv asked. "Twenty-eight. There's about ten in there, the ones with the blue marks, that I thought might pull through. You can judge for yourself." "Shit, Wade," Marv said, releasing the safety on his gun. "Let the massacre begin." "You're a good shot, right? You ain't gonna shoot up my building?" 46 The Wasteland "Not to worry, Wade. Back in Nam, I was a marksman." Marv took aim at the head of a very ill-looking hog standing near the cement wall of the pen. "God take your poor shit-eatin piggie souls," Marv said, and pulled the trigger. The crack of the gunshot echoed throughout the building. The pig's head snapped back, blood shot out of the wound. The pig fell over on its side, convulsing, tWitching, rolling in its own blood on the shitcovered the floor. It finally stopped moving as another shot was fired, its eyes bulging, its mouth gaping, its blood pooling under it. Every hog in the building was up, squealing and running. Wade watched the blood and the falling, the convulsing and the dying, but only because he forced himself. Another shot. And another. They all died the same way, rolling in their own shit. Marv kept firing. He didn't even seem to be looking at the hogs. It was like he was somewhere else. Sweat was starting to roll down his face. He fired. He reloaded his gun and fired again. The hogs were screaming. The building was getting hazy with gun smoke. Wade's ears were ringing from the blasts and from the screaming of the hogs. Another shot, another hog fell, more blood mixed with the shit that covered the hogs as they thrashed and died. Again and again. He turned away, tried to shut his ears to the deafening noise, but couldn't. And then the gunfire stopped. Wade turned around and looked at Marv. He was pale, sweating, breathing heavy. The gun was still pointing into the pen. Marv's arm lowered slowly. The hogs in the surrounding pens were still up and running in pathetic circles, screaming - in every pen but the fourteenth. Two hogs stood stock-still in the middle of twenty-six blood and shit covered corpses. Blood spattered the walls of the pen. Blood spattered the two live pigs left in the pen. Here and 47 Chris Marnach there were chips out of the cement. "Jesus," Wade said under his breath. "You need me for anything else, Wade?" Marv asked. His voice was quiet. Marv's voice was never quiet. "No, Marv, you go ahead," Wade said, looking at him. "Justin should be back with your bullets pretty soon if you want to wait." "That's okay. I'll get em some other time. Gimrne a call. We'll grab a beer." Marv walked off down the alleyway, still panting and sweating. "Thanks, Marv," Wade called after him. "Don't thank me," Marv said as the door closed behind him. Wade shook his head. He looked back at the pen. The combination of the shit and the blood smeared on the dead pigs made it look like they were already rotting. The smell was horrible. It looked like a picture of a mass grave. Two live hogs stood in the middle of it. Wade put on his gloves and climbed into the pen. The floor was sticky. He grabbed one of the hogs by the hind legs. It squealed and fought. He lifted it over the edge of the pen and dropped it into the next pen. "Lucky son of a bitch," Wade said as he watched the blood-spattered pig mingle with the other pigs in the pen. Wade turned to grab the other hog, but then he saw the two small holes in the side of its neck and head, and the trails of blood running down. "Guess you weren't so lucky. Fuck." Wade climbed out of the pen. "Some marksman you were, Marv," Wade said to himself as he walked over to the shelf in the front of the building and got the hammer. He climbed back into the pen. The hog was staring at him, its body tenSing, ready to run. He raised the hammer. "You poor dumb son of a bitch," Wade said as he 48 The Wasteland brought the hammer down as hard as he could. The pig tried to dodge but a dull thud sounded as the hammer slammed down onto the hog's skull. The hog squealed and dropped to the ground. Then it tried to stand back up. "Dammit," Wade said and swung the hammer again. The hog fell over on its side, convulsing, breathing weakly, low squeals and blood issuing from its mouth. It would die soon enough. Wade looked up and saw Justin standing in the doorway, Marv's bullets in hand. "Is it done?" Justin said. "Yeah. Marv left one alive with two bullets in its head. Just putting it out of its misery," Wade said as he climbed out of the pen. Justin walked up to Wade. He glanced into the pen, then looked away quickly. Wade thought he heard him say "shit" under his breath. "It ain't pretty," Wade said. "No," Justin said, facing away from the pen. "Where's Marv? I got his bullets." "He had to go. Why don't you go and get the cart. You can put those bullets in the office while you're out there." Wade opened the door to the pen as Justin went out to get the cart. Wade would wash it out tomorrow, but he wanted to get the bodies out as soon as possible. Justin came back in, pushing the cart in front of him. He pushed it up to the pen. "Well, here we go," Wade said, grabbing one front leg and one hind leg of a dead hog, picking it up, and throwing it into the cart. It was a disgusting job. But Wade had done worse. A friend of his had gone away for the weekend last summer, leaving his hog buildings unattended. The cooling system had broken. Three-fourths of his hogs had died from over-heating and suffocation. The man came home to 49 Chris Marnach bloated, red, swollen corpses. Wade had helped haul out the dead. The smell was sickening. At one point one of the other men helping ran outside and vomited on the ground. It was horrible. Wade pushed the thoughts out of his mind. He lifted and threw the dead hogs methodically, mechanically, trying to keep the thought of what he was doing out of his head. As Wade threw one of the hogs, a piece of its brain flew off and landed on the wall near Justin. Justin stepped back, his face going pale. "You okay?" Wade asked. "Yeah," Justin said, the color returning to his face. "I'm fine." Wade came to the hog that he had hit with the hammer. It was still alive. Barely. It was breathing shallowly, and every once in a while it would twitch. Wade picked it up like the others and threw it on top of the dead hogs in the cart. It started to squeal. "That one's still alive," Justin said, looking at Wade. "It'll be dead soon enough," Wade said, trying to block out the squealing. "Got two bullets in its head and two hammer dents. It's just taking its time." Wade picked up a dead hog and threw it on top of the slightly living one. And then another. The hog that still li ved screamed, twitching and thrashing under the dead ones. Wade looked up and saw Justin staring at it. He saw him starting to turn green. "Do you need me here right now?" Justin said softly. "No. You okay?" "I just need to go outside for a while." "Go ahead." He watched Justin walk quickly out the door. The hog's screaming stopped in a choked gurgle. It stopped thrashing. It jOined its penmates. 50 The Wasteland Wade shook his head. Goddarnmit. It was starting to get to him. What a fucking waste. Goddammit. Goddammit. He picked up the bloody hammer that was lying on the floor of the pen and threw it down the alleyway. The only time he ever brought down a hog was if it was going to die, not if it might die. And now some corporate fuck who didn't know a goddamn thing about the land or the livestock or the farms or the farmers was making him haul a cart of dead bloody shitty hogs because the almighty goddamn Dow fucking Jones says we ain't gonna pay shit to you so kill your livestock and let em fucking rot. What a waste. What a goddamn fucking waste. And that was the way it was. No way to get around it. No way to rebel. Do what Mr. Corporate Fuck says and get a check, feed your family, put your kids through college, while still doing some semblance of what you love. Don't do it and don't get a check and lose the farm. It was pointless to rage against it. Nothing would change. This wouldn't be the last time he would be doing this. He knew that. Go along with it. Accept it. There was no other way. The cart was full. The rest of the corpses would have to wait until Trip Number Two. Wade grabbed the handles and pushed the cart down the alleyway and out the door. The sun was high now, the sky a light icy blue. It was very cold. The residual heat from the carcasses rose like smoke from the cart. The snow was hard and crunched as he pushed the cart over it. A biting breeze blew the smell of cigarette smoke to Wade's nostrils. He felt his temper rise again. He stormed around the side of the building and found Justin blowing out a plume of smoke. Justin's eyes widened when he saw Wade. Wade opened his mouth to commence yelling, but then he saw how pale Justin was, and how the hand that held the smoldering cigarette shook, and he knew that the 51 Chris Marnach The Wasteland shaking of Justin's hand was not just from the cold. The shout in his throat choked. His anger died. "Don't ever let your mother see you doing that," Wade said, very softly, and turned away. He felt hollow, defeated. He went back to the cart and pushed it over near the driveway, the place where the rendering truck would pick up the corpses. What a waste. He tipped the cart over, watched the steaming corpses slide to the ground. The snow turned red. He felt so drained. So lifeless. He looked at the pile of the dead on the ground and shook his head. "What a waste," Wade said to himself. "What a goddamn waste." He pushed the cart, slowly, back to the building. 52 Part III 'We turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel, and looked at each other for the last til1le." Jack Kerouac On the Road General RevielV of the Sex Situation Woman wants I1lonogal11Y; Man delights in novelty. Love is wOfnan's lnoon and sun; Man has other for111s offun. Woman lives but in her lord; Count to ten, and man is bored. With this the gist and sunl of it, What earthly good can COttle of it? Dorothy Parker Amanda Prince Barefoot November there's a ring of crystals around a full moon barefoot, on the cold cement i wait for snow to melt holding my coa t around TIle sitting in front of my house i wish my life was like that song the one where you show up at five a.TI1. in your winter coa t crying and i tell you it's not only okay, it'll be beautiful and we cuddle through layers of sweatshirts and your navy blue peacoat but in that dream, TIly hair's red and that night my hair was fuck-you pink in the microwaved radioactive peach-colored dawn like you could drink it- and it would taste like a fuzzy navel or you could take a Polaroid and send it to your grandTIla 54 better than a hallnlark card but maybe not if m thinking in the four a.m. emptiness drinking a bud lite i stole from my parent's refrigerator wearing an ugly yellow sweater giving up and putting my shoes back on. 55 Megan Lindsay wind The wind is steady and strong, bitter and invincible, invisibly freeing snow airborne against the black backdrop of night (I'nl watching for clues in your eyes) the cold sneaks into nl y shoes through the laces and past the leather tongues (nly toes are sore fronl wanting) the weatherman said "it's only seventeen degrees below zero out there tonight" and as we sit, not talking, staring our separate ways, I feel nly blood chill and my pulse slow I kiss the ice on the inside of the window carefully, pull away and check your reaction the wet print from my cold lips freezes over calnl and quick (I don't want to be cold on the inside with you) 56 Robby Mason Merry Primavera first puddle of spring exotic liquor of snow courts drunk sunlnler thoughts 57 Megan Lindsay Excerpts from last summer JunelJuly Some nights I just did the dishes and fell asleep on the couch, watching Lifetime Television and waiting for you to stun1 ble through ou r front door, your silhouette in the pixilated light swaying, staying sweet, even though my in1age of you turned stale and bitter and that one perfect photographic memory of last spring (when we stayed up all night and watched the sun heat up the day so slowly, but steadily, and I com posed poetry for you with the window wide open) faded, so slowly but steadily August Awake, I dreamed of Kerouac and N eruda, longing for the synchronici ty and experience of that one slow, but steady, perfect line, convinced that 58 there was poetry there somewhere in the way that fall descended so slowly, but steadily, into our bed 59 Amanda Prince how to dump a useless man I would write a poem if it would help, I would sit in that car with you for three days straight as you drove through the entire tri-state area scouring every strip bar and juice bar and gentleman's club for his car if I thought it would help you get over this and I'm past the days of self-righteous blathering about how you need to just dUlllp him and say fuck it and get it over with, I hope, cuz Marsha was right when she said nineteen-year-olds giving other nineteen-year-olds advice about love is completely insane cuz I'd probably do the same for sOlllething as stupid as a boy and you've suffered the same too-high-pitched laughs of fake "I'm okays" frolll me and as I sit in this car what I'm trying to convey with my silence and stories about grade school four-square mishaps is, "I understand" we can drive for days till you're over this honey, we can drive for days GO Sonnet Conover Late Night Awakening I scramble d o w n fronl nly bed as swift as a squirrel scaling a tree. He's there. Talking and tittering in a group of students an hour after he was supposed to call Me. Images of hugs and idle chatter. Pitifully, I view this scene, unrevealed to hinl. Clanloring back to bed I anl disgusted with myself f a I 1 n g for yet another ass hole. 61 Megan Lindsay your grace I get cheaper and cheaper every nlinute that I pass, sitting here on the bed, singing Amazing Grace bottle of w hi te zinfandel in one hand Canlel Light in the other You will spend thirty-four dollars at the strip bar tonight and bitch about loaning me five dollars for Taco Bell tomorrow /WID sweet the sound, that saved a Iuretch like me I locked the bedroom door Every day and Saturday I tell myself that on Sunday I'll be gone I am struggling broke stressed-out and you are eagerly shoving dollar bills into the G-string bikini of a woman bobbing her tits in your face she's just trying to make a living 62 and you're just trying to make a night "that's the price" they say "of love" I say it's that one thought locked in my nlind tha t lllakes nle an easy sale I once (vas lost, but now I am found, was blind but now I see just that one thought in my stomach rebounding the wine and cigarettes and dancers and nights alone how precious is your grace 63 Dave Miriov5;ky The nlan slanlmed the door wondering why his new wife always opened it. 64 Jessica Wheeler Porn Connoisseur Red suede shoes meander avenues looking up the skirts of strippers. Wicky-wicky-wack. Dig. 65 Josh Call Faithful Black lights shining in the lust-filled eyes of a D1an, drooling like the foaD1 clinging to a freshly drawn beer. A lonely ll1an sitting, the shade of gold on his hand, a IUll1p of indignation and disgust nestled away in the oblivion of his shirt-front pocket. Such a man is seen everywhere, eyes following the bounce of pierce-nippled breasts, jiggling absurdly to nall1eless ll1usic. Such a man's eyes are filled with wonder, and the miracles of drunken horny flexibility, that ll10ve like a chorus line a handsbreath from his outstretched tongue. Such a good man, building walls around himself, in hard-earned dollars, sneering at the eternally out-of-reach pussy taunting him as harshly as a shrewish wife's tongue 66 So does this nlan si this chair worn perfectly to the fornl of his ratted jeans, while nanleless faces of drunk sincerity and desire whisper to hinl invitingly ... "Back again tonight? Are you having a good time?" 67 Carnie Shuff The Butterfly so sexy, so wild, so evil she whispered eternal sounds of flutter into my ear her gold dust dived into the air with each tiny trustle of her broken wing she told me the story it was the spider, she said that broke her wing "itwazz de day wit blue skies" she was in mid-flight until suddenly she ovulated right into his web II face to face vee stared" she, paralyzed by his silk he, paralyzed by her beauty both seduced in this cocoon of love 1/ i twazz sucha bootifull ting" her words still linger In my ears from yesterday's nl0urning hour 68 she was so sexy, so wild so evil she said there was no nlore to tell only a broken wing to sing about the sighs of wingache then she laughed with a luster and kissed my ear she hissed and fluttered away she left a mark on my heart yesterday and now, I, too am paralyzed by her poisoned tongue 69 Amanda Prince Raygun for m and m I have a cat named Raygun. She's jet black with white socks and won't cuddle with anyone. My friend Claudia named her. Raygun is walking around the basement, knocking over ashtrays, while me and Claudia sit in bean bag chairs, smoking and watching an A&E special on Betty Page. "Damn, she's hot," Claudia says. I say, "Yeah." It's August and unusually cold. This summer has been rainy and endless. Wet gray days blend with other wet gray days. I'm sitting here in my black sweater and slip, staring at the TV and the end of my cigarette. The sound of cars driving by on wet pavement mixes with Claudia's short impatient breaths. Claudia's like my best friend; no, we're no best friends; we're more like Siamese twins who were never separated. There's some invisible connection no one else can see, at least that's what she always says. We look nothing alike. She's tall, beautiful, with bright curly hair and a loud, lipstick-drenched mouth. She has weird pointy teeth. I'm short, with straight blonde hair; I have ugly skinny legs that bruise easily. She's sitting in the orange beanbag chair, thrown on the floor across from the green loveseat. She's wearing her green converse tennis shoes-the ones that were hi-tops then she cut them off and drew swirls and stars on them with a pilot pen, and a big silver L and a big silver R on their proper sides. She's picking at the callused skin around the tips of her fingernails and staring off into empty space. Her pupils grow, and her left eye slides ever so slightly off center. She looks like she's trying to focus on the empty space, trying to see 70 Raygun what it is that hangs out between things. She's breathing slowly, petting the cat, stopping to run her hands through her hair, pulling it all up into a ponytail, then letting it all fall down on her shoulders again. I see the thin razor marks on the fleshy part of her upper arms. I think I want to run my fingers over them, put my lips over them and make them disappear, fade and disappear, leaving her unscarred and whole again. My stomach turns. One night she drank four ounces of Robitussin OM, thick grape flavored cough syrup and put her hand through some boy's basemen t window. I dragged her home through the ki tchen, where she threw glasses and her mother's dishes, and then into her room. I went into her bathroom to splash some water on my face and came back to find her carving thin lines into her arms, shaking. That was Claudia then, but she's better now. There were the doctors, the pink pills, and the night she took them with crank and vodka and ended up pulling her hair ou t in the emergency room, strapped to the metal bed. She was squeezing my hand so hard it hurt whispering, "Maddy, you gotta stay with me, you gotta keep talking to me." Her brother drove her home that night. I was just numb after it all, but worrie·d, in the way that I'm used to being worried. I don't know what it takes, Band-Aids and long stretches of time, I guess. Somebody buys new dishes and Claudia usually wears long sleeved shirts. It's not all doom and gloom. Sometimes we still run around barefoot, and sometimes we just sit down here doing nothing. Her drawings are tacked up all over the fake wood-grain panels in my basement. Hanging over the overstuffed loveseat is a big, black-and-white, charcoal drawing of me, with big crazy doe eyes and ratty hair. It says, "To my Maddy with much love" on the bottom. Claudia points to the picture with her lit cigarette. I'm looking off the page at something in 71 Amanda Prince the distance, but I don't know what. She says, uThat's my favorite one, it shows your eyes~ your eyes are so crazy and sad, Maddy, like you're so much older, or know more than me or something." uWhatever, moonbeam." uOh, fuck off." Claudia makes smoke rings in the air and tries to grab them. She breathes out another puff of smoke and says, uI'm so fucking bored." Then she turns her green eyes right at me. "You wanna get high, Maddy?" I curl into a ball on the ratty blue beanbag, picking little styrofoam bits out of the holes Raygun scratched into it. "I dunno, whatever." Claudia is still staring at me. "C'mon," she says. "We can go get rural or something." "Getting rural" is something we used to do a lot in high school. We'd drive in Claudia's blue Buick out past cornfield after cornfield, onto dirt roads and into weird, empty, creepy parts of Nebraska, looking for somewhere to smoke. We'd get high and tell stories. "I don't really feel like doing anything," I say. "So you wanna just sit on your ass and be lame?" "I don't know. Okay, I don't care." I can tell she's getting pissed cause she's still staring. It's like she's trying to drill a hole through me, crawl into my eyes and look at my brain. I'm sick of her eyes. I just want her to leave now. Raygun walks by, and I reach out to pet her, but she just arches her back and tries to bite me. A few weeks ago me and "the boy," as Claudia affectionately calls him, went out to Stone Park to get high. It was a beautiful fall day. I started screaming, "Dude, fall is so sexy, fall is so fucking sexy, it's like summer's just coming up and kissing winter right on the lips, and on days like this they use tongue, and in 72 Raygun the middle of all that heat and cold is like, fall, and it's all about change, and warm sweaters, and that kind of weather where it's cold but you wear a little tank top anyways, just to feel that sexy fall chill brushing you all over lightly." I took my shirt off and ran down the trail, and the boy laughed so hard he wet himself. "Star sign Scorpio fucker who-oh who-oh" Claudia sings under her breath. I think she's in one of her good moods. It's hard to tell. I get so mad at her. I don't know if it's just some thing inside me, like maybe I was born to overreact. Maybe it's because it's hard to lose people, or feel like you are, maybe I'm just too afraid of losing people, maybe I should talk to her and maybe I should stop staring at the picture on my mirror that says" figure this out for yourself." We're way drunk, singing Christmas carols for no reason. Claudia's holding my hand screaming, "Merry Christmas, merry fucking Christmas," but it's not even Christmas-it's the middle of July - and we're walking through downtown holding hands, singing ou t loud. I tell her I can see it snowing in her eyes. Slurring my speech. The stars spin above us; we crash into each other on the sidewalk. Her hand brushes my hip. I kiss her on the cheek and sing "lean on me, when you're not strong la da da," and we bust into a chorus of that whole summer camp thing, laughing and running races from stoplight to stoplight. 3:00 a.m., kind of fucked up, typing in my room with a bad tummy ache. Silence is louder than any noise, I've decided. I've decided her eyes have iced over, and I've decided I'm a very bad friend. The boy is probably at home sleeping, wish he was here. He'd give me fruit-flavored Turns and two-percent milk to wash them down with. He's good that way. 73 Amanda Prince Claudia's asleep, or pretending to be again. Seems like it's all she does anymore. Claudia's a good kisser. I know cause we'd make au t in photo booths at the mall, the one's with a video camera that shows on a TV outside the booth, and kids would walk by and paint and say stuff like, UMommy, is that two girls kissing?" We got a real kick out of that in high school. We don't kiss much anymore, even just to scare away drunk guys at Perkins or to get free drinks at parties. I guess it's sort of a stupid high school thing - doing shocking shi t just to get a rise out of people- but it was kind of fun to be shocking, kind of gets your blood going. Tonight she's wearing her slinky, black, rock-star pants, and she curled her hair with soda cans, so it's all big and crazy. She's lining her eyes in the mirror with a black pencil. She's getting ready to go out. She looks over her shoulder and says, "Hey, doll, you gonna go to Bill's with me?" I say, "Sure," cause if don't I know she'll whine until I do. I put on my slinky, sexy, black dress that makes me look like I have tits. I guess I'm really ready to get out and do something. So we end up at this guy named Bill's house and drink a whole bunch of martinis made with gin and "noilly prat" vermouth, we got a kick out of that: "noilly prat." I have no idea how you pronounce that. We fell down drunk on each other, laughing, and we called the boy and he came over and sat on my lap and gave me kisses while Claudia got him beers and we cuddled like a bunch of silly drunk kids. Claudia drove us home while I made out with the boy, smelling like sweet smelly whiskey and honey and cigarettes; I looked like shit, but I didn't care. Tears are rolling out of my eyes onto my cheeks. In the back of my head I'm watching myself dripping snot and salty 74 Raygun tears all over the phone. I'm whispering, "I miss you, I need you here." I'm listening to his breath. He's hesitating, carefully picking his words. "Madeline, I need to go to bed." I let out a long breath, one that says, I think, please please, don't hang up . I'm so fucking lonely tonight, and I can't sleep. I'd just say that if I wasn't so afraid. He says, "I love you, but I have to go." Then he says goodnight and with a click he's gone, and I'm sitting in the dark. [ look at Claudia, in the other room, passed out on the loveseat. I'm sure she's lost in her dreams of angels and prom dresses and tangerines, all the things she tells me about. I watch the light from the moon streak across her red hair, making her face look eerie and blue. I lean back in my orange vinyl beanbag and stare at the glow-in-the dark stars we put on the ceiling last summer and think, "So this is what it comes down to." It's been one of those weeks. Lately, every week has been one of those weeks. I'm really not this bummed all the time. It's just that winter here is cold and boring, and I can feel it sneaking up too quick. I feel stuck in this town, even though Claudia always says we're gonna go somewhere, but we don't. I don't know why. Memories sneak up, like memories tend to do, when the light from the moon slips into my basement at four a.m. It's too early to go to sleep, too late to wake up, or something like that. Raygun stirs in her pile of blankets, running through fields of catnip in her dreams. I touch my stomach and suck it into my body, feeling my ribs stick out from under my skin. My grandma says I should eat more, which I guess is what grandmas are supposed to say. I'm not hungry, though. 75 Amanda Prince A memory- We drive, holding hands, completely silent as the beams from the streetlights enter the car, casting on his face bars of white light that scream backwards as we drive faster; the road rushing by in a gray-black blur, a river of pavement running. I can't see it, but r know it's there. I take bitter swigs out of a bottle of vodka I stole from my parent's garage. It burns my throat and makes my head heavy as the stars rush by, blurred and sleepy. The boy is older than me, by at least two years, I think. I must have met him at school, sneaking Cigarettes between art classes and drug deals. His face is feminine and delicate, with those high cheekbones and long eyelashes. He sits with all the punk kids at their very own lunch table, with their old lunchboxes covered in stickers cataloging all the obscure indie bands they've seen, their big shoes, and dark eyeliner. I've been sitting alone, not going to lunch at all, or sitting in the bathroom smoking joints with the long-haired metal girls from my English class. "So do you wanna go somewhere?" His voice is quiet, like everything he says is a big secret; a big secret, serious thing. I don't say anything, I just take another drink. He looks at me weird and says, " Are you okay?" He squeezes my hand and runs his thumbs up and down my palm, like he cares or something. I can't believe I'm here, in this car at two in the morning, driving up and down the streets downtown, past boarded-up shops and closed coffee bars, drinking vodka and listening to his breath and watching my reflection in the window. My reflection is distorted, pulled-out and skinny, changing as the light swirls in and out of the car. My hand on my knee, my thick black tights, my velvet skirt. 76 Raygun Another memoryI met him three years ago. It must have been. Claudia took me to this dingy, dirty, little punk club and introduced me to him. He was wearing dark blue jeans and a black vneck sweater. He looks young when I think about it now, but back then he seemed older and more confident. He bummed me a cigarette, and I coughed and choked on it. Then we all drove ou t to Stone Park and listened to some tape that Claudia had re-wound so it played backwards. We listened to it, driving on narrow roads through trees that closed in from every direction, leafless, gnarled, and threatening. Claudia was crazier back then; tall, beautiful, and crazy. That same night, we smoked pot in her blue Buick and then she took off her shirt and ran through the park, screaming at the top of her lungs, laughing and singing. She ran up to me and looked at me with her crazy eyes. "C'mon Maddy, get wild." The pot made me feel sort of dizzy, tingly all over, and kind of sick, but sort of crazy, too. The winter air was cold and dangerous, but right then I didn't care. I pulled my thick sweater over my head and felt the cold against my bare skin. Claudia pulled me along the trail, kissing my cheek and singing songs I didn't know. The boy watched from the hood of Claudia's car, smoking a cigarette and laughing at us. The other day I dreamed that Claudia packed her bags and took off to California. I have this picture of her, red hair flying against a gray sky. Her thumb pointed towards it, her eyes determined and fierce. But then I woke up and saw her snoring on the sofa. I smoked a cigarette and drank a Cll p of coffee. I called the boy and apologized for being such a sappy mess the other night. He didn't seem to mind. He came over and I got lost in 77 Amanda Prince Raygun his skin for a few hours. Then we fell asleep, curled up under a ratty blanket on the basement floor. I woke up around two o'clock, and Claudia was gone. Raygun was curled up on the warm place her body had left on the ratty loveseat. 78 Part IV "The 111rtll that hath no 'music in hinlself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagelns, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus; Let no such nlan be trusted. Mark the nlusic." William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice "Forever che111ical You trade a piece of your sou I With no return A1ld who you think you know Does1l't kn070 you at all Their drain is needless S0l11e day we'1l7oave hello And wish we'd never waved goodbye To this romance We'll dri1lk lip every line And shoot up every word Till there's nOli/ore Crashing down Crashing down 11ly friends Gnly love Gnly love can win So cry these tears we'll cry as all We've held so long to fall apart As the curtain falls we bid YOIl all goodllight" The S11lasiIing Pllmpkins "This Time" 79 Beth Donohue Carousel color light calliope music clashing as the child ren screalll with delight and the wooden steeds rear and gallop in a circle whirling in the SUllllller night horses gleallling wi th jewels and fresh paint flashing brass poles tossing lllanes sculpted legs frozen power spinning flying with the music of fantasy. 80 Amanda Prince Good Advice You don't say much I guess I know what you're saying I'm trying to be with the silence and forget filling it up with Awkward questions like a mom driving you home going "How's school going? Boyfriends? Family?" These are just starting points and you would look at me like "you already know" and I do so I'm sitting here just trying to feel this silence and I'd say, "Honey I know you're hurting," but I see your sharp spaces, sometimes you need to not hear me running my mouth like I know what I'm talking about because most of the time I don't and I'm working on just listening because I need to hear something different than the sound of my voice making up stories that are only partially true and I usually only cry when I'm alone and yeah it's hard for me to talk about. Boyfriends? Car? Family? Pause. Breathe. Wait for response. You're looking at me like "I'm scared" and I'm looking at you like, "You're so beautiful." Give me a quarter. I'll solve all your problems. "Dump your boyfriend. Quit your job." Next. Give me a quarter; I'll solve all your problems and even give you a little tip: "Blow jobs are a bad substitute for conversation" Put it in a fortune cookie. Dump your boyfriend. I'm trying to listen, but okay I admit it, I still think I'm right. 81 Chris Marnach Streetsongs Peddlers in the street, sellin their wares, singin out their sales Streetsongs . . . A woman sellin magazines A man sellin newspapers Can ya hear ern? A wonlan sellin Holy Water A man sellin Hotel Bibles Hear em sing? A woman sellin meth A man sellin coke Mmmmm . .. sing it. . . . A woman sellin herself A man sellin his soul Ooooooaaaaahhhhhh The singin, ringin out like the songs of Angels in Hell sing in Hosannas on High Baby, can you hear the streetsongs? And I bought a magazine, for the articles, a' course, cuz I couldn't bear the headlines, and I blessed myself with Holy Water in a Mickey's bottle, flipped thru a Motel 6 King Janles and screamed to Jesus as bat-winged demons made love in the clouds and cherubs fucked in the streets Sing it to Sweet Motel 6 Jesus! And I bought her with my green money and she bought me with her green eyes I I 82 Ooohhh Ahhhmazing Grace, how sweet thy moan Ooooooaaaahhhhhhhhhhh Oh, I snorted my soul away, yes, I snorted my soul awayawaywaywayaway And Gracie's asleep, and I'm sittin on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands, streetlamp lightin my misery, and I hear the drunks singin to their paperbagwine, singin to Sweet Motel 6 Jesus singin singin singin to Jesus sing it Can ya hear it, Baby, can ya hear it? OoooooGodaaaahhhhhhhh the streetsongs ... 83 Amanda Prince Friday Night at Bill's the girls dress up we show up late wearing blue-hooded sweatshirts searching for beer and Frank Sinatra there are people here I will never know or never want to one of the skinny ll1elanoll1a girls tanned orange and gross is showing a guy in a baseball cap her new underwear Lee leans over and says "what a skank" I try to act offended and say "yeah, ll1aybe but she's really pretty nice" I am sitting on the green sofa between Matt and Lee, both with bony hips and loud laughs at 4:30 a.m. Bill breaks open a glow stick the kind you get at the Rollerama or for Halloween I all1 drunk, someone is yelling someone says they smell a gas leak I don't care the living room is a constellation bodies move defined by stars I crawl onto the sofa next to you and curl up in your arms 84 and watch the stars in nly head form on your skin we stunl ble into Ben's roonl to warnl sheets and whispers 85 Jessica Wheeler James Dean wanna be black leather blue jeans smokes crushed beneath your heel cool Bryce Gerking Fat sweaty Elvis Prescription rhinestone abuse Thankyouverymuch 86 Amanda Prince Scenes from an adolescent late-night drive you said "we're just a bunch of skinny geeks who know how to get it on" and I said "skinny geeks who know how to get it on" that's a poem right there that's beautiful I said "I saw a ghost" and we drove kissing scared trying to explain my position in the world I said "I don't hate all lllen, just the stupid ones I nlean, cuz there's good men they just lllake the bad ones look worse" and I thought just cause I'm angry doesn't lllean it's about you "We nless around, we don't talk much" The girl in the snazzy pants with the black and white Richenbacher is standing right in front of llle she's a rock star she's beautiful and I' nl dancing like an idiot 87 Megan Lindsay Secret Songs (for someone who forgot) I. i always wanted to be a rock star and woo all the green-eyed boys II. The trees outside look sick. They're black with rain, the bare branches exploding at the tips wi th the fungus-like foliage of spring. III. sometimes she swims in my veins like a drug 88 Secret Songs (for someone who forgot) N. I saw behind your eyes today. I looked real close and saw forever there. And then you blinked and I swore off love 'til summer. V. the stars shrink in the reced ing velvet sky the longer I stare I jump higher and higher trying to touch Orion's belt the day confronts the moon leaving nle sore calves as a renlinder that I can't get close enough to anything dawn breaks and I roll on through the morning trying to fix it VI. when I was little we took day trips to the nlountains and I renleOl ber there was alw ays a cooler in the back seat with soda pop and sandwiches that illy nlOOl made 89 Megan Lindsay and wrapped up into tight cellophane squares and . every ten nlinutes we'd have to stop to pick up rocks on the side of the road because my brother and I collected rocks and once we were walking on big rocks · across a strealll and I slipped and fell and I got llly right foot all wet and we drove honle with llly wet sock on the car antenna and it didn't fly off like I thought it was going to because, like I said, "\Ie stopped every ten lllinutes so nly brother and I could pick up rocks VU. You steal llly shadows while I'm out chasing the llloon running in circles a t the length of my chain VIII. One of those sappy old-fashioned love songs is playing on the radio. I sing along. Just because I know the words. IX. there's a Polaroid picture of her taped to the wall she's wearing sunglasses, 90 Secret Songs (for someone who forgot) a drunken grin, and a new haircut. it was the summer after the spring, after the rape, and i didn't know yet we drank and shared stories it wasn't summer, it was labor day we threw rocks through his windows i wonder if that's what Wordsworth meant by "spots of time" how a memory can take you back farther than you want to go x. the rain stopped it snlells like new leaves I shut the window. 91  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Kiosk: Volume 62 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Subject The topic of the resource Student Publications Description An account of the resource The Kiosk contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Buckingham, Heather: Author Wheeler, Jessica: Author Lindsay, Megan: Author Marnach, Christ: Author Shuff, Camie: Author Prince, Amanda: Author Mason, Robby: Author Liao, Kay: Author Miriovsky, Dave: Author Donohue, Beth: Author Uhl, Randy Clyde: Author Bohl, Mandy: Author Conover, Sonnet: Author Call, Josh: Author Gerking, Bryce: Author Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2000 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2015-07-15 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2015-07-15 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Lindsay, Megan: Editor in Chief and Photos Marnach, Chris: Editor in Chief and Graphics Mason, Robby: Editor Moser, Julie: Editor Shuff, Camie: Editor Buckingham, Heather: Editor Newell, Tiffany: Editor Smith, James: Editor Ponder, Marcie: Layout and Design Coyne, Stephen: Faculty Advisor Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical 96 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/f1cce18d2cb9537a08daa4016af3b626.pdf 63b394dbb866e7e9e8b209aa25091827 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Perspectives: Volume 17, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Kiosk Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource This PDF file of the Perspectives contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ponder, Marcie Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2013-01-13 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-11-25 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-11-25 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF 4.81 MB 44 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Perspectives-Vol17-No01_KDC_1958_01-01_01.pdf Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger PDF Text Text PERSPECTIVES 1958 ��perspectives I I STAFF Volume XVII Sprinq 1958 Number 1 1 ========================================== : = Editor Carolyn Meyer TABLE OF CONTENTS Auqust Wind _________________ Gene Cannaday 2 v Ne, er to Lauqh _________ _________ Keith Tandy 2 A. B. C. _______________________ Reverdy Mace 3 Naturally __________________________ Keith Fry 4 Sierras ________________________ Carolyn Lewis 4 Mid-March ___________________ Virqinia Bailey 5 On Be'c ominq Mature ________ Virqinia Kiernan 6 Robert Ames Who Am I? _________________ Rosa lee Jacobson Ed Bedell Growth ___________ ______________ Kay Zurcher 6 7 Shirley Cox Continuance ________________ Judy Joan Taplin 7 Carolyn Lewis Heredity ____________________ Ro,n ald Haddock 8 Mary Silzer Voice ___ ______ ______________ Ro'n ald Haddock 8 Just in Passinq ___________________ Isobel Bla'c k 9 And He' Was Dyinq ________ ___ Gene Cannaday 10 Modem Love ______________ ____ __ Isobel Black 11 I, Beinq a Dreamer ____________ Virginia Bailey 12 What Happened to Carl Dunn? ___ Nancy Crary 14 Book Review: Love of Seven DoUs__ Nancy Crary 17 Book Revie, : The Vanishinq Hero ___ _E:d Bedell w 18 The Circus: Fo'r Cummin,gs ________ Kei1 Tandy h 20 My Name is Sara____________ Rosalee' Jacobson 24 Afraid of a Shadow ____________ Wynn Geoden Miraqe _________________ _____ ______ Ed Bedell 25 33 Associa. e Editor t Keith Tandy Business Manaqer Ronald Haddock Editorial Board K~ith Tandy Cover Desiqn Keith Fry Faculty Advisor Dr. WUliam Palmer perspectives is published by the stUdents of Morningside College. �august wind I wandered as a wind-moved thing And asked for causes, Life. And for life a little pretty, vague but true I wandered. as a wind-moved thing Which knows not . . . . And cares. As does care the stricken, helpless, dying Cold and bleeding forms of catlike innocence. Little death, little pain, little hope gone out ; These cause me now to wander as a wind-moved-thing. Wander for fear, for forlorn ghosts Of insecurity. Sometimes I fluttered-aloft Then played as something free, And prayed as sometimes free . . . . But August Wind blows not hard, And swiftly or slowly Do I find my path or make my Path along the dirty pretend-like ground of realness and scraps of paper and bits of dung. I wander as a wind-moved thing. -Gene Cannaday never to laugh Since birth, or before - prenatally destined Continual war: his nature unmended, The impulse of love, unanswered, untended, By Ego, the Brute who murders the peacedoves. An idiot-told tale, of sound and of fury, The world was a terror, half loved and half not Till one who was whole reached out ·to this wounded With healing of heart and laughter unending. 2 �The peace was but brief, the laughter not always; ' they left, and the warring once more held its swayThe blackness descended full terrible nowAnd never to laugh: again, deeper wounding. Keith A . Tandy Q. b. c. Take international dispute " A." Take participants "X" "Y", "Z." Take factors 1, 2, 3. Take proposals "a", "b", "c." Take solutions " al", "bl", "CI" Take myriad facts. Quite objective, eh? Have the solution yet? No? You want to know who "X" is? "Y" is? "z" is? Then you can decide who is "wrong" and who is "right"? So! "X" i s -- - . "Y" is - - -. "Z" is - - -. Ah so! It all clears up for you! I see you have come to a conclusionA solution to our problem. Yes! I'm proud of you! It's marvelous What logical, objective thinking can accomplish! Yea, verily! -ReverdY Mace 3 �naturally there they are, happy, satisfied, owners of what? it 10 oks like, therefore it is just about always right. two eyes, green leaves, mouth, trunk, air, water, legs, Hair, kidneys and plenty of all-knowing righteousness. dotheyreallyknow? emo tions thrusting ever forwar dlike marching troops of hapless maY'be-thinking always thinking someday winning stalwartsof nothing ordered. upsidedown who-cares? But-we'll triumph Weirdly enough. -Keith Fry 4 �• SIerras The green serenity below, The virgin, unmarred span Essential to the perfect Plan, Recalled with sweet nostalgia so, Memories of the place from which I go. The bold, grey strength encircling above, Reinforced by brave spires Reaching upward, higher, Wondering here what great Love Gave this to man from the great Above. -Carolyn Lewis mid-march It snowed today Big popcorn flakes whirling in unison Like dancers freed of gravity Leaping higher and higher As if they strove to reach The heaven from whence they came Of racing silver clouds- grand- mysterious. And the wind was small and fierce, Its little fingers piercing thick coats And running through a passer's hair Like an ungentle mother. The earth seized the snow gratefully To hide her frozen emptiness. Then through my closed window I heard the song Of the invisible bird Rippling, cascading, sparkling, Full of the warmth of summer days And tenderness, and love of life. And it was spring. -Virginia Bailey 5 �on becoming mature Like a shadow being lifted from my mindA long, a hurtful shadow of 'b eing a child, Suddenly I know so very much Where once my thoughts were wild. I understand; I comprehend The many things I used to doubt. With the passing of the time The hazy clouds pass out. Still I know not everything. So many things allure. It is all in the process Of becoming mature . .. and I? I am not so sure I like it. -Virginia Kiernan who am i? Forever I shall have to bide With the question, Who am I? I could oil my heart on canvass For all the world to see That this is me, I could sing and dance Subjective creativity, For these expressions Surely would be mine. r could try life's mysteries To further clarify; Spend my life In search of formulae. Or could I? Who am I? -Roselee Jacobsen 6 �growth Idea knocks and enters Uncalled Unsought Without question, command or Wondering word And becomes the single important needed wordless thought. Thought grows and attains new life Widening Deepening Reaching a new height of mind Before release As hope felt quiet word command or needed action. -Kay Zurcher continuance The sun has fallen, The sky is dusky gray; A stillness everywhere salutes The death of a day. The moon has risenNature will not mourn; For with the passing of a day, A night is born. -Judy Joan Taplin 7 �heredity Rich, old man he was Weren't never Happy. Had to carry, harry, Show all ways and point. Grabbed each one Could raise a thought And shook Till thought had died Or turned to water or To blood. Guess I learned all bad I Knew from him, was plenty. Ain't I tired livin, in this hole He made of all Those pretty thoughts and Souls? Ain't I sick a'watchin, Scratchin, fightin to be Lost with all you fools? -Ronald Haddock • VOICe You tired of fightin? You just got started. Give me weapons Still unheard, Give me language Vile, profane. Don't start quittin, Kill again, again Again. You tired of Trampin Colored Pigment? Souls and hearts And Spirits dark? Keep on movin, N oisin poison. Your throat's yet Clear - I hear you Groan? 8 �Keep those eyes shut! Don't go peekin. Keep that fire a'burnin Steady. Find the fuel, Don't look to them. They'd slow the battleMaybe stop. They'd quit and rest Or want to talk But don't you listen, Not one word. Rabal's mutterance every sob. Dig in deeper, Stuff your ears. Don't stop swingin, Now you're winnin! Shut your brain. To all but hate. Equals damned And slaughtered brother. Kill again, again And more. Kill them all, how dare these Cringing, soul claimed, Shameful, beaten Blacks love you. Draw that bead and Shatter Mothers! Kill your soul again, Again, again. -Ronald Haddock just in passing Hello, and how are you today? Why, yes, it is a lovely day. What was I doing in the yard? So, Fanny Brown sent you a card? The flowers are doing .very well. Why, yes, that is the factory bell. I hope I see you soon again, I wonder what could be his name? -Iso bel Black 9 �... and he was dying And where was truth when he was dying? All the rest were there: Folly, greed, selfishness It would not wait for better time The fullness, we are told, was near The god Almighty will was being done, Amen! But he was dying, Not death, that pretty childhOod figure Which shines when sweet prayers are sung Not death the worthy goal of Martyr's steps No, not death which casts its silent shade of sleep over age grown dim. But death which lies within a heavy Toil of grief and hurts, which clouds the Man with hard despairing tears. No . a death of pain - real Throbbing, choking, stinging Death of muscle, brain and soul. Look you from here! All of you who carve statues of him Look you "upon" what he saw The enemy's condescension A scoffer's glee A stronger's mute derision Look you and weep if Time and Death have Passed you by . . . . And where was love when he was dying? Asleep in meadow beds of timeless sighing? Was it warming too frozen hands and heart Before a lifeless flame? Was love running swift and naked Flight, Or dying with the other death? Peace! He cries aloud ... Peace, and he smiles 10 �Peace could nowhere else be found. It was not at the Eagles Golden Dome, Where wine and women's breathing Had scarce dissolved War's Specter, Fear It was not at Sanhedrin's hall, Where Justice had so late been raped And left for Evil's whoredom. Left as Faithless to be used again for Stinking sport of Faithful men. And he was dying And he was dying Not just of bone and heart betraying Nor of the four, hot bleeding, swelling Wounds. But he was dying who had been Love and Peace And Truth And he was dying And they were Gone. -Gene Cannaday modern love I'll love you 'til the cows come home Or 'til the birds all fly to Rome. I'll love you 'til eternity Becomes a Sunkist orange tree. I'll love you now, I'll love you then, I'll love you 'til I don't know when. And if need be, on love I'll live And what the angels have to give. So darling, sign that check from heaven, Because the clothes stores close at seven. -Isobel Black 11 �I, being a dreamer I, being a dreamer, and young, cling to life Not with the certain blind tenacity 'W ith which some poor rabbit Draws his last, desperate, gasping breaths, But with another fear As strong and deep as instinct. I hold to life with fingers numb from grasping Lest I should loose my hold and lose The sweet, painful experiences Of life itself, and my soul cries with regret to think of leaving them. Yet I know them not, and have never known them. The things I know I leave without despairThe yellow leaves and red and velvet cattails Where I walked along the Little Sioux With the burly black dog crashing through the bru sh Matting cockleburrs in his tail. With no regret I leave it and the smell of lilacs from the two bushes outside the door, And the gentle hands who dressed me And the dear familiar faces around the table When I was a childCool sheets, old friendshipsI could turn my back on them And on the teacher with the curly hair And gay laugh- the friend who talked Of love and life with meAnd this brick building, waiting To drown with floods of its cool water My knowledge-thirsting brain. Not for these do I clutch at life Not for these do I reel with regret To think of death. But, I, being a young dreamer, Feel the loss of what I have never known. 12 �If I should die I would miss the cool damp of a London fog against my cheek, the sound of the bellsolemn, mysterious, and the bridge, and my own reflection dancing vaguely on the black water, with the old footsteps echoing on the time worn bridge. Yes, I would regret it, and the child lying still and heavy against the rise and fall of my own breast-to see his hands curled and pink and flawless like a shell, and know him to be mine. I would never miss the kiss I never feltThe kiss of love, hard and sweet, and the strong arms Holding me, and the fierce joy of being loved. More than that-to love, soul and heart, To know one face-the warmth of two eyes And the heart and mind behind, Known, and yet too deep to be comprehended. I would regret the vows not taken And the joyous pain of being two-alone. There are other dreams, and I think How it would be to lie, knowing That I would never rise up and fulfill themDreams of being great and good- wise, selfless, compassionate, with genius Burning in a pure white flame, infinite, holy. Then I lie in the dark in my soft narrow bed, And I know regret as sharp as a thin blade In my bleeding heart, and death seems sweet For dreams are made of silver. But reality, which gleams like gem-strewed gold Crumbles to ashes when I reacn. out to touch it. -Virginia Bailey 13 �what happened to Carl Dunn? Julia hurried down the midway, pushing past long-legged girls in dark glasses and avoiding a lost cocker spanie1. She looked up at the blaze of color - the lights of the turning ferris wheel, neon signs over the bars and bingo games, the huge red witch on the House of Horrors. The noisy jangle somehow soothed her nerves, as it always did. She clutched a sketch pad and colored pencils in one hand. Joe could never understand why she loved to come here on summer nights. But today, when she had said she was going to the park, he had hardly seemed to hear This was the first time of the year. The park hadn't been open long. She turned past the cotton candy stand toward the familiar booth. It was empty. She stopped short, hoping that if she looked hard enough, the big sign would reappear above the mass of profile drawings : Carl Dunn, Artist. Portraits, $1.00. But the streaked yellow wall remained bare. The excitement of the evening faded, the colors looked gaudy and glaring again, and the smell of stale popcorn made her feel sick. She sat down quickly on a nearby bench. It had been nine years ago that Julie had first found Carl's booth at the park. She had spent the whole evening watching him draw, while her friends went on the rides. Afterwards she had gone home and practiced drawing in all her spare time. She had been fifteen the night he had let her take his pencils and paper and draw a portrait of her father. The evening had been complete when Carl had said she had talent. Julie had never known much about him. He seemed to be in his fifties, and she supposed he was a bachelor. He spent his winters drawing in the French Quarter in New Orleans. He had odd hands for an artist; they looked more like those of day laborer - short, stubby fingers and gnarled hands. Last summer, when she and Joe had been married, she had tried to explain why she kept going back to watch Carl draw. Joe had only said that if she wanted to be an artist, she should go to art school. But it wasn't that. Julie wasn't sure, herself, why she went once a week to sit and watch the likenesses of the customers grow on the paper, sometimes to sketch the strange and varied people who walked by on the midway. The thought of Joe brought her back to the problem she had meant to escape tonight. What had been bothering him these past few days? Why was he suddenly so moody and depressed? Why couldn't she share it with him, whatever was wrong? She had been sure, when she married Joe, that there would always 14 �be complete understanding between them. They would share every emotion, every problem. But it hadn't been that way. There were things, like the midway, that she couldn't explain to Joe. And there were things she couldn't understand about him, like his mood this week. A fat, dark woman waddled out behind the counter of the curio shop next to Carl's booth. JUlie had seen her there often, though she had never spoken to her. On sudden impulse, Julie hurried over to the store. "What's happened to Carl Dunn?" The woman looked surprised. Her eyes narrowed as she sized Julie up. "Him?" she finally spat out. "Who knows? Who cares? He ain't back this year." "Well . . . do you know where he is?" Julie was surprised at her driving curiosity. "Somebody heard from him, I guess. He's down in New Orleans . . . got mixed up with some young girl. Really fell for her, I hear. She walked out on him. Can't blame 'er. He probably beat her up all the time. A real snake, that one." The woman turned her very large back and began arranging displays in another counter. Hardly thinking what she was doing, Julie walked to the next booth. "Madame Bolini, Fortunes Told." Madame Bolini, a toothless old gypsy, was sitting outside the purple curtain. "Tell your fortune, lady?" "No, I was just wondering . .. can you tell me what's happened to Carl Dunn?" The old woman cackled and rolled her eyes up. "That Carl. Always, he played the joke. Many nights, I laughed with him . .. I don't know where he is this year. He would come by here, and say, 'Rosie, have you heard . . ." Madame Bolini's voice trailed off in weird shrieks of laughter. Julie hurried on. Lal Barker, the owner of the skating rink, was leaning against the door of the rink and watching the midway. Julie crossed to him and asked her question. "Lal, what's happened to Carl?" "Hello, there, Julie. I thought you'd be around this year. Carl's , still in New Orleans, I guess. I only had a postcard from him. Said he wasn't coming, something about a girl . .. I really don't know much. Poor Carl." "Why 'poor Carl?'" Julie and Lal moved a little away from the boom of the skating rink organ. "Age, sickness, the same things that get us all in the end. Did you know that Carl was over seventy years old? No, you wouldn't- he sure didn't look it. Those years was catching up with him, though. Had 15 �arthritis. When he was young, they said he'd be a great artist. I guess he wasted his time, and then his fingers commenced to get stiff. Sometimes he'd say to me, 'Lal, I'm just waiting to die.' " Julie listened eagerly to ev ery word. She was becoming fascinated with this Carl she had never known. " There's some customers," Lal was saying. "I'll have to go. See you around." Julie moved down the midway, to the penny arcade on the other side of Carl's booth. The shriveled, bald-headed ticket-seller was reading a paper-back mystery. "Excuse me, can you tell me what's happened to Carl Dunn?" The little man stared at her thr ough yellowed, steel-rimmed spectacles. "What you want him for?" "I'm a friend of his." " I dunno where he is, probably in jail. Always playing the hor ses. He'd make fifteen, twenty a night and spend it the next day on the ponies. Never knew him to win, much, but he'd keep playing. Don't ask me where he is, lady. Just another midway bum ... " Julie drove home slowly, with the windows of the car wide open. The fresh breeze and brooding silence of the night, contrasting sharply with the park's glare and jangle, seemed to clear her mind. She puzzled over the man, Carl Dunn, and what she had learned about him tonight. Where was the key to him, the simple answer to the different picture each person she'd interviewed had had of him? Suddenly, Julie was seeing him draw, again. It was always the same. The physical features of the person would be there, on t he sketch pad, and she was always sure that the portrait was perfect. But seldom did the subject or his friends agree. And when he had drawn her portrait, she had been sure it was well done, but yet she had asked, " Is that what I look like?" Joe was watching television when she came in. He looked up and smiled, a little more warmly than he had in several days. "Hi, you're home early." "Carl wasn't there." Julie said no more. She was afraid her adventure would dissolve if she put it into words. -Nancy Crary 16 �Book Reviews ... love of seven dolls by ~aul Gallico (Doubleday) 1954 Paul Gallico, in his career as a writer, has gone from sports analyst to war correspondent to mystic . His early fiction was mostly sports stories, and books such as Golf is a Friendly Game. Then, after a period as a war correspondent, he began to write in a very subjective and mystical vein. His most famous short story, "The Snow Goose," and his books, The Abandoned, Snowflake, and Love of Seven Dolls fit into the last category. Love of Seven Dolls reads almost like a tale from the Grimms' collection, retold to appeal to adults and set in modern times. It has a magical quality which is not crudely supernatural but delves into the magic of the human personality. Set in Paris, Love of Seven Dolls is the story of Mouche, a young woman who has left her farm home in the provinces to become an actress. She has had little success, and at the opening of the story is about to throw herself in the Seine because she has run out of money and has no one to turn to. A red-haired, elfin puppet calls to her from a small puppet theater, and there begins a deep friendship between Mouche and the seven puppets who make up the small traveling show. A bond grows between the girl and the dolls as she begins to sing and play-act with them, to the delight of audiences. She becomes a part of the show, but the puppetier is as cruel to Mouche as his dolls are kind. Something within his cynical nature is repelled by her essential innocence. The more beatings and harsh words she receives at his hands, the more she loves and is loved by the puppets. Each of these dolls is a distinct individual, with faults and virtues of his own. Eaoh is carefully drawn as a character by Gallico. So skillfully is this done that it is difficult as a reader to keep in mind the obvious fact that the dolls can have no life in themselves, and are only expressions of the mind of the man who moves them. That a character as good as Mouche could be created without seeming a throwback to the worst of Victorian heroines is in itself surprising. She is saved by the fact that her goodness seems to be utterly unconscious. Mouche does not preach, either to the reader or 17 �to the others in the book. She is not a prude, and not a weakling. So Mouche lives and breathes in spite of her great virtue. It is the author's success in creating sympathy for Mouche, making us almost share her adventure, that keeps this book from being painfully moralistic. Gallico makes no attempt to hide his theme at the end, but in the relatively short preceding narrative he has built a believable preface to the theme. The message of Love of Seven Dolls is simply that love is stronger than hate. No man can be totally evil; and when evil comes in contact with good, the good will win out. There is certainly nothing original about this theme when it is isolated, but in the context of the book the seven dolls express it in a highly original way. This magical, mystical story is unusual enough to make a well-worn teaching seem fresh and new. -N ancy Crary the vanishing hero by Sean O'Faolain (Little, Brown) 204 pp.-1957 Every American imagination can conjure a vivid mental picture of the so-called 'fervent Twenties'-a brief, but particularly important segment of a prospering nation'S' history. Author Sean O'Faolain, in a series of lectures delivered at Princeton University in 1953 and in this book reprinted, chooses to deal critically with eight of the outstanding writers of this ten-year span from 1920 to 1930--only four of which I may consider with more than brief mention; James Joyce, Huxley, Faulkner, and Graham Greene. In an exceptionally extensive introduction, considering the relative succinctness of the work, O'Faolain stresses his main thesis wthich is to unite the various chapters of the book. He feels, if these authors are representative, some failure of values occurred in the Twenties which forced writers to find their own truths, and to dream in isolated, personal worlds. The specific thesis is, that the Hero, the fine fellow whose side we were on and "who stood as the champion of society's code," has disappeared from fiction, and in his place is a sort of anti-hero, whom we favor, but who is at odds with society and with himself. O'Faolain traces this type of character to a French heritage, and cites numerous convincing, although somewhat isolated examples. Illumination, witty, and always provocative, the critic talks of Huxley's lack of intellectual discipline-claiming Huxley's limited 18 �human sympathy prevents him from associating himself realistically with his characters (at least, sufficiently to make an intelligible, human personages of them). Faulkner is considered a man with too much genius- too much inspiration without the perspiration that makes nonsensical sentences into coherent units. The average Faulkner reader, O'Faolain claims, cannot accept nor can he understand a type of Faulkerian incoherence. This is, in this case, the fault of the author, and O'F'a olain concentrates for several pages on a rather incisive examination of the circumstances. In Faulkner the critic finds a good man without ideas, who cannot construct, cannot express, cannot control, but with a "certain gargling nobility." In his chapter on Faulkner, O'Faolain's own style launches into an enormous display of American intellectual prose, which distracts the reader and forms an incongruous contrast with the candid lucidity of the other chapters. Graham Greene seems to be treated with somewhat undue harshness. He accuses Greene of making his characters mere "puppets subservient to his theme," and later says, "his characters . . . ran away with him." O'Faolain places Hemingway in the classical tradition, applauds Bowen's perceptiveness, comments on Woolf's nearly complete selfabsorption and remarks throughout the entire book about James Joyce's magnificent moments of vision. In the latter's work, O'Faolain finds an anomalous artistic figure, capable of fine literary deception-a master of his style. He feels Joyce's ability, the execution of his ideas, and the resultant effect on the reader is superb. Joyce writes a personal parable (as do most good authors) and he, particularly, inserts himself into every fiber of the texture of his books, but conveys an irrefutable attitude of detachment- the detachment of which Huxley is incapable. Although Mr. O'Faolain's thesis has dubious aspects, his critical analyses of the separate authors are exciting and rare. They are extremely compelling in their creation of a desire to read and inquire personally into the opinions stated. O'Faolain is a marvelous writer, has utterly brilliant insights into style and narrative techniques, and his own style is graceful and markedly clear at .all times. The Vanishing Hero is an intelligent, concise work providing a new and intriguing perspective from which to view the authors of the Nineteen-Twenties. -Ed Bedell 19 �The Circus: for Cummings -Keith Tandy Prologue under and around the great tent clusteredlikeleeches the SUBordinates and un artists (all, freakish pranked) in anger at isolated excellence 'once, long ago and faraway: and how terrible a thing to Believe - -and then be told that there were MANY "Greatest showsonearth" the side show shelleyesque in body, grotesque oddities of nonnature parade and display their possessions, possessed, of u g I n e s s 20 �and sheer nauseaevoking skillfullness shuddered, and felt sick of mind. promenade hemingway clutched, being caught up of a moment (his maximum) at metalious-and i proceeded . . . . . the game of unchance mickey led me forthmouse or spillane: you pays your money and you takes your choice--( As if possession were the sine qua non of individuality! )But I digress a game, to betray my choise against the hidden lawsYes! wagering sex, i lost, and fell to Distortion's axe, wielded by a sadistic rodent AND a tough private eyeWhile "Michael" rebaptized, fled his sinning to Jehovah's witness -ism, which cannot help at last, and walt .. well, walt hid in a venerable wood of Oscars. promenade hammer shot his busty blonde clean through, leaving the ear-wiggling hole, and aldous spiced his goddess with insatiability, while proceeded . . . . the fun house professional amusers quickly defrayed thoroughly as an assistant associate instructor's coat, 21 �being false, and generic with the photographer's smile and lor cheese promenade an over-pregnant nash snickered and thurber giggled and all two wore thin as a specious symphony played overmuch as i proceeded the am. leg. aux. stand bosomy matrons sweating beer serve too sweet cherry pie and cold(pardon: ice cold) noiseless pop with half-hearted warmth promenade and proceed, leaving elizabeth counting on a child's fingers and toes and et cetera her loving ways the cotton candy stand and here is little johnny, come down from his tip-toed little hill to vend with sticky fingers spun sugar laboriously worked by the sober, imminent william cooperatively leaving red around my sacharined mouth promenade and lord b. blusters in my swashbuckled path as to the largest tent proceed the big top tommy stearns whips up a veritable cageful of UNusual tame and 22 �usual vicious wildest unlikely personages while nearer center PONDEROUS wooly russian mammoths laboriously and tediously move all ultimate questions with little of effort less of directive, monkeyed trainers and luxurious greeks wittily discourse while juggling twenty torches dramatically centrally the highest and acrobat, him balances his chairs repeats his axioms kicks away his maxims and stands impossibly, proceeding while i, far below catch a part of one chair, and dream of joining him there. 23 �my name is Sara -Rosalee Jacobson My name is Sara and I'm nine years old. My real name is Sara Melissa Jayne Montclaire, but my friends just call me Sara. I have the longest name in the class! Do you remember what it was like to be nine? My Mom and Dad say the do, but they don't. To run with my pigtails flapping in the March wind like bird's wings, to look for the first deliciously green blades of grass, to watch the clouds form dizzy faces in the sky, and to go wading in the gutters after a fresh spring rain: that's what it's like to be nine. I've always liked school, but the last few weeks I've even been hurrying back early after the lunch hour . Miss Denning reads Tom Sawyer to our class for a few minutes each day after the bell rings . The last book she read us was about horses. I didn't like it very well, although most of the boys did . I like cows much better ; they have such sad faces . Anyway I'm glad Miss Denning is reading Tom Sawyer, even though it does have mostly boys in it. If I were a boy I'd build a r aft and sail around the world like a pirate. Every Saturday I have to clean my room . That's how I earn my allowance. But the rest of the day I'm free to do what I please, as long as I'm home for supper. Julie (she's my best fri.end) and I usually go somewhere on our bicycles. You'd be surprised at all the interesting places in our town. This Saturday we found a ditch that's filled with water. It has something to do with drainage. The place is quiet and beautiful with its big old trees and high weeds. Instead of a raft, we put a log across the ditch for a bridge. We've decided to form a secret club with our own secret meeting place. Julie made the flag which we tie to a tree branch when our club is meeting. I wrote our secret pledge to one another and we signed our names on it in blood. It's not really blood, only red ink. Anyway we put our secret pledge in a bottle and buri.ed it near one of the old tree stumps. Then maybe a million years from now someone will dig it up and have a key to our past and what our life was like. * * * * * My name is M'liss and I'm nineteen. Actually my full name is Sara Melissa Jayne Montclaire, but when I came to college I asked everyone to call me M'liss. Sara sounds so prudish and Jayne is just too plain. Do you remember what it was like to be nineteen? My Mother and Father think they do, but they couldn't. To be in love, to be concerned with metaphysical problems in class and matrimonial ones outside of class, to be cramming for that all important final exam, to be interested in next weekend's frat formal and wondering what to wear: 24 �that's what it's like to have been living nineteen years. Classes become a hectic habit of not being fully prepared. Your Mother becomes concerned if you don't write at least once a week. The other day I received a letter from her which went something like this: Dear Sara, I was glad to finally hear from you last week. Dad and I are proud that you made the Dean's Honor Roll. Keep up the good work! p. S. I'm enclosing some clippings from last night's paper. There's one that I thought particularly cute. MIDWEST HAS TOM SAWYER AND HUCKLEBERRY FINN Mark Twain's Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn are not limited to the Hannibal, Missouri region. Yesterday several workers uncovered a bottle containing a message. The message is similar to one found in Mark Twain's book book and ends with the ominous word "Blood!" No definite age can be given to the finding, but it is thought to be fairly old. The workers are part of a city hired crew, w hich is filling the no longer needed corporation gulch. How silly I was at the age of nine!! afraid of a shadow -Wynn Goeden It was a vague deep. It was a murky deep. It was a quiet deep. Blottfy forms of green- queer and opaque- quivered mysteriously to the force of invisible currents of subterranean flow. Tiny, minute shapes darted about between patches of seaweed- forever seeking the protection offered them in its dense interior, only to encounter larger, more sinister forms. These comprehensive forms lunged forward, absorbed the fleeing delicacies, and then settled back into their former, innate status. Once again, all was calm. Slashing downward into the hazy green substance, streaks of sunlight divided the otherwise monotonous colour into disunited mediums. A multitudinous assortment of stringy plants and leafy, vine-like structures rose from the sandy floor, arrested the penetrating rays of sunlight, and sent them reflecting back towards the surface. The strange serenity of domesticity in the realm of underwater magnificance was broken by the spectacle of a squirmy, worm-like intruder as it struggled violently to free itself from the shiny, silvery object drawn through it. The object, in turn, was suspended from a tiny 25 �strand of line seemingly infinite length which guided forever upward until it broke the surface that separated the two worlds. Below, a small figure approached the struggling lure cautiously. It appeared to be entranced by the mysterious enticement. Eyeing the bait wistfully, it quickly departed, only to return somewhat more intent on claiming its right. Suddenly a shadow lurked overhead. The small figure lunged wildly about, eyed the bait momentarily, then disappeared into a tangling, twisting array of seaweed nearby. The shadow moved on. The strand of line continued upward into the brighter blue atmosphere where it attached itself to a length of bamboo pole that protruded from a towering wharf. At the far end of the wharf a small boy played with an odd assortment of sea shells and multi-colored rocks. Nearby, a spotty dog looked into the vast depth below and intermittently broke the silence by a quick series of sharp, loud yelps. Quite unaware of the disturbance, a lone figure sat propped against a post a short distance away. Bob Walden absently leaned against a wooden dock pillar and waited for a reaction from the lifeless stock of bamboo he held in his hands. At first glance, he bore the semblance of a middle-aged person. His shoulders were bent. His clothes were slightly over-sized- the color being too drab for a man in his late twenties. A closer look, however, showed the first impression to be unjust, for after a more discerning glance, his face showed signs of youth. It lost most of its significance though, as the head bowed modestly. The added feature of a pair of unusually dark glasses did little to contribute to his visible character. Even the youthful, well-proportioned body concealed its latent power as he lay loosely propped in a slumped position. To the casual passerby, the first glance sufficed. The heavy stillness of the mid-noon air was suddenly broken by a shrill, piercing note from a passing boat. A violent quiver ran through the previously inactive form of the man propped against the dock pillar. He sank his fingernails into the soft plank to steady himself. The small boy came running up to him. "Uncle Bob! It's the Anna Rosa!" He stood looking at his uncle for a few moments, then youthfully shrugged his shoulders and ran back to the end of the wharf. The dog playfully snapped at his heels. The boy stood at the far end of the wharf and stared admiringly at the passing boat as she glided majestically towards Linatica Island. Bob Walden stared sightlessly out into the harbor. Gripping the pole mercilessly between his hands, he sank back into his former position. A light breeze chilled the beads of sweat that formed on his forehead; a slight shudder traveled along his spine. Hiis thoughts drifted ipto the past .. . The captain pulled the cord dangling before him. The whistle 26 �shrilled vialently, anly to. be partly drawned aut by the gaiety and laughter af the pleasure-seeking graup an baard. Carefree passengers careened carelessly up and dawn passageways, meeting each ather with glad and cheerful tidings. A canstant flaw af humanity passed between the cacktail launge and the ship's swimming paal where sun-burned badies dave carelessly and splashed deliberately in the clear water. Again the ship's whistle saunded. A yaung, intelligent-Iaaking man staad watching the captain in the pilat hause. The skipper he staad beside the helm, His pipe was in his mauth, And he watched haw the veering flaw did blaw The smake naw West, naw Sauth ... Wardswarth ... Langfellaw . . . he didn't remember. Bursts af laughter accampanied by the slinking af empty glasses directed the yaung man's attentian to. the sun deck where a shart, squat fellaw was entertaining a party with his ample knawledge af affcalaured. jakes. It irritated Bab Walden. He had gatten the drift af the canversatian by naw, and was farming a hearty dislike far the abviaus center af attentian. He studied the little fellaw far a shart time . He cauld see nathing appealing in him ar his humar. The little dumpy man seemed vaguely familiar. His light, tan suit was in bad need af pressing; the bright-red palka dat tie was distasteful. The yaung man turned away. Shifting his gaze tawards the law shelving beaches, he studied the bald pramantaries af the San Gabriel mauntains. The baat was leaving the caast. Near the part side he cauld distinguish the beautiful residential district af the city af Santa Paulas which nestled itself between the smug mauntains and apen span af acean. It was this sight that had drawn him to. this part af the cauntry a few years ago.. He mentally enumerated the attractians-the mild Mediterranean climate, the beauty, and the charm that made the place so. attractive to. him. That was same time ago., hawever, and he had changed his apinian since then. The Anna Rasa swerved slightly to. the impact af a wave. He sware silently as he bumped against the ship's rail. He cauldn't enjay this trip any mare. Each year, rain ar shine, the entire affice farce adventured an this yearly vacatian cruise to. the Island, and each year, he had talked himself into. caming along. He hated the trip. It anly added to. the baredam af many things that had been baring him far same time naw. As his feelings af boredam increased, he absently shifted his attentian tawards the sun deck. To. his surprise, the shart, squat man was approaching him. "Say buddy!" He waited until he was face to. face with the yaunger fellaw, "haw abaut jaining us in a little drink ar twa?" The yaunger fellaw turned away to. avaid the full farce of the faul-smelling breath. "No. thanks, nat right naw," he replied. He laaked abaut to. see a 27 �means of escape from an embarrassing scene. "Now's as good a time as any," continued the squat man, "come on! " Not waiting for a reply, he placed one arm around the other's shoulder. "You're drunk, mister! ' Damn drunk!" He side-stepped the heavy arm on his shoulder. As he did so, the little fat fellow slipped uncontrollably to one side. He gained his balance momentarily against the ship's railing, then plunged over the side. Loud screams and cries accompanied the splash that followed. One man threw out a life raft and proceeded to haul the squirming, waterlogged, over-board casualty in. Among frequent curses and threats, the little fellow coughed and sputtered. The younger man was too surprised to react until one of the party on the deck suggested that he leave instantly. Taking the advice literally, he whirled about and started off towards his cabin, half satisfied, and half afraid of the consequences that might develop from his launching of the short, squat man in the brightred polka dot tie. He was still reviewing the facts a few minutes later, as he swung boldly around a corner and stumbled headlong into an open-mouthed, blonde-haired sun bather. A small glass bottle she was carrying leaped out of her hand and smashed against the wall- its dark, oily contents spilling over the immediate area. A compact shattered into an infinite number of tiny pieces, and last of all, a large, yellow beach towel floated slowly into the lap of a very surprised and highly agitated girl. Looking directly at him, she swiftly brushed away a mop of straight blonde hair from her eyes. "You clumsy . . . awkward .. . !" " 1 agree, " he said, untangling his legs from hers. He pr oceeded to help her up. "Thank you, 1 can help myself up!" She managed to gain her ba lance for an instant, then slipped on the oily fluid issuing from the broken fragrants and fell towards him . He reached forward and grabbed her. " The deck's pretty slippery," he remarked somewhat jokingly. "Thanks to you it is," she replied. He added, more seriously, "And the sun tan lotion." "Oh, you're incorrigible!" She was regaining some poise. " I'm Bob Walden." "That doesn't sound like an apology." She brightened up a little at this mild form of introduction. She studied him casually. "I'm Kathy Neilson . . . and 1 still think you're rude." " I'm really sorry ; you see 1 don't run into people like you everyday ." " That explains it." She picked up her towel and started off towards her cabin . . Bob called after her, "When can I bump into you again?" He 28 �caught up with her, " I hope this isn't the end of our acquaintance . . . you see, I have a good side too!" " Well .. . I'll be meeting Dad in the cocktail lounge this evening." "I feel thirsty already!" Before she turned to enter her cabin he added, "Am I really incorrigible? " She smiled at him from the door way. "I don't even know what the word means." Bob Walden whistled softly to himself as she closed the door. He thought to himself, "Boy, this could prove to be a very interesting trip ." Hours later, a decorously dressed young man stood in the doorway of the cocktail lounge. He quickly surveyed the smoky, dimly-lit interior. Although the orchestra was playing softly, the floor was relatively empty. The crowd had congregated at the bar. Bob Walden gazed listlessly at a small table where a few of the more influential people had gathered. Striking gowns on the women and white coats stood out noticeably. As he stared at the figure of a light-haired girl at the table, she unconsciously looked up and their eyes met. She stood up. His mouth opened slowly as she made her way towards him . He noted her glance of approval. She greeted him politely, "I hoped you would come." "I'm glad I did." Bob studied the girl thoughtfully; unable to accept the transformation that had occurred. The very same blonde that he had run into that afternoon was standing before him. He forgot the affair with the drunk- all seemed vague- as he admired the girl smiling up at him. She was truly beautiful. She placed her arm on his shoulder. "Care to dance?" He drew her to him . "I won't be taking you away from your father or "I'm afraid I missed seeing Dad. He wasn't in his cabin. The last ... " She felt his arm grow tighter around her. Soon the two were lost to the swaying music of the small melodious orchestra. Time flew rapidly. The couple danced by themselves. They laughed at their common experiences- all the while forgetful of the passing of time, and finally, the music stopped. The small ship's hall was empty save for the few who helped close down the bar each night. Then they too drifted away and left the couple by themselves . Bob glanced towards her table. "Looks like your friends have all left." She placed her hands under his lapel. He lifted her head slowly. Leaning down gracefully, he kissed her full on the mouth. She didn't try to resist. The following day passed swiftly. Bob and Kathy saw each other constantly. The sun projected more than its usual warmth on their mid-day swims; the cool evening breezes were more refreshing. Then, 29 �the Anna Rosa swerved from her course to the Island. "Something must be wrong, Bob, the ship is going to stop off at the Naval Station!" "Miss Nielson! Paging Kathy Neilson!" shouted a voice behind them. She whirled around quickly, "Over here, please! I'm Kathy Neilson!" "Oh, Miss Neilson! Dr. Langdon wants to see you immediately. You see, he's been trying to reach you about your father . . ." "My father! What's happened to Dad?" She clutched Bob's hand. "I don't know, Miss, all I know is that Dr. Langdon wants to see you immediately. They're at the ... " Before he could finish, Kathy was hurrying towards the ship's gangway pulling Bob behind her. A tall, well-dressed man with hornrimmed glasses greeted them. "Miss Neilson . . ." "Doctor Langdon! \iVhat's happened to my father?" "Nothing serious, I'm sure," he replied, "Your father has a light attack of pneumonia. We're taking him off the boat . . ." "Oh no ... " "I'm sorry you didn't hear of this sooner; I had a message delivered to your cabin last night, but I don't suppose . .. " "I . .. I didn't .. ." she paused, looking shyly at Bob. He was observing a couple of men carrying a stretcher coming towards them. When the group stopped, a man in the stretcher turned and glared at Bob. Bob Walden's mouth dropped open. Looking directly at him was a familiar face. He recognized the short squat man. Only the bright-red polka dot tie was missing. "Dad!" exclaimed Kathy. She knelt by him, realizing something was wrong. The man attempted to rise off the stretcher. Signs of uncontrolable anger turned his pale, pudgy face a flaming red. Bob Walden looked desperately at Kathy. She was too bewildered to comment. He turned and hurried away from the scene. The stretcher moved on. A few days later Bob Walden was rapidly moving away from Santa Paulos and the incidents that had happened aboard the Anna Rosa. He had applied for a transfer to a branch office in the Midwest immediately upon his arrival back at the company. The sales department was only too happy to have him on the force. He was glad to get away. A few days after reaching his destination, he returned from his job to discover a personal letter lying on his desk. He eyed it thoughtfully, tore it open, read it carefully, then dropped it into one of the desk drawers. A few moments later he was sitting at the hotel bar enjoying the pleasant taste of a whiskey mix. The days passed slowly at first. More letters came. He put them 30 �all in the drawer. Many remained unopened, and later, he opened none. The girls at his favorite hangout catered to him obligingly. He took notice of their casual hints. Soon he was taking them to his hotel room for a nitecap. First one, then another. The months passed swiftly by in this manner; his work suffered. One morning the hotel clerk approached him with a special delivery letter from the home office. They were calling him back. "He looked at the letter arrogantly at first. Then he tossed it into the waste paper basket near his desk, and started towards the hotel bar. The large room was empty when he got there, save for a lonely bar tender who was absently wiping one of the glasses in front of him. The bar tender recognized Bob Walden and started to mix a drink. Bob seated himself on one of the stools near the man. He quickly looked away. "Hurry up with that drink!" When it was placed before him, he grabbed for it, tossed his head back and swallowed it in one easy effort. He quickly ordered another. This time he drank it more slowly. It tasted lousy. He ordered another. It tasted the same. They all tasted lousy. He pushed the glass away from him. The bartender walked over towards him. "What's the matter, buddy? I give you a bad drink?" "Aw, mind your da . .. ", he caught himself, "no, the drink's all right. It ... must be me." "Sandra will be along any minute if that's what .. ." He stopped himself when he saw the glazed look in Bob Walden's eyes. He felt sorry for him, in a way; it must be tough living the way he had been. Bob Walden laid his arms across the top of the bar and placed his face head down on them. He held this position for several minutes. Suddenly he looked at the bar tender. "What was your dad like?" The bar tender saw the sympathetic, almost pitiful look on his face. "Pop? Oh ... he was all right ... I guess." "Did he ever run out on your Ma and you .. . ?" "Well now, not that I know of ... then maybe. "Mine was a hell of a father!" "Aw gee, fellow, you can't mean "He used to come home drunk and beat up on Mom and me . . . then When he sobered up ... he ... he would tell me about the women he was chasing around with ... " The bar tender eyed him curiously. "I . . . I know what you're thinking. I've been doing the same thing." Bob Walden thought about it for a moment. "Now I know what my father was like. I ... I hated him!" 31 �The bar tender put down the glass he was wiping. " Was you just a kid then? You know ... " " I was old enough to take care of m y self then. One day . . . he was telling me dirty stories .. . they wer en't dirty, they were filthy! Then he would slap me on the back . . . and beg me to go with him . . . I hit him once . . . hard!" The following morning he bent over the waste paper basket and retrieved the letter he had thrown there the night before. This time he read it carefully. His head ceased spining temporarily. Then he pulld open the desk drawer and withdrew one of the letters from the disarrayed pile. It was dated back several months . Opening it he read the handwriting : Dear Bob : What can I say that will bring you back ... Dad is sorry for the way he acted . .. I m iss you so much . . . I'm asking you to come back because I love you ... He put the letter down slowly. Closing his eyes, he tried to swallow. He discov ered a large lump in his throat. He finished reading the letter. The San Gabriel mountains took on a new luster as Bob Walden embarked fr om the train. He checked in his luggage and strode outside the bustling station. The warm, moist air felt exceptionally good. He spotted a news stand and bought a paper. The taxi would be along shortly. He paged through the familiar sections until he came to the society section. He paused for a moment. He thought Kathy would look beautiful in any of the gowns. He tried to picture her . .. he stopped! A blonde face appeared before him. His gaze dropped to the article immediately below the picture. He paled instantly as the blood left his face. But, there was still hope . .. if he could only be there in time . .. He yelled for a taxi. Unaware of the heavy traffic, he started across the street. A horn sounded for an instant. Tires screeched. He turned to look, and everything blacked out. He felt himself twisting, tumbling .. . turning . . . "Uncle Bob! Uncle Bob! Pull, Uncle Bob! You got a bite!!" The little boy came running up to his uncle. "Pull, Uncle Bob! Hurry!" With a slow awakening reaction, the uncle jerked the pole upward. The line left the water with a little resistance. Then a large silvery fo r m splashed fearfully above the surface, and disappeared. " Gosh , Uncle Bob, you let the big one get away!" 32 �• mIrage -Ed Bedell Dawn. The sparkle of new, short-lived, moisture, reflected intermittently from the dense bluegrass. Touring clouds skudded aimlessly overhead as the electricity flashed on in the third rail of the city's commuter trains, and drowsy passengers traveled in semi-incognito behind the daily paper and business-like sunglasses. Configured window panes losing their transient decoration, the products of a chilly eve, destroyed by a brilliance beyond control, unimaginably powerful - yet distant. '" Waiting even a few minutes made him impatient. - How does one relax? A whisper of cool morning air turned the corner of the house and raised the hair on his neck. The short-sleeved shirt, thrown on hastily, provided little warmth and even less fashion. Two illigitimate canines scampered over the curb, unashamed of their dubious heritage, and rolled on top of each other in the long grass. Watching, he did not actually feel any compassion or regret - but he knew he was a remarkable procrastinator. He was certain that would be an unquestionable characteristic for which he would long be remembered. - We call them dumb animals. One heavily salivating mouth clamped firmly on the furry posterior extension of the other - but without antagonism. -We don't play that way; now they want bloody acres and counties - enough to make an empire. A name like Genghis Khan, with miles of proof. Moving only his eyes he scanned vaguely and focused on something indistinctly. -When a war starts even sensible people act irrationally, and Heaven help the ones who aren't sensible in the first place! They even do it for no good reason except to prove something that nobody really cares about anyway; people that are simply glad they are able to sit at home and watch their television sets. If one must choose, and it seems the acceptable thing to do, probably paratrooping was the most sensible solution. They try to prepare for all of the emergencies, but there are some that no one can avoid, even with colored maps and foolproof plans. Flak behind the ear - and six stinking hours in the manure mUd. The men are expendable, government issue. · I lie in the mud for hours with a piece of metal an inch under the skin and for what? - An honorable, honorable discharge and a recuperation. The doctors, all good government issue, too, claim no permanent injury - but be careful of 33 �any shock. Don't stand up too fast, don't run too fast, don't think too fast, for at least a year. He opened the screen and walked inside. A short mound of magazines and clothes lay piled on the kitchen table, creating a mountainous terain in silhouette on the wall, as the sunlight streamed over and past it. Stepping to the stairway, he listened carefully for a moment. It would be a day or two, at most; but days of fifty hours apiece, probably. He paced a little. Seating himself in one of the severe wooden chairs, he groped in his pocket fOor a cigarette - an empty package with a torn tax stamp. The other pocket was more fruitful, yielding a light green book of matches, with half of one row still intact. -Each pack with a dark blue stamp. For tax, he thought. I suppose it all goes someplace, for some kind of value. The taxes come in to buy more blue stamps, I suppose. The minute hand on the wall clock circled painfully, the hour hand, imperceptibly; both pursuing a thin, but agile red second-hand. Feeling, breathing, seeming for hours of minutes. Holding the screen door open with one hand, he watched the car turn into the driveway. The tires caught a stone and squirted it sideways from beneath the tread . The fact that his own car was badly in need of new tires was the most remote thought in his mind at this moment; the doctor was here now. There were always other things which required his immediate attention - his pattern was traditional, typical to an extreme, to a revolting excess. The paint on the physician's car was streaked with evidences of muddy emergencies and it appeared a little neglected. - Who was Hippocrates? The professional gray suit, inconspicuous tie, and the black shoes slid from the front seat, grasped the leather and closed the door on the first catch. Brief greetings were made - the doctor was obviously in demand elsewhere. That is one thing characteristic of the profession one relinquishes some measure of his personal privacy, becoming an expensive, cultured semi-serf at the beck and call of society. The doctor conducted a fairly hasty, routine examination, and drove leisurely downtown. They spoke freely with him, an old friend one in whom they had not only a professional but personal confidence. It afforded them both some measure of satisfaction and assurance to discuss it with him, a person utterly familiar with this common, yet perpetually mysterious and glorious phenomenon of nature . . . birth. Looking through the spotty windows the usually prosaic panorama took on a new perspective. New store displays, moustaches, and postoffices with movement. The spring look in hats seemed a hideously nonsensical reversion to the primitive, a trend which was consuming the public, not only in this field, but infiltrating - establishing - ingratiat34 �ing itself - and ultimately monopolizing every fiber of an impressionable and impulsive economy. A park with benches, and pigeons under a dry fountain. -Wooden signs, all cracked and weatherbeaten, that used to say something. The typical park scene, and he had not even noticed. - During a war one views a situation in a radically different manner, also. A week of rest in Rome where there were no guns and ammunition piles was imperative for recuperation, and he had taken full advantage of it. Down almost any flight of stairs there were the enticing glows of red or amber lights - but only a few so that it was dark - creating some kind of false, misleading, but thrilling atmosphere that would soon be destroyed and rekindled on another evening. Cheap tables stood patiently in corners with dirty checkered cloths - although the darkness hid the dirt - and girls sat with their hands folded on top of the tables. The inevitable combo standing on a low platform looking gaunt and drugged by their own rhythms, seldom even daring to climb the precipitous stairway to the brilliance of street-level . . . they labored dutifully in chorus turns and in ensemble. Companionship was provided by a perspicacious management, to keep our spirits high and flowing freely - at hundreds of lira per bottle. Really, it was cheap, but the trial of money conversion was usually far too great an ordeal for the average customer and he came out none the wiser (but much less affluent). The drive was not long, and the middle-morning traffic just beginning to thicken. The mere fact that they were on the way was a very comforting thought, and they relaxed a great deal as the motor soothed, droningly.The hospital loomed impressive and brick - a window washer industriously soaping and sponging in a broad leather belt on the third floor looked down on the doctor's dirt encrusted car, considering professional expansion. -This might be a kind of "stretcher Mecca" for arrival and departure, he thought mildly. The car swept past the red and yellow signs someone had placed beside the driveway, their concrete bases slightly askew, their message apparently in extreme discomfort; it turned the driveway at the rear of the hospital and parked beneath the neon sign. It had not been turned off from the night previous, and it looked pitifully innocuous with its anemic pink glow. - In-Patient, in pink glass. Stepping from the car, he bundled the incidentals together and backed away from the door. A magazine slipped with a soft swish from the small stack of reading material, and fell beside the rear tire, its garish cover turned half under. 35 �He stopped, then straightened again. A light warmth had supplanted the early morning briskness. The doctor opened the door and stood back a step for them to enter. The weatherbeaten door squeaked a little ; the small printed "PULL" over the handle nearly rubbed off by countless traffic. They climbed a short flight of concrete stairs- unpainted and worn a little in the center, but rimmed with a protective strip of metal sunk firmly into the cement. - Six stairs . . . landing . . . and four. A nurse came from a room beside them and padded softly along the hall, the white of her uniform contrasting vividly with the universal here - the universal of need, of dark sickness. Intruding harshly, a brown loudspeaker on the wall barked impersonally, and somewhere it had m eaning. The speaker had a mouth of clot. Devoid of eyes, but possessing a fine mouth, for which someone else did the looking . .. and the thinking.-Insistent, it barked, persistent. He noticed the soft air of the airconditioning fans as they collected, dehumidified, and recirculated the air, but left untouched the unmistakable scent of gauze, iodine, and ether. They filed down the wide hall on the second floor and through a maple-stained door on which a letter and a number had been nailed. They were copper, tarnished a little, he noticed. Two windows in the private room faced the east, shielded at the moment by a partially pulled venetian blind. The sun was higher, and the blinds caused flickering illusions of rubber bars, waving and weaving over chairs, around a night stand, and spearing finally onto a bed. - Clean sheets, of whiteness ... a pillow soft ... A fortyish registered nurse opened the blinds exposing the rest of the aperture, and moved a large screen in front of the open door. Privacy seemed logical to him, too. Directly over the bed a thin rubber cord snaked down from the molding on the ceiling, suspending a black pushbutton. The doctor made assignments to the nurse - closing a medical-looking bag -shaking of hands -returning tomorrow -assurances -and a hasty departure ~ he had other patients in other rooms. A short time later, a husband, realizing his superfluity, departed. The nurses, dressed immaculately, observed closely and responded; the doctor consulted at regular intervals. The loudspeakers droned their 36 �monotonous monologue in the reverberating marble halls; and the nauseating anesthetic persisted. Waiting and restless. Blue tax stamps were torn rudely, and new ones were printedexhausting matchbooks and painting soft lungs with the sooty refuse from a fruitless, universal habit. Time. Eons to come. Opportunity. Ability. Accomplished. AND A SON. * * Part Two * And with midday a feeling of new purpose a revitalizing or some type of energy prompting him to hurry around store to store buying as though he were instable things that he did not need the baby would not need but he was making certain that in this most glorious this most triumphal moment of his prosaic life as a servile flatterer he would be prepared a servile flatterer with clients and he was one of them and he knew it but so were the rest of them in the office cautious to an extreme so as not to offend rather to please with the most minute thoughtfulness and treats at lunch and with infinite sickening joking and insincere socializing and he hated everyone of them not for what or who they were personally rather what they stood for as a means of existence a dirty facet of society if one could just be atypical once a little different to be what you actually are to have an opinion that you could voice without being warned of rebuke without the fear of socalled public opinion like everyone else that says you must flatter and compliment because people expect it and dislike those who do not comply who are outspoken who have an iota of difference from these people we should shy away yes you should shy away from an insidious man who thinks since someone with illgotten rank perhaps will determine the complexities and the decisions will be handed down and the toadies will follow unthinkingly conforming accepting acting afraid to have to even consider an opinion of their own rather to extend the almighty gladhand that pays the grocer and destroys the integrity while smothering the pride over and over God knows how often each day this happened and in which his wife was forced to share and must have felt too and then night was planning and cigarettes and matches and dirty dishes until the next visit the next morning to 2-B just a few hours of sleep that was really sleeping I'll say I told them the nurses the doctor everybody that over and over I wanted only the best for her and I meant 37 �it but there ~re just some.things that should ,be done around here that will simply have to wait not to mention that rotten meeting this afternoon which of course cannot wait for an hour or two . .. instead I'll run myself ragged .around a . king arthur's table and shake their hands ~nd nod yes :at appropriate points in the conversation -smile like hell to push it through but the big boss has no kids and if that is what it takes to be executive material I will settle for less and forget about his chair stuffed with five dollar bills and twenty five cent cigars mounting the fading blue carpeted stairway he slept fpr several hours driving to the office noticing people he thought that most of those obsequious fawns walking don't care or even particularly care to know about others but one thing is certain that if you do not trust them don't rely on every Duke or Duchess of main street on the way to the palace mute and deaf unless you are giving something away if you ignore them and return the same lack of courtesy you are less apt to suffer it might seem impossible to be alone in the midst of so many humans but no one cares or notices but instead walks on to his palace takes the elevator to the seventh floor and sits behind his cardboard nameplate with a rubber stamp his scepter but they rule robeless even the leather jacket boys have their distinguished garb and two wheeled cadillacs and buddy seats with saddle bags but they are the ones that caused insurance rates to be hiked again regardless theyll keep going faster and faster and cut down the surplus population until we get a bloody select group and the small man in the high place when the office beckons I respond as all respectable serfs do when they know their name and that a slap on the back means a little butter and a full mouth all from meetings and coffee talks and late concessions and rotton compromises and a personal type impersonality that is business : today in the conference room I'll bow and scrape and send the office boy with my car to get my wife and boy that I cannot even take an hour off to take them horne and a long dull morning until noon and he had his quick lunch with other brief cases and black taut smiles in business suites with wrinkled pants and foreheads who even probably played football or baseball in school years years ago now with gross stomachs as alumni they watch my son break his arm for the alma mater and his name on the radio and television even those room at the top tritiBms aren't so foolish if some twobitters can wangle elevator jobs on pull through an aunt of an executive and finally 38 �the meeting at three oclock with others of the same category the office boy takes my keys and drives slowly with my wife and boy through the long dryness of the meeting while an arid councilroom parched the throats and dried crisp the temperaments until a call came for me they said the car was a total loss out of control with a double blowout into a tree the driver had scratches BUT MY FAMILY DIED * * Part Three * * A professional clip-board bearing three yellow graph sheets and a white memorandum hung at the foot of the bed in the sunlight, the words "Psychotherapeutic Ward" lettered poorly across the back in white ink. A light evening breeze turned small eddies of dust about his feet, each a vaporous phenomenon-appearing, flourished briefly, and dissolving unaccomplished. In the leadening sky the patchwork of clouds drew together into foreboding banks of .thunderheads, and a low murmuring broke the stillness of dusk. Reeds rustling in a black stagnant pool near the road drew his attention, the brown tops turning to and fro in fascinating rhythm. We watched the ripples of water as they rimmed the reeds circling larger and larger, broken only occasionally by a startled rock, and eventually fading from view. Over a distant hill winged survivors of some nearly forgotten era veered sharply across a yellowing horizon, alighting momentarily to examine the stark, crumbling ruins and to peer through the shells of paneless windows. The shroud of darkness fell about him and he ran . . . Before him, concealed in limitless black, lay the nameless phantasms of a troubled society, of which he shared membership and duties and difficulties. A moon lay cautiously half-hidden behind a billowing cloud, but a second, as if in apology, moved swiftly ahead of him. Wispy fingers of fog pointed the route, it was no longer his choice. How often must an opporunity present itself before it is drawn irrevocably from view? The rain came. Slowly at first-but grew in intensity with each succeeding pellet, as beyond, the gliding shadows danced in weird revery across the moon. Confronted, he hesitated at the gaping mouth of an avenue of trees, intrigued by the faultless symmetry of the naked limbs and trunks as they marched precisely beside the path, each groping skyward in perpetual struggle for some vague, unattainable recognition. He en- 39 �tered, and was enveloped in a pall of dismal, oppressive color. Behind him, the contending trees glided together forming an impregnable wall of black. Voices indistinct, but pervading melted into the dense fiber of darkness, vanishing as abruptly as they appeared. Motivation - an insatiable feeling of urgency, propelled him headlong through the driving rain, as jagged bolts of lightning formed hideous profiles against the sky. It was futile to hurry now . He was no more privileged, no more intelligent-he had indulged in a human failing, a human shortcoming common to all but a minute few-he had gambled and ultimately lost-consuming his ideals and his aspirations. Somewhere, for a moment, a child cried. Infinite hours. The rain slackened and the first moon slid from behind the clouds -the second was gone. At least one had survived some atmospheric adversity; proud of accomplishment but fated as are all of its genre. And the fantastic wood was bathed in illimitable silence - he stopped. From the darkness came the complex sounds of whisper and echo, of anger and conflict. Highpitched whistles shrieked into the night and momentous peals of thunder replied with an even fiercer violence. From the darkness came the figures grotesquely familiar; an assailed spirit knew them as clawing, as tearing, and falling- sensations, experiences uncanny, memories repellent; the sounds and sights of jollity, destruction, and of irrevocable gloom and waste. The fierceness of the combative sensations grew as they mingledmounting to gargantuan proportions, a colossal rumbling, as though the earth were parting, pounded at his ears. With unutterable horror, he saw the branches about him extending in brilliant crimson and black array, encompassing him in extravagant embrace. Pursued by bizarre images and the ilLt..redible multiplying dissonances, he fled into the eternal night-black of resignation and limitless despair. In the hallway the smell of ether endured mouths were silent. 40 and the sightless ��� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College. Through its several titles—Manuscript, Perspectives, and Kiosk—the magazine has a long history of celebrating creative writing and art on campus. It began publication in 1938 under the title of Manuscript before changing its name to Perspectives in 1953. Then in 1971 it took another name that it is known by currently: Kiosk. It is still published annually by the Morningside College English Department. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1938- Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Morningside College Library Morningside College English Department Ponder, Marcie: Digital Creator Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical PDF Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Title A name given to the resource Kiosk Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource "The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children," (The Kiosk, 2003). Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. PERSPECTIVES 1958 perspectives I I STAFF Volume XVII Sprinq 1958 Number 1 1 ========================================== : = Editor Carolyn Meyer TABLE OF CONTENTS Auqust Wind _________________ Gene Cannaday 2 v Ne, er to Lauqh _________ _________ Keith Tandy 2 A. B. C. _______________________ Reverdy Mace 3 Naturally __________________________ Keith Fry 4 Sierras ________________________ Carolyn Lewis 4 Mid-March ___________________ Virqinia Bailey 5 On Be'c ominq Mature ________ Virqinia Kiernan 6 Robert Ames Who Am I? _________________ Rosa lee Jacobson Ed Bedell Growth ___________ ______________ Kay Zurcher 6 7 Shirley Cox Continuance ________________ Judy Joan Taplin 7 Carolyn Lewis Heredity ____________________ Ro,n ald Haddock 8 Mary Silzer Voice ___ ______ ______________ Ro'n ald Haddock 8 Just in Passinq ___________________ Isobel Bla'c k 9 And He' Was Dyinq ________ ___ Gene Cannaday 10 Modem Love ______________ ____ __ Isobel Black 11 I, Beinq a Dreamer ____________ Virginia Bailey 12 What Happened to Carl Dunn? ___ Nancy Crary 14 Book Review: Love of Seven DoUs__ Nancy Crary 17 Book Revie, : The Vanishinq Hero ___ _E:d Bedell w 18 The Circus: Fo'r Cummin,gs ________ Kei1 Tandy h 20 My Name is Sara____________ Rosalee' Jacobson 24 Afraid of a Shadow ____________ Wynn Geoden Miraqe _________________ _____ ______ Ed Bedell 25 33 Associa. e Editor t Keith Tandy Business Manaqer Ronald Haddock Editorial Board K~ith Tandy Cover Desiqn Keith Fry Faculty Advisor Dr. WUliam Palmer perspectives is published by the stUdents of Morningside College. august wind I wandered as a wind-moved thing And asked for causes, Life. And for life a little pretty, vague but true I wandered. as a wind-moved thing Which knows not . . . . And cares. As does care the stricken, helpless, dying Cold and bleeding forms of catlike innocence. Little death, little pain, little hope gone out ; These cause me now to wander as a wind-moved-thing. Wander for fear, for forlorn ghosts Of insecurity. Sometimes I fluttered-aloft Then played as something free, And prayed as sometimes free . . . . But August Wind blows not hard, And swiftly or slowly Do I find my path or make my Path along the dirty pretend-like ground of realness and scraps of paper and bits of dung. I wander as a wind-moved thing. -Gene Cannaday never to laugh Since birth, or before - prenatally destined Continual war: his nature unmended, The impulse of love, unanswered, untended, By Ego, the Brute who murders the peacedoves. An idiot-told tale, of sound and of fury, The world was a terror, half loved and half not Till one who was whole reached out ·to this wounded With healing of heart and laughter unending. 2 The peace was but brief, the laughter not always; ' they left, and the warring once more held its swayThe blackness descended full terrible nowAnd never to laugh: again, deeper wounding. Keith A . Tandy Q. b. c. Take international dispute " A." Take participants "X" "Y", "Z." Take factors 1, 2, 3. Take proposals "a", "b", "c." Take solutions " al", "bl", "CI" Take myriad facts. Quite objective, eh? Have the solution yet? No? You want to know who "X" is? "Y" is? "z" is? Then you can decide who is "wrong" and who is "right"? So! "X" i s -- - . "Y" is - - -. "Z" is - - -. Ah so! It all clears up for you! I see you have come to a conclusionA solution to our problem. Yes! I'm proud of you! It's marvelous What logical, objective thinking can accomplish! Yea, verily! -ReverdY Mace 3 naturally there they are, happy, satisfied, owners of what? it 10 oks like, therefore it is just about always right. two eyes, green leaves, mouth, trunk, air, water, legs, Hair, kidneys and plenty of all-knowing righteousness. dotheyreallyknow? emo tions thrusting ever forwar dlike marching troops of hapless maY'be-thinking always thinking someday winning stalwartsof nothing ordered. upsidedown who-cares? But-we'll triumph Weirdly enough. -Keith Fry 4 • SIerras The green serenity below, The virgin, unmarred span Essential to the perfect Plan, Recalled with sweet nostalgia so, Memories of the place from which I go. The bold, grey strength encircling above, Reinforced by brave spires Reaching upward, higher, Wondering here what great Love Gave this to man from the great Above. -Carolyn Lewis mid-march It snowed today Big popcorn flakes whirling in unison Like dancers freed of gravity Leaping higher and higher As if they strove to reach The heaven from whence they came Of racing silver clouds- grand- mysterious. And the wind was small and fierce, Its little fingers piercing thick coats And running through a passer's hair Like an ungentle mother. The earth seized the snow gratefully To hide her frozen emptiness. Then through my closed window I heard the song Of the invisible bird Rippling, cascading, sparkling, Full of the warmth of summer days And tenderness, and love of life. And it was spring. -Virginia Bailey 5 on becoming mature Like a shadow being lifted from my mindA long, a hurtful shadow of 'b eing a child, Suddenly I know so very much Where once my thoughts were wild. I understand; I comprehend The many things I used to doubt. With the passing of the time The hazy clouds pass out. Still I know not everything. So many things allure. It is all in the process Of becoming mature . .. and I? I am not so sure I like it. -Virginia Kiernan who am i? Forever I shall have to bide With the question, Who am I? I could oil my heart on canvass For all the world to see That this is me, I could sing and dance Subjective creativity, For these expressions Surely would be mine. r could try life's mysteries To further clarify; Spend my life In search of formulae. Or could I? Who am I? -Roselee Jacobsen 6 growth Idea knocks and enters Uncalled Unsought Without question, command or Wondering word And becomes the single important needed wordless thought. Thought grows and attains new life Widening Deepening Reaching a new height of mind Before release As hope felt quiet word command or needed action. -Kay Zurcher continuance The sun has fallen, The sky is dusky gray; A stillness everywhere salutes The death of a day. The moon has risenNature will not mourn; For with the passing of a day, A night is born. -Judy Joan Taplin 7 heredity Rich, old man he was Weren't never Happy. Had to carry, harry, Show all ways and point. Grabbed each one Could raise a thought And shook Till thought had died Or turned to water or To blood. Guess I learned all bad I Knew from him, was plenty. Ain't I tired livin, in this hole He made of all Those pretty thoughts and Souls? Ain't I sick a'watchin, Scratchin, fightin to be Lost with all you fools? -Ronald Haddock • VOICe You tired of fightin? You just got started. Give me weapons Still unheard, Give me language Vile, profane. Don't start quittin, Kill again, again Again. You tired of Trampin Colored Pigment? Souls and hearts And Spirits dark? Keep on movin, N oisin poison. Your throat's yet Clear - I hear you Groan? 8 Keep those eyes shut! Don't go peekin. Keep that fire a'burnin Steady. Find the fuel, Don't look to them. They'd slow the battleMaybe stop. They'd quit and rest Or want to talk But don't you listen, Not one word. Rabal's mutterance every sob. Dig in deeper, Stuff your ears. Don't stop swingin, Now you're winnin! Shut your brain. To all but hate. Equals damned And slaughtered brother. Kill again, again And more. Kill them all, how dare these Cringing, soul claimed, Shameful, beaten Blacks love you. Draw that bead and Shatter Mothers! Kill your soul again, Again, again. -Ronald Haddock just in passing Hello, and how are you today? Why, yes, it is a lovely day. What was I doing in the yard? So, Fanny Brown sent you a card? The flowers are doing .very well. Why, yes, that is the factory bell. I hope I see you soon again, I wonder what could be his name? -Iso bel Black 9 ... and he was dying And where was truth when he was dying? All the rest were there: Folly, greed, selfishness It would not wait for better time The fullness, we are told, was near The god Almighty will was being done, Amen! But he was dying, Not death, that pretty childhOod figure Which shines when sweet prayers are sung Not death the worthy goal of Martyr's steps No, not death which casts its silent shade of sleep over age grown dim. But death which lies within a heavy Toil of grief and hurts, which clouds the Man with hard despairing tears. No . a death of pain - real Throbbing, choking, stinging Death of muscle, brain and soul. Look you from here! All of you who carve statues of him Look you "upon" what he saw The enemy's condescension A scoffer's glee A stronger's mute derision Look you and weep if Time and Death have Passed you by . . . . And where was love when he was dying? Asleep in meadow beds of timeless sighing? Was it warming too frozen hands and heart Before a lifeless flame? Was love running swift and naked Flight, Or dying with the other death? Peace! He cries aloud ... Peace, and he smiles 10 Peace could nowhere else be found. It was not at the Eagles Golden Dome, Where wine and women's breathing Had scarce dissolved War's Specter, Fear It was not at Sanhedrin's hall, Where Justice had so late been raped And left for Evil's whoredom. Left as Faithless to be used again for Stinking sport of Faithful men. And he was dying And he was dying Not just of bone and heart betraying Nor of the four, hot bleeding, swelling Wounds. But he was dying who had been Love and Peace And Truth And he was dying And they were Gone. -Gene Cannaday modern love I'll love you 'til the cows come home Or 'til the birds all fly to Rome. I'll love you 'til eternity Becomes a Sunkist orange tree. I'll love you now, I'll love you then, I'll love you 'til I don't know when. And if need be, on love I'll live And what the angels have to give. So darling, sign that check from heaven, Because the clothes stores close at seven. -Isobel Black 11 I, being a dreamer I, being a dreamer, and young, cling to life Not with the certain blind tenacity 'W ith which some poor rabbit Draws his last, desperate, gasping breaths, But with another fear As strong and deep as instinct. I hold to life with fingers numb from grasping Lest I should loose my hold and lose The sweet, painful experiences Of life itself, and my soul cries with regret to think of leaving them. Yet I know them not, and have never known them. The things I know I leave without despairThe yellow leaves and red and velvet cattails Where I walked along the Little Sioux With the burly black dog crashing through the bru sh Matting cockleburrs in his tail. With no regret I leave it and the smell of lilacs from the two bushes outside the door, And the gentle hands who dressed me And the dear familiar faces around the table When I was a childCool sheets, old friendshipsI could turn my back on them And on the teacher with the curly hair And gay laugh- the friend who talked Of love and life with meAnd this brick building, waiting To drown with floods of its cool water My knowledge-thirsting brain. Not for these do I clutch at life Not for these do I reel with regret To think of death. But, I, being a young dreamer, Feel the loss of what I have never known. 12 If I should die I would miss the cool damp of a London fog against my cheek, the sound of the bellsolemn, mysterious, and the bridge, and my own reflection dancing vaguely on the black water, with the old footsteps echoing on the time worn bridge. Yes, I would regret it, and the child lying still and heavy against the rise and fall of my own breast-to see his hands curled and pink and flawless like a shell, and know him to be mine. I would never miss the kiss I never feltThe kiss of love, hard and sweet, and the strong arms Holding me, and the fierce joy of being loved. More than that-to love, soul and heart, To know one face-the warmth of two eyes And the heart and mind behind, Known, and yet too deep to be comprehended. I would regret the vows not taken And the joyous pain of being two-alone. There are other dreams, and I think How it would be to lie, knowing That I would never rise up and fulfill themDreams of being great and good- wise, selfless, compassionate, with genius Burning in a pure white flame, infinite, holy. Then I lie in the dark in my soft narrow bed, And I know regret as sharp as a thin blade In my bleeding heart, and death seems sweet For dreams are made of silver. But reality, which gleams like gem-strewed gold Crumbles to ashes when I reacn. out to touch it. -Virginia Bailey 13 what happened to Carl Dunn? Julia hurried down the midway, pushing past long-legged girls in dark glasses and avoiding a lost cocker spanie1. She looked up at the blaze of color - the lights of the turning ferris wheel, neon signs over the bars and bingo games, the huge red witch on the House of Horrors. The noisy jangle somehow soothed her nerves, as it always did. She clutched a sketch pad and colored pencils in one hand. Joe could never understand why she loved to come here on summer nights. But today, when she had said she was going to the park, he had hardly seemed to hear This was the first time of the year. The park hadn't been open long. She turned past the cotton candy stand toward the familiar booth. It was empty. She stopped short, hoping that if she looked hard enough, the big sign would reappear above the mass of profile drawings : Carl Dunn, Artist. Portraits, $1.00. But the streaked yellow wall remained bare. The excitement of the evening faded, the colors looked gaudy and glaring again, and the smell of stale popcorn made her feel sick. She sat down quickly on a nearby bench. It had been nine years ago that Julie had first found Carl's booth at the park. She had spent the whole evening watching him draw, while her friends went on the rides. Afterwards she had gone home and practiced drawing in all her spare time. She had been fifteen the night he had let her take his pencils and paper and draw a portrait of her father. The evening had been complete when Carl had said she had talent. Julie had never known much about him. He seemed to be in his fifties, and she supposed he was a bachelor. He spent his winters drawing in the French Quarter in New Orleans. He had odd hands for an artist; they looked more like those of day laborer - short, stubby fingers and gnarled hands. Last summer, when she and Joe had been married, she had tried to explain why she kept going back to watch Carl draw. Joe had only said that if she wanted to be an artist, she should go to art school. But it wasn't that. Julie wasn't sure, herself, why she went once a week to sit and watch the likenesses of the customers grow on the paper, sometimes to sketch the strange and varied people who walked by on the midway. The thought of Joe brought her back to the problem she had meant to escape tonight. What had been bothering him these past few days? Why was he suddenly so moody and depressed? Why couldn't she share it with him, whatever was wrong? She had been sure, when she married Joe, that there would always 14 be complete understanding between them. They would share every emotion, every problem. But it hadn't been that way. There were things, like the midway, that she couldn't explain to Joe. And there were things she couldn't understand about him, like his mood this week. A fat, dark woman waddled out behind the counter of the curio shop next to Carl's booth. JUlie had seen her there often, though she had never spoken to her. On sudden impulse, Julie hurried over to the store. "What's happened to Carl Dunn?" The woman looked surprised. Her eyes narrowed as she sized Julie up. "Him?" she finally spat out. "Who knows? Who cares? He ain't back this year." "Well . . . do you know where he is?" Julie was surprised at her driving curiosity. "Somebody heard from him, I guess. He's down in New Orleans . . . got mixed up with some young girl. Really fell for her, I hear. She walked out on him. Can't blame 'er. He probably beat her up all the time. A real snake, that one." The woman turned her very large back and began arranging displays in another counter. Hardly thinking what she was doing, Julie walked to the next booth. "Madame Bolini, Fortunes Told." Madame Bolini, a toothless old gypsy, was sitting outside the purple curtain. "Tell your fortune, lady?" "No, I was just wondering . .. can you tell me what's happened to Carl Dunn?" The old woman cackled and rolled her eyes up. "That Carl. Always, he played the joke. Many nights, I laughed with him . .. I don't know where he is this year. He would come by here, and say, 'Rosie, have you heard . . ." Madame Bolini's voice trailed off in weird shrieks of laughter. Julie hurried on. Lal Barker, the owner of the skating rink, was leaning against the door of the rink and watching the midway. Julie crossed to him and asked her question. "Lal, what's happened to Carl?" "Hello, there, Julie. I thought you'd be around this year. Carl's , still in New Orleans, I guess. I only had a postcard from him. Said he wasn't coming, something about a girl . .. I really don't know much. Poor Carl." "Why 'poor Carl?'" Julie and Lal moved a little away from the boom of the skating rink organ. "Age, sickness, the same things that get us all in the end. Did you know that Carl was over seventy years old? No, you wouldn't- he sure didn't look it. Those years was catching up with him, though. Had 15 arthritis. When he was young, they said he'd be a great artist. I guess he wasted his time, and then his fingers commenced to get stiff. Sometimes he'd say to me, 'Lal, I'm just waiting to die.' " Julie listened eagerly to ev ery word. She was becoming fascinated with this Carl she had never known. " There's some customers," Lal was saying. "I'll have to go. See you around." Julie moved down the midway, to the penny arcade on the other side of Carl's booth. The shriveled, bald-headed ticket-seller was reading a paper-back mystery. "Excuse me, can you tell me what's happened to Carl Dunn?" The little man stared at her thr ough yellowed, steel-rimmed spectacles. "What you want him for?" "I'm a friend of his." " I dunno where he is, probably in jail. Always playing the hor ses. He'd make fifteen, twenty a night and spend it the next day on the ponies. Never knew him to win, much, but he'd keep playing. Don't ask me where he is, lady. Just another midway bum ... " Julie drove home slowly, with the windows of the car wide open. The fresh breeze and brooding silence of the night, contrasting sharply with the park's glare and jangle, seemed to clear her mind. She puzzled over the man, Carl Dunn, and what she had learned about him tonight. Where was the key to him, the simple answer to the different picture each person she'd interviewed had had of him? Suddenly, Julie was seeing him draw, again. It was always the same. The physical features of the person would be there, on t he sketch pad, and she was always sure that the portrait was perfect. But seldom did the subject or his friends agree. And when he had drawn her portrait, she had been sure it was well done, but yet she had asked, " Is that what I look like?" Joe was watching television when she came in. He looked up and smiled, a little more warmly than he had in several days. "Hi, you're home early." "Carl wasn't there." Julie said no more. She was afraid her adventure would dissolve if she put it into words. -Nancy Crary 16 Book Reviews ... love of seven dolls by ~aul Gallico (Doubleday) 1954 Paul Gallico, in his career as a writer, has gone from sports analyst to war correspondent to mystic . His early fiction was mostly sports stories, and books such as Golf is a Friendly Game. Then, after a period as a war correspondent, he began to write in a very subjective and mystical vein. His most famous short story, "The Snow Goose," and his books, The Abandoned, Snowflake, and Love of Seven Dolls fit into the last category. Love of Seven Dolls reads almost like a tale from the Grimms' collection, retold to appeal to adults and set in modern times. It has a magical quality which is not crudely supernatural but delves into the magic of the human personality. Set in Paris, Love of Seven Dolls is the story of Mouche, a young woman who has left her farm home in the provinces to become an actress. She has had little success, and at the opening of the story is about to throw herself in the Seine because she has run out of money and has no one to turn to. A red-haired, elfin puppet calls to her from a small puppet theater, and there begins a deep friendship between Mouche and the seven puppets who make up the small traveling show. A bond grows between the girl and the dolls as she begins to sing and play-act with them, to the delight of audiences. She becomes a part of the show, but the puppetier is as cruel to Mouche as his dolls are kind. Something within his cynical nature is repelled by her essential innocence. The more beatings and harsh words she receives at his hands, the more she loves and is loved by the puppets. Each of these dolls is a distinct individual, with faults and virtues of his own. Eaoh is carefully drawn as a character by Gallico. So skillfully is this done that it is difficult as a reader to keep in mind the obvious fact that the dolls can have no life in themselves, and are only expressions of the mind of the man who moves them. That a character as good as Mouche could be created without seeming a throwback to the worst of Victorian heroines is in itself surprising. She is saved by the fact that her goodness seems to be utterly unconscious. Mouche does not preach, either to the reader or 17 to the others in the book. She is not a prude, and not a weakling. So Mouche lives and breathes in spite of her great virtue. It is the author's success in creating sympathy for Mouche, making us almost share her adventure, that keeps this book from being painfully moralistic. Gallico makes no attempt to hide his theme at the end, but in the relatively short preceding narrative he has built a believable preface to the theme. The message of Love of Seven Dolls is simply that love is stronger than hate. No man can be totally evil; and when evil comes in contact with good, the good will win out. There is certainly nothing original about this theme when it is isolated, but in the context of the book the seven dolls express it in a highly original way. This magical, mystical story is unusual enough to make a well-worn teaching seem fresh and new. -N ancy Crary the vanishing hero by Sean O'Faolain (Little, Brown) 204 pp.-1957 Every American imagination can conjure a vivid mental picture of the so-called 'fervent Twenties'-a brief, but particularly important segment of a prospering nation'S' history. Author Sean O'Faolain, in a series of lectures delivered at Princeton University in 1953 and in this book reprinted, chooses to deal critically with eight of the outstanding writers of this ten-year span from 1920 to 1930--only four of which I may consider with more than brief mention; James Joyce, Huxley, Faulkner, and Graham Greene. In an exceptionally extensive introduction, considering the relative succinctness of the work, O'Faolain stresses his main thesis wthich is to unite the various chapters of the book. He feels, if these authors are representative, some failure of values occurred in the Twenties which forced writers to find their own truths, and to dream in isolated, personal worlds. The specific thesis is, that the Hero, the fine fellow whose side we were on and "who stood as the champion of society's code," has disappeared from fiction, and in his place is a sort of anti-hero, whom we favor, but who is at odds with society and with himself. O'Faolain traces this type of character to a French heritage, and cites numerous convincing, although somewhat isolated examples. Illumination, witty, and always provocative, the critic talks of Huxley's lack of intellectual discipline-claiming Huxley's limited 18 human sympathy prevents him from associating himself realistically with his characters (at least, sufficiently to make an intelligible, human personages of them). Faulkner is considered a man with too much genius- too much inspiration without the perspiration that makes nonsensical sentences into coherent units. The average Faulkner reader, O'Faolain claims, cannot accept nor can he understand a type of Faulkerian incoherence. This is, in this case, the fault of the author, and O'F'a olain concentrates for several pages on a rather incisive examination of the circumstances. In Faulkner the critic finds a good man without ideas, who cannot construct, cannot express, cannot control, but with a "certain gargling nobility." In his chapter on Faulkner, O'Faolain's own style launches into an enormous display of American intellectual prose, which distracts the reader and forms an incongruous contrast with the candid lucidity of the other chapters. Graham Greene seems to be treated with somewhat undue harshness. He accuses Greene of making his characters mere "puppets subservient to his theme," and later says, "his characters . . . ran away with him." O'Faolain places Hemingway in the classical tradition, applauds Bowen's perceptiveness, comments on Woolf's nearly complete selfabsorption and remarks throughout the entire book about James Joyce's magnificent moments of vision. In the latter's work, O'Faolain finds an anomalous artistic figure, capable of fine literary deception-a master of his style. He feels Joyce's ability, the execution of his ideas, and the resultant effect on the reader is superb. Joyce writes a personal parable (as do most good authors) and he, particularly, inserts himself into every fiber of the texture of his books, but conveys an irrefutable attitude of detachment- the detachment of which Huxley is incapable. Although Mr. O'Faolain's thesis has dubious aspects, his critical analyses of the separate authors are exciting and rare. They are extremely compelling in their creation of a desire to read and inquire personally into the opinions stated. O'Faolain is a marvelous writer, has utterly brilliant insights into style and narrative techniques, and his own style is graceful and markedly clear at .all times. The Vanishing Hero is an intelligent, concise work providing a new and intriguing perspective from which to view the authors of the Nineteen-Twenties. -Ed Bedell 19 The Circus: for Cummings -Keith Tandy Prologue under and around the great tent clusteredlikeleeches the SUBordinates and un artists (all, freakish pranked) in anger at isolated excellence 'once, long ago and faraway: and how terrible a thing to Believe - -and then be told that there were MANY "Greatest showsonearth" the side show shelleyesque in body, grotesque oddities of nonnature parade and display their possessions, possessed, of u g I n e s s 20 and sheer nauseaevoking skillfullness shuddered, and felt sick of mind. promenade hemingway clutched, being caught up of a moment (his maximum) at metalious-and i proceeded . . . . . the game of unchance mickey led me forthmouse or spillane: you pays your money and you takes your choice--( As if possession were the sine qua non of individuality! )But I digress a game, to betray my choise against the hidden lawsYes! wagering sex, i lost, and fell to Distortion's axe, wielded by a sadistic rodent AND a tough private eyeWhile "Michael" rebaptized, fled his sinning to Jehovah's witness -ism, which cannot help at last, and walt .. well, walt hid in a venerable wood of Oscars. promenade hammer shot his busty blonde clean through, leaving the ear-wiggling hole, and aldous spiced his goddess with insatiability, while proceeded . . . . the fun house professional amusers quickly defrayed thoroughly as an assistant associate instructor's coat, 21 being false, and generic with the photographer's smile and lor cheese promenade an over-pregnant nash snickered and thurber giggled and all two wore thin as a specious symphony played overmuch as i proceeded the am. leg. aux. stand bosomy matrons sweating beer serve too sweet cherry pie and cold(pardon: ice cold) noiseless pop with half-hearted warmth promenade and proceed, leaving elizabeth counting on a child's fingers and toes and et cetera her loving ways the cotton candy stand and here is little johnny, come down from his tip-toed little hill to vend with sticky fingers spun sugar laboriously worked by the sober, imminent william cooperatively leaving red around my sacharined mouth promenade and lord b. blusters in my swashbuckled path as to the largest tent proceed the big top tommy stearns whips up a veritable cageful of UNusual tame and 22 usual vicious wildest unlikely personages while nearer center PONDEROUS wooly russian mammoths laboriously and tediously move all ultimate questions with little of effort less of directive, monkeyed trainers and luxurious greeks wittily discourse while juggling twenty torches dramatically centrally the highest and acrobat, him balances his chairs repeats his axioms kicks away his maxims and stands impossibly, proceeding while i, far below catch a part of one chair, and dream of joining him there. 23 my name is Sara -Rosalee Jacobson My name is Sara and I'm nine years old. My real name is Sara Melissa Jayne Montclaire, but my friends just call me Sara. I have the longest name in the class! Do you remember what it was like to be nine? My Mom and Dad say the do, but they don't. To run with my pigtails flapping in the March wind like bird's wings, to look for the first deliciously green blades of grass, to watch the clouds form dizzy faces in the sky, and to go wading in the gutters after a fresh spring rain: that's what it's like to be nine. I've always liked school, but the last few weeks I've even been hurrying back early after the lunch hour . Miss Denning reads Tom Sawyer to our class for a few minutes each day after the bell rings . The last book she read us was about horses. I didn't like it very well, although most of the boys did . I like cows much better ; they have such sad faces . Anyway I'm glad Miss Denning is reading Tom Sawyer, even though it does have mostly boys in it. If I were a boy I'd build a r aft and sail around the world like a pirate. Every Saturday I have to clean my room . That's how I earn my allowance. But the rest of the day I'm free to do what I please, as long as I'm home for supper. Julie (she's my best fri.end) and I usually go somewhere on our bicycles. You'd be surprised at all the interesting places in our town. This Saturday we found a ditch that's filled with water. It has something to do with drainage. The place is quiet and beautiful with its big old trees and high weeds. Instead of a raft, we put a log across the ditch for a bridge. We've decided to form a secret club with our own secret meeting place. Julie made the flag which we tie to a tree branch when our club is meeting. I wrote our secret pledge to one another and we signed our names on it in blood. It's not really blood, only red ink. Anyway we put our secret pledge in a bottle and buri.ed it near one of the old tree stumps. Then maybe a million years from now someone will dig it up and have a key to our past and what our life was like. * * * * * My name is M'liss and I'm nineteen. Actually my full name is Sara Melissa Jayne Montclaire, but when I came to college I asked everyone to call me M'liss. Sara sounds so prudish and Jayne is just too plain. Do you remember what it was like to be nineteen? My Mother and Father think they do, but they couldn't. To be in love, to be concerned with metaphysical problems in class and matrimonial ones outside of class, to be cramming for that all important final exam, to be interested in next weekend's frat formal and wondering what to wear: 24 that's what it's like to have been living nineteen years. Classes become a hectic habit of not being fully prepared. Your Mother becomes concerned if you don't write at least once a week. The other day I received a letter from her which went something like this: Dear Sara, I was glad to finally hear from you last week. Dad and I are proud that you made the Dean's Honor Roll. Keep up the good work! p. S. I'm enclosing some clippings from last night's paper. There's one that I thought particularly cute. MIDWEST HAS TOM SAWYER AND HUCKLEBERRY FINN Mark Twain's Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn are not limited to the Hannibal, Missouri region. Yesterday several workers uncovered a bottle containing a message. The message is similar to one found in Mark Twain's book book and ends with the ominous word "Blood!" No definite age can be given to the finding, but it is thought to be fairly old. The workers are part of a city hired crew, w hich is filling the no longer needed corporation gulch. How silly I was at the age of nine!! afraid of a shadow -Wynn Goeden It was a vague deep. It was a murky deep. It was a quiet deep. Blottfy forms of green- queer and opaque- quivered mysteriously to the force of invisible currents of subterranean flow. Tiny, minute shapes darted about between patches of seaweed- forever seeking the protection offered them in its dense interior, only to encounter larger, more sinister forms. These comprehensive forms lunged forward, absorbed the fleeing delicacies, and then settled back into their former, innate status. Once again, all was calm. Slashing downward into the hazy green substance, streaks of sunlight divided the otherwise monotonous colour into disunited mediums. A multitudinous assortment of stringy plants and leafy, vine-like structures rose from the sandy floor, arrested the penetrating rays of sunlight, and sent them reflecting back towards the surface. The strange serenity of domesticity in the realm of underwater magnificance was broken by the spectacle of a squirmy, worm-like intruder as it struggled violently to free itself from the shiny, silvery object drawn through it. The object, in turn, was suspended from a tiny 25 strand of line seemingly infinite length which guided forever upward until it broke the surface that separated the two worlds. Below, a small figure approached the struggling lure cautiously. It appeared to be entranced by the mysterious enticement. Eyeing the bait wistfully, it quickly departed, only to return somewhat more intent on claiming its right. Suddenly a shadow lurked overhead. The small figure lunged wildly about, eyed the bait momentarily, then disappeared into a tangling, twisting array of seaweed nearby. The shadow moved on. The strand of line continued upward into the brighter blue atmosphere where it attached itself to a length of bamboo pole that protruded from a towering wharf. At the far end of the wharf a small boy played with an odd assortment of sea shells and multi-colored rocks. Nearby, a spotty dog looked into the vast depth below and intermittently broke the silence by a quick series of sharp, loud yelps. Quite unaware of the disturbance, a lone figure sat propped against a post a short distance away. Bob Walden absently leaned against a wooden dock pillar and waited for a reaction from the lifeless stock of bamboo he held in his hands. At first glance, he bore the semblance of a middle-aged person. His shoulders were bent. His clothes were slightly over-sized- the color being too drab for a man in his late twenties. A closer look, however, showed the first impression to be unjust, for after a more discerning glance, his face showed signs of youth. It lost most of its significance though, as the head bowed modestly. The added feature of a pair of unusually dark glasses did little to contribute to his visible character. Even the youthful, well-proportioned body concealed its latent power as he lay loosely propped in a slumped position. To the casual passerby, the first glance sufficed. The heavy stillness of the mid-noon air was suddenly broken by a shrill, piercing note from a passing boat. A violent quiver ran through the previously inactive form of the man propped against the dock pillar. He sank his fingernails into the soft plank to steady himself. The small boy came running up to him. "Uncle Bob! It's the Anna Rosa!" He stood looking at his uncle for a few moments, then youthfully shrugged his shoulders and ran back to the end of the wharf. The dog playfully snapped at his heels. The boy stood at the far end of the wharf and stared admiringly at the passing boat as she glided majestically towards Linatica Island. Bob Walden stared sightlessly out into the harbor. Gripping the pole mercilessly between his hands, he sank back into his former position. A light breeze chilled the beads of sweat that formed on his forehead; a slight shudder traveled along his spine. Hiis thoughts drifted ipto the past .. . The captain pulled the cord dangling before him. The whistle 26 shrilled vialently, anly to. be partly drawned aut by the gaiety and laughter af the pleasure-seeking graup an baard. Carefree passengers careened carelessly up and dawn passageways, meeting each ather with glad and cheerful tidings. A canstant flaw af humanity passed between the cacktail launge and the ship's swimming paal where sun-burned badies dave carelessly and splashed deliberately in the clear water. Again the ship's whistle saunded. A yaung, intelligent-Iaaking man staad watching the captain in the pilat hause. The skipper he staad beside the helm, His pipe was in his mauth, And he watched haw the veering flaw did blaw The smake naw West, naw Sauth ... Wardswarth ... Langfellaw . . . he didn't remember. Bursts af laughter accampanied by the slinking af empty glasses directed the yaung man's attentian to. the sun deck where a shart, squat fellaw was entertaining a party with his ample knawledge af affcalaured. jakes. It irritated Bab Walden. He had gatten the drift af the canversatian by naw, and was farming a hearty dislike far the abviaus center af attentian. He studied the little fellaw far a shart time . He cauld see nathing appealing in him ar his humar. The little dumpy man seemed vaguely familiar. His light, tan suit was in bad need af pressing; the bright-red palka dat tie was distasteful. The yaung man turned away. Shifting his gaze tawards the law shelving beaches, he studied the bald pramantaries af the San Gabriel mauntains. The baat was leaving the caast. Near the part side he cauld distinguish the beautiful residential district af the city af Santa Paulas which nestled itself between the smug mauntains and apen span af acean. It was this sight that had drawn him to. this part af the cauntry a few years ago.. He mentally enumerated the attractians-the mild Mediterranean climate, the beauty, and the charm that made the place so. attractive to. him. That was same time ago., hawever, and he had changed his apinian since then. The Anna Rasa swerved slightly to. the impact af a wave. He sware silently as he bumped against the ship's rail. He cauldn't enjay this trip any mare. Each year, rain ar shine, the entire affice farce adventured an this yearly vacatian cruise to. the Island, and each year, he had talked himself into. caming along. He hated the trip. It anly added to. the baredam af many things that had been baring him far same time naw. As his feelings af boredam increased, he absently shifted his attentian tawards the sun deck. To. his surprise, the shart, squat man was approaching him. "Say buddy!" He waited until he was face to. face with the yaunger fellaw, "haw abaut jaining us in a little drink ar twa?" The yaunger fellaw turned away to. avaid the full farce of the faul-smelling breath. "No. thanks, nat right naw," he replied. He laaked abaut to. see a 27 means of escape from an embarrassing scene. "Now's as good a time as any," continued the squat man, "come on! " Not waiting for a reply, he placed one arm around the other's shoulder. "You're drunk, mister! ' Damn drunk!" He side-stepped the heavy arm on his shoulder. As he did so, the little fat fellow slipped uncontrollably to one side. He gained his balance momentarily against the ship's railing, then plunged over the side. Loud screams and cries accompanied the splash that followed. One man threw out a life raft and proceeded to haul the squirming, waterlogged, over-board casualty in. Among frequent curses and threats, the little fellow coughed and sputtered. The younger man was too surprised to react until one of the party on the deck suggested that he leave instantly. Taking the advice literally, he whirled about and started off towards his cabin, half satisfied, and half afraid of the consequences that might develop from his launching of the short, squat man in the brightred polka dot tie. He was still reviewing the facts a few minutes later, as he swung boldly around a corner and stumbled headlong into an open-mouthed, blonde-haired sun bather. A small glass bottle she was carrying leaped out of her hand and smashed against the wall- its dark, oily contents spilling over the immediate area. A compact shattered into an infinite number of tiny pieces, and last of all, a large, yellow beach towel floated slowly into the lap of a very surprised and highly agitated girl. Looking directly at him, she swiftly brushed away a mop of straight blonde hair from her eyes. "You clumsy . . . awkward .. . !" " 1 agree, " he said, untangling his legs from hers. He pr oceeded to help her up. "Thank you, 1 can help myself up!" She managed to gain her ba lance for an instant, then slipped on the oily fluid issuing from the broken fragrants and fell towards him . He reached forward and grabbed her. " The deck's pretty slippery," he remarked somewhat jokingly. "Thanks to you it is," she replied. He added, more seriously, "And the sun tan lotion." "Oh, you're incorrigible!" She was regaining some poise. " I'm Bob Walden." "That doesn't sound like an apology." She brightened up a little at this mild form of introduction. She studied him casually. "I'm Kathy Neilson . . . and 1 still think you're rude." " I'm really sorry ; you see 1 don't run into people like you everyday ." " That explains it." She picked up her towel and started off towards her cabin . . Bob called after her, "When can I bump into you again?" He 28 caught up with her, " I hope this isn't the end of our acquaintance . . . you see, I have a good side too!" " Well .. . I'll be meeting Dad in the cocktail lounge this evening." "I feel thirsty already!" Before she turned to enter her cabin he added, "Am I really incorrigible? " She smiled at him from the door way. "I don't even know what the word means." Bob Walden whistled softly to himself as she closed the door. He thought to himself, "Boy, this could prove to be a very interesting trip ." Hours later, a decorously dressed young man stood in the doorway of the cocktail lounge. He quickly surveyed the smoky, dimly-lit interior. Although the orchestra was playing softly, the floor was relatively empty. The crowd had congregated at the bar. Bob Walden gazed listlessly at a small table where a few of the more influential people had gathered. Striking gowns on the women and white coats stood out noticeably. As he stared at the figure of a light-haired girl at the table, she unconsciously looked up and their eyes met. She stood up. His mouth opened slowly as she made her way towards him . He noted her glance of approval. She greeted him politely, "I hoped you would come." "I'm glad I did." Bob studied the girl thoughtfully; unable to accept the transformation that had occurred. The very same blonde that he had run into that afternoon was standing before him. He forgot the affair with the drunk- all seemed vague- as he admired the girl smiling up at him. She was truly beautiful. She placed her arm on his shoulder. "Care to dance?" He drew her to him . "I won't be taking you away from your father or "I'm afraid I missed seeing Dad. He wasn't in his cabin. The last ... " She felt his arm grow tighter around her. Soon the two were lost to the swaying music of the small melodious orchestra. Time flew rapidly. The couple danced by themselves. They laughed at their common experiences- all the while forgetful of the passing of time, and finally, the music stopped. The small ship's hall was empty save for the few who helped close down the bar each night. Then they too drifted away and left the couple by themselves . Bob glanced towards her table. "Looks like your friends have all left." She placed her hands under his lapel. He lifted her head slowly. Leaning down gracefully, he kissed her full on the mouth. She didn't try to resist. The following day passed swiftly. Bob and Kathy saw each other constantly. The sun projected more than its usual warmth on their mid-day swims; the cool evening breezes were more refreshing. Then, 29 the Anna Rosa swerved from her course to the Island. "Something must be wrong, Bob, the ship is going to stop off at the Naval Station!" "Miss Nielson! Paging Kathy Neilson!" shouted a voice behind them. She whirled around quickly, "Over here, please! I'm Kathy Neilson!" "Oh, Miss Neilson! Dr. Langdon wants to see you immediately. You see, he's been trying to reach you about your father . . ." "My father! What's happened to Dad?" She clutched Bob's hand. "I don't know, Miss, all I know is that Dr. Langdon wants to see you immediately. They're at the ... " Before he could finish, Kathy was hurrying towards the ship's gangway pulling Bob behind her. A tall, well-dressed man with hornrimmed glasses greeted them. "Miss Neilson . . ." "Doctor Langdon! \iVhat's happened to my father?" "Nothing serious, I'm sure," he replied, "Your father has a light attack of pneumonia. We're taking him off the boat . . ." "Oh no ... " "I'm sorry you didn't hear of this sooner; I had a message delivered to your cabin last night, but I don't suppose . .. " "I . .. I didn't .. ." she paused, looking shyly at Bob. He was observing a couple of men carrying a stretcher coming towards them. When the group stopped, a man in the stretcher turned and glared at Bob. Bob Walden's mouth dropped open. Looking directly at him was a familiar face. He recognized the short squat man. Only the bright-red polka dot tie was missing. "Dad!" exclaimed Kathy. She knelt by him, realizing something was wrong. The man attempted to rise off the stretcher. Signs of uncontrolable anger turned his pale, pudgy face a flaming red. Bob Walden looked desperately at Kathy. She was too bewildered to comment. He turned and hurried away from the scene. The stretcher moved on. A few days later Bob Walden was rapidly moving away from Santa Paulos and the incidents that had happened aboard the Anna Rosa. He had applied for a transfer to a branch office in the Midwest immediately upon his arrival back at the company. The sales department was only too happy to have him on the force. He was glad to get away. A few days after reaching his destination, he returned from his job to discover a personal letter lying on his desk. He eyed it thoughtfully, tore it open, read it carefully, then dropped it into one of the desk drawers. A few moments later he was sitting at the hotel bar enjoying the pleasant taste of a whiskey mix. The days passed slowly at first. More letters came. He put them 30 all in the drawer. Many remained unopened, and later, he opened none. The girls at his favorite hangout catered to him obligingly. He took notice of their casual hints. Soon he was taking them to his hotel room for a nitecap. First one, then another. The months passed swiftly by in this manner; his work suffered. One morning the hotel clerk approached him with a special delivery letter from the home office. They were calling him back. "He looked at the letter arrogantly at first. Then he tossed it into the waste paper basket near his desk, and started towards the hotel bar. The large room was empty when he got there, save for a lonely bar tender who was absently wiping one of the glasses in front of him. The bar tender recognized Bob Walden and started to mix a drink. Bob seated himself on one of the stools near the man. He quickly looked away. "Hurry up with that drink!" When it was placed before him, he grabbed for it, tossed his head back and swallowed it in one easy effort. He quickly ordered another. This time he drank it more slowly. It tasted lousy. He ordered another. It tasted the same. They all tasted lousy. He pushed the glass away from him. The bartender walked over towards him. "What's the matter, buddy? I give you a bad drink?" "Aw, mind your da . .. ", he caught himself, "no, the drink's all right. It ... must be me." "Sandra will be along any minute if that's what .. ." He stopped himself when he saw the glazed look in Bob Walden's eyes. He felt sorry for him, in a way; it must be tough living the way he had been. Bob Walden laid his arms across the top of the bar and placed his face head down on them. He held this position for several minutes. Suddenly he looked at the bar tender. "What was your dad like?" The bar tender saw the sympathetic, almost pitiful look on his face. "Pop? Oh ... he was all right ... I guess." "Did he ever run out on your Ma and you .. . ?" "Well now, not that I know of ... then maybe. "Mine was a hell of a father!" "Aw gee, fellow, you can't mean "He used to come home drunk and beat up on Mom and me . . . then When he sobered up ... he ... he would tell me about the women he was chasing around with ... " The bar tender eyed him curiously. "I . . . I know what you're thinking. I've been doing the same thing." Bob Walden thought about it for a moment. "Now I know what my father was like. I ... I hated him!" 31 The bar tender put down the glass he was wiping. " Was you just a kid then? You know ... " " I was old enough to take care of m y self then. One day . . . he was telling me dirty stories .. . they wer en't dirty, they were filthy! Then he would slap me on the back . . . and beg me to go with him . . . I hit him once . . . hard!" The following morning he bent over the waste paper basket and retrieved the letter he had thrown there the night before. This time he read it carefully. His head ceased spining temporarily. Then he pulld open the desk drawer and withdrew one of the letters from the disarrayed pile. It was dated back several months . Opening it he read the handwriting : Dear Bob : What can I say that will bring you back ... Dad is sorry for the way he acted . .. I m iss you so much . . . I'm asking you to come back because I love you ... He put the letter down slowly. Closing his eyes, he tried to swallow. He discov ered a large lump in his throat. He finished reading the letter. The San Gabriel mountains took on a new luster as Bob Walden embarked fr om the train. He checked in his luggage and strode outside the bustling station. The warm, moist air felt exceptionally good. He spotted a news stand and bought a paper. The taxi would be along shortly. He paged through the familiar sections until he came to the society section. He paused for a moment. He thought Kathy would look beautiful in any of the gowns. He tried to picture her . .. he stopped! A blonde face appeared before him. His gaze dropped to the article immediately below the picture. He paled instantly as the blood left his face. But, there was still hope . .. if he could only be there in time . .. He yelled for a taxi. Unaware of the heavy traffic, he started across the street. A horn sounded for an instant. Tires screeched. He turned to look, and everything blacked out. He felt himself twisting, tumbling .. . turning . . . "Uncle Bob! Uncle Bob! Pull, Uncle Bob! You got a bite!!" The little boy came running up to his uncle. "Pull, Uncle Bob! Hurry!" With a slow awakening reaction, the uncle jerked the pole upward. The line left the water with a little resistance. Then a large silvery fo r m splashed fearfully above the surface, and disappeared. " Gosh , Uncle Bob, you let the big one get away!" 32 • mIrage -Ed Bedell Dawn. The sparkle of new, short-lived, moisture, reflected intermittently from the dense bluegrass. Touring clouds skudded aimlessly overhead as the electricity flashed on in the third rail of the city's commuter trains, and drowsy passengers traveled in semi-incognito behind the daily paper and business-like sunglasses. Configured window panes losing their transient decoration, the products of a chilly eve, destroyed by a brilliance beyond control, unimaginably powerful - yet distant. '" Waiting even a few minutes made him impatient. - How does one relax? A whisper of cool morning air turned the corner of the house and raised the hair on his neck. The short-sleeved shirt, thrown on hastily, provided little warmth and even less fashion. Two illigitimate canines scampered over the curb, unashamed of their dubious heritage, and rolled on top of each other in the long grass. Watching, he did not actually feel any compassion or regret - but he knew he was a remarkable procrastinator. He was certain that would be an unquestionable characteristic for which he would long be remembered. - We call them dumb animals. One heavily salivating mouth clamped firmly on the furry posterior extension of the other - but without antagonism. -We don't play that way; now they want bloody acres and counties - enough to make an empire. A name like Genghis Khan, with miles of proof. Moving only his eyes he scanned vaguely and focused on something indistinctly. -When a war starts even sensible people act irrationally, and Heaven help the ones who aren't sensible in the first place! They even do it for no good reason except to prove something that nobody really cares about anyway; people that are simply glad they are able to sit at home and watch their television sets. If one must choose, and it seems the acceptable thing to do, probably paratrooping was the most sensible solution. They try to prepare for all of the emergencies, but there are some that no one can avoid, even with colored maps and foolproof plans. Flak behind the ear - and six stinking hours in the manure mUd. The men are expendable, government issue. · I lie in the mud for hours with a piece of metal an inch under the skin and for what? - An honorable, honorable discharge and a recuperation. The doctors, all good government issue, too, claim no permanent injury - but be careful of 33 any shock. Don't stand up too fast, don't run too fast, don't think too fast, for at least a year. He opened the screen and walked inside. A short mound of magazines and clothes lay piled on the kitchen table, creating a mountainous terain in silhouette on the wall, as the sunlight streamed over and past it. Stepping to the stairway, he listened carefully for a moment. It would be a day or two, at most; but days of fifty hours apiece, probably. He paced a little. Seating himself in one of the severe wooden chairs, he groped in his pocket fOor a cigarette - an empty package with a torn tax stamp. The other pocket was more fruitful, yielding a light green book of matches, with half of one row still intact. -Each pack with a dark blue stamp. For tax, he thought. I suppose it all goes someplace, for some kind of value. The taxes come in to buy more blue stamps, I suppose. The minute hand on the wall clock circled painfully, the hour hand, imperceptibly; both pursuing a thin, but agile red second-hand. Feeling, breathing, seeming for hours of minutes. Holding the screen door open with one hand, he watched the car turn into the driveway. The tires caught a stone and squirted it sideways from beneath the tread . The fact that his own car was badly in need of new tires was the most remote thought in his mind at this moment; the doctor was here now. There were always other things which required his immediate attention - his pattern was traditional, typical to an extreme, to a revolting excess. The paint on the physician's car was streaked with evidences of muddy emergencies and it appeared a little neglected. - Who was Hippocrates? The professional gray suit, inconspicuous tie, and the black shoes slid from the front seat, grasped the leather and closed the door on the first catch. Brief greetings were made - the doctor was obviously in demand elsewhere. That is one thing characteristic of the profession one relinquishes some measure of his personal privacy, becoming an expensive, cultured semi-serf at the beck and call of society. The doctor conducted a fairly hasty, routine examination, and drove leisurely downtown. They spoke freely with him, an old friend one in whom they had not only a professional but personal confidence. It afforded them both some measure of satisfaction and assurance to discuss it with him, a person utterly familiar with this common, yet perpetually mysterious and glorious phenomenon of nature . . . birth. Looking through the spotty windows the usually prosaic panorama took on a new perspective. New store displays, moustaches, and postoffices with movement. The spring look in hats seemed a hideously nonsensical reversion to the primitive, a trend which was consuming the public, not only in this field, but infiltrating - establishing - ingratiat34 ing itself - and ultimately monopolizing every fiber of an impressionable and impulsive economy. A park with benches, and pigeons under a dry fountain. -Wooden signs, all cracked and weatherbeaten, that used to say something. The typical park scene, and he had not even noticed. - During a war one views a situation in a radically different manner, also. A week of rest in Rome where there were no guns and ammunition piles was imperative for recuperation, and he had taken full advantage of it. Down almost any flight of stairs there were the enticing glows of red or amber lights - but only a few so that it was dark - creating some kind of false, misleading, but thrilling atmosphere that would soon be destroyed and rekindled on another evening. Cheap tables stood patiently in corners with dirty checkered cloths - although the darkness hid the dirt - and girls sat with their hands folded on top of the tables. The inevitable combo standing on a low platform looking gaunt and drugged by their own rhythms, seldom even daring to climb the precipitous stairway to the brilliance of street-level . . . they labored dutifully in chorus turns and in ensemble. Companionship was provided by a perspicacious management, to keep our spirits high and flowing freely - at hundreds of lira per bottle. Really, it was cheap, but the trial of money conversion was usually far too great an ordeal for the average customer and he came out none the wiser (but much less affluent). The drive was not long, and the middle-morning traffic just beginning to thicken. The mere fact that they were on the way was a very comforting thought, and they relaxed a great deal as the motor soothed, droningly.The hospital loomed impressive and brick - a window washer industriously soaping and sponging in a broad leather belt on the third floor looked down on the doctor's dirt encrusted car, considering professional expansion. -This might be a kind of "stretcher Mecca" for arrival and departure, he thought mildly. The car swept past the red and yellow signs someone had placed beside the driveway, their concrete bases slightly askew, their message apparently in extreme discomfort; it turned the driveway at the rear of the hospital and parked beneath the neon sign. It had not been turned off from the night previous, and it looked pitifully innocuous with its anemic pink glow. - In-Patient, in pink glass. Stepping from the car, he bundled the incidentals together and backed away from the door. A magazine slipped with a soft swish from the small stack of reading material, and fell beside the rear tire, its garish cover turned half under. 35 He stopped, then straightened again. A light warmth had supplanted the early morning briskness. The doctor opened the door and stood back a step for them to enter. The weatherbeaten door squeaked a little ; the small printed "PULL" over the handle nearly rubbed off by countless traffic. They climbed a short flight of concrete stairs- unpainted and worn a little in the center, but rimmed with a protective strip of metal sunk firmly into the cement. - Six stairs . . . landing . . . and four. A nurse came from a room beside them and padded softly along the hall, the white of her uniform contrasting vividly with the universal here - the universal of need, of dark sickness. Intruding harshly, a brown loudspeaker on the wall barked impersonally, and somewhere it had m eaning. The speaker had a mouth of clot. Devoid of eyes, but possessing a fine mouth, for which someone else did the looking . .. and the thinking.-Insistent, it barked, persistent. He noticed the soft air of the airconditioning fans as they collected, dehumidified, and recirculated the air, but left untouched the unmistakable scent of gauze, iodine, and ether. They filed down the wide hall on the second floor and through a maple-stained door on which a letter and a number had been nailed. They were copper, tarnished a little, he noticed. Two windows in the private room faced the east, shielded at the moment by a partially pulled venetian blind. The sun was higher, and the blinds caused flickering illusions of rubber bars, waving and weaving over chairs, around a night stand, and spearing finally onto a bed. - Clean sheets, of whiteness ... a pillow soft ... A fortyish registered nurse opened the blinds exposing the rest of the aperture, and moved a large screen in front of the open door. Privacy seemed logical to him, too. Directly over the bed a thin rubber cord snaked down from the molding on the ceiling, suspending a black pushbutton. The doctor made assignments to the nurse - closing a medical-looking bag -shaking of hands -returning tomorrow -assurances -and a hasty departure ~ he had other patients in other rooms. A short time later, a husband, realizing his superfluity, departed. The nurses, dressed immaculately, observed closely and responded; the doctor consulted at regular intervals. The loudspeakers droned their 36 monotonous monologue in the reverberating marble halls; and the nauseating anesthetic persisted. Waiting and restless. Blue tax stamps were torn rudely, and new ones were printedexhausting matchbooks and painting soft lungs with the sooty refuse from a fruitless, universal habit. Time. Eons to come. Opportunity. Ability. Accomplished. AND A SON. * * Part Two * And with midday a feeling of new purpose a revitalizing or some type of energy prompting him to hurry around store to store buying as though he were instable things that he did not need the baby would not need but he was making certain that in this most glorious this most triumphal moment of his prosaic life as a servile flatterer he would be prepared a servile flatterer with clients and he was one of them and he knew it but so were the rest of them in the office cautious to an extreme so as not to offend rather to please with the most minute thoughtfulness and treats at lunch and with infinite sickening joking and insincere socializing and he hated everyone of them not for what or who they were personally rather what they stood for as a means of existence a dirty facet of society if one could just be atypical once a little different to be what you actually are to have an opinion that you could voice without being warned of rebuke without the fear of socalled public opinion like everyone else that says you must flatter and compliment because people expect it and dislike those who do not comply who are outspoken who have an iota of difference from these people we should shy away yes you should shy away from an insidious man who thinks since someone with illgotten rank perhaps will determine the complexities and the decisions will be handed down and the toadies will follow unthinkingly conforming accepting acting afraid to have to even consider an opinion of their own rather to extend the almighty gladhand that pays the grocer and destroys the integrity while smothering the pride over and over God knows how often each day this happened and in which his wife was forced to share and must have felt too and then night was planning and cigarettes and matches and dirty dishes until the next visit the next morning to 2-B just a few hours of sleep that was really sleeping I'll say I told them the nurses the doctor everybody that over and over I wanted only the best for her and I meant 37 it but there ~re just some.things that should ,be done around here that will simply have to wait not to mention that rotten meeting this afternoon which of course cannot wait for an hour or two . .. instead I'll run myself ragged .around a . king arthur's table and shake their hands ~nd nod yes :at appropriate points in the conversation -smile like hell to push it through but the big boss has no kids and if that is what it takes to be executive material I will settle for less and forget about his chair stuffed with five dollar bills and twenty five cent cigars mounting the fading blue carpeted stairway he slept fpr several hours driving to the office noticing people he thought that most of those obsequious fawns walking don't care or even particularly care to know about others but one thing is certain that if you do not trust them don't rely on every Duke or Duchess of main street on the way to the palace mute and deaf unless you are giving something away if you ignore them and return the same lack of courtesy you are less apt to suffer it might seem impossible to be alone in the midst of so many humans but no one cares or notices but instead walks on to his palace takes the elevator to the seventh floor and sits behind his cardboard nameplate with a rubber stamp his scepter but they rule robeless even the leather jacket boys have their distinguished garb and two wheeled cadillacs and buddy seats with saddle bags but they are the ones that caused insurance rates to be hiked again regardless theyll keep going faster and faster and cut down the surplus population until we get a bloody select group and the small man in the high place when the office beckons I respond as all respectable serfs do when they know their name and that a slap on the back means a little butter and a full mouth all from meetings and coffee talks and late concessions and rotton compromises and a personal type impersonality that is business : today in the conference room I'll bow and scrape and send the office boy with my car to get my wife and boy that I cannot even take an hour off to take them horne and a long dull morning until noon and he had his quick lunch with other brief cases and black taut smiles in business suites with wrinkled pants and foreheads who even probably played football or baseball in school years years ago now with gross stomachs as alumni they watch my son break his arm for the alma mater and his name on the radio and television even those room at the top tritiBms aren't so foolish if some twobitters can wangle elevator jobs on pull through an aunt of an executive and finally 38 the meeting at three oclock with others of the same category the office boy takes my keys and drives slowly with my wife and boy through the long dryness of the meeting while an arid councilroom parched the throats and dried crisp the temperaments until a call came for me they said the car was a total loss out of control with a double blowout into a tree the driver had scratches BUT MY FAMILY DIED * * Part Three * * A professional clip-board bearing three yellow graph sheets and a white memorandum hung at the foot of the bed in the sunlight, the words "Psychotherapeutic Ward" lettered poorly across the back in white ink. A light evening breeze turned small eddies of dust about his feet, each a vaporous phenomenon-appearing, flourished briefly, and dissolving unaccomplished. In the leadening sky the patchwork of clouds drew together into foreboding banks of .thunderheads, and a low murmuring broke the stillness of dusk. Reeds rustling in a black stagnant pool near the road drew his attention, the brown tops turning to and fro in fascinating rhythm. We watched the ripples of water as they rimmed the reeds circling larger and larger, broken only occasionally by a startled rock, and eventually fading from view. Over a distant hill winged survivors of some nearly forgotten era veered sharply across a yellowing horizon, alighting momentarily to examine the stark, crumbling ruins and to peer through the shells of paneless windows. The shroud of darkness fell about him and he ran . . . Before him, concealed in limitless black, lay the nameless phantasms of a troubled society, of which he shared membership and duties and difficulties. A moon lay cautiously half-hidden behind a billowing cloud, but a second, as if in apology, moved swiftly ahead of him. Wispy fingers of fog pointed the route, it was no longer his choice. How often must an opporunity present itself before it is drawn irrevocably from view? The rain came. Slowly at first-but grew in intensity with each succeeding pellet, as beyond, the gliding shadows danced in weird revery across the moon. Confronted, he hesitated at the gaping mouth of an avenue of trees, intrigued by the faultless symmetry of the naked limbs and trunks as they marched precisely beside the path, each groping skyward in perpetual struggle for some vague, unattainable recognition. He en- 39 tered, and was enveloped in a pall of dismal, oppressive color. Behind him, the contending trees glided together forming an impregnable wall of black. Voices indistinct, but pervading melted into the dense fiber of darkness, vanishing as abruptly as they appeared. Motivation - an insatiable feeling of urgency, propelled him headlong through the driving rain, as jagged bolts of lightning formed hideous profiles against the sky. It was futile to hurry now . He was no more privileged, no more intelligent-he had indulged in a human failing, a human shortcoming common to all but a minute few-he had gambled and ultimately lost-consuming his ideals and his aspirations. Somewhere, for a moment, a child cried. Infinite hours. The rain slackened and the first moon slid from behind the clouds -the second was gone. At least one had survived some atmospheric adversity; proud of accomplishment but fated as are all of its genre. And the fantastic wood was bathed in illimitable silence - he stopped. From the darkness came the complex sounds of whisper and echo, of anger and conflict. Highpitched whistles shrieked into the night and momentous peals of thunder replied with an even fiercer violence. From the darkness came the figures grotesquely familiar; an assailed spirit knew them as clawing, as tearing, and falling- sensations, experiences uncanny, memories repellent; the sounds and sights of jollity, destruction, and of irrevocable gloom and waste. The fierceness of the combative sensations grew as they mingledmounting to gargantuan proportions, a colossal rumbling, as though the earth were parting, pounded at his ears. With unutterable horror, he saw the branches about him extending in brilliant crimson and black array, encompassing him in extravagant embrace. Pursued by bizarre images and the ilLt..redible multiplying dissonances, he fled into the eternal night-black of resignation and limitless despair. In the hallway the smell of ether endured mouths were silent. 40 and the sightless  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Perspectives: Volume 17, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Kiosk Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Perspective contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cannaday, Gene: Author Tandy, Keith: Author Mace, Reverdy: Author Fry, Keith: Author Lewis, Carolyn: Author Bailey, Virginia: Author Jacobson, Rosalee: Author Zurcher, Kay: Author Taplin, Judy Joan: Author Haddock, Ronald: Author Black, Isobel: Author Crary, Nancy: Author Bedell, Ed: Author Geoden, Wynn: Author Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1958 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-11-25 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Meyer, Carolyn: Editor Tandy, Keith: Associate Editor Haddock, Ronald: Business Manager Ames, Robert: Editorial Board Bedell, Ed: Editorial Board Cox, Shirley: Editorial Board Lewis, Carolyn: Editorial Board Silzer, Mary: Editorial Board Tandy, Keith: Editorial Board Fry, Keith: Cover Design Palmer, Dr. William: Faculty Advisor Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical 44 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kiosk Manuscript Perspectives student publications http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/c340874335b5ef86ce7fad3ebfbae966.pdf 4a8175dc5d2204784a0610e321b26272 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Manuscript: Volume 01, Number 02 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Perspectives Kiosk Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource This PDF file of Manuscript contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ponder, Marcie Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2013-01-13 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-14 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-14 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF 4.2 MB 37 Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Manuscript-Vol01-No02_KDC_1938_01-01_01.pdf Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger PDF Text Text JV MANUSCRIPT OR 1 0 IDE CO LE B LIBR MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE VOL.1 SPRING 1939 • NO.2 I ��MANUSCRIPT MIRIAM M. HAWTHORN, Editor LESTER OLSON, Business Manager Associate Editors BETTY GREENE IRENE JOHNSON LYNN BEYER, Volume I CHARELS SEWARD Faculty Advisor Spring, 1939 Number 2 CONTENTS Page Foreword ___ .___ ..... ____ .__ .. ____ .... __ .. __ .. __ .. __________________ .... __ .. __ .. __ .________________ .2 Peace on Earth .. ____ .. ________________ .... _____________ .. _ ________ Winifred Cheely .. 3 Proposition .. _____ .. __ .__________ ....... __ .... __ .. __ .. _ ____ Miriam. M. Hawthorn .. 5 Take Your Lamp Away..... _ _ __ .. __ .. __ .. _____ ... ____ .__ Eric Liljestrand .. .... 6 Everything SeL ........ ____ ... __ .. __ .. __ ..... ____________ ... ____ ...Bartlett Lubbers 7 High Voltage ____ .. ______________ .____ .. __ ... _____ .. __ .. __ .. _______ Betty Lou Greene 9 Past Tense __ .... __________________ ._____ .. ___ .. __________ .. __ .Miriam M . Hawthorn 15 I Sighed for the Shepherd Lad _______________ .. __ .Miriam M. Hawthorrz.. 16 How to Get the Most Out of College______________ Margar:et Gusteson 17 Only .__ .. __ .. _____ ... __ ......................... ___ .. __ ... __ .. _ ....... __ Kathryn Madison 20 The Parthenon .... __________ ......_________ .. ____ .. ____ ._________ .. __ .Charels Seward 21 Strike _______ .. _________ .... __ .. ______ .. __ ........ __ .. ______ .... ______ . __ .Patricia Warner 24 Quebec Summer..._. __ .. __ ._________________________ ... __________ M arjorie Cowling 29 The Hi tch- Hiker... _____________ .... __ .. ___ .. __ .. __ ... ______________ Eric Lil jestrand 32 Published twice a year by the students of Morningside College, Sioux City, Iowa. Subscription: fifty cents a year; twenty· five cents a copy. �FOREWORD In presenting the second issue of Manuscript the editors wish once more to thank those friends who have lent the magazine their support and those who have contributed in other ways to its publication. Special words of appreciation are due Professor Lynn Beyer who first saw the field for a literary magazine at Morningside, and who has generously given of both his time and counsel to develop the possibilities. of that feature of our college life. The reception of the magazine this year has been gratifying, and the staff joins in desiring for next year better and more frequent issues. ... �Peace on Earth "But, Su Excelencia, 1 must have permission to leave the camp tonight. Mi Maria-my brother has just brought word that tonight -well, senor, it is our first baby, and I must be with her. I promised! 1 implore you, senor, please let me go into the town. 1 will come back as soon as possible, I will speak to no one--but now-I want to be with my Maria!" General Rosas placed his hand on the shoulder of the slender young man standing before him and slowly shook his head. "I am sorry, } ose, but not tonight. Last night, perhaps, or tomorrow night, but not tonight. I have just received orders that no man is to leave the camp under any conditions. I should like to help you, but- well, you see how it is." "Oh, but senor! Do you not have a wife of your own? Do you not have children? 1 promise you that- " "Senor Belgrano ! You have heard the orders. I can do nothing. That is all!" "Si, senor." Jose saluted, turned on his heel, and walked to the door of the dugout. There he hesitated, turned with one last imploring look at the unyielding face of his superior, and stepped out into the darkness. His eyes were filled with tears of anger and disappointment as he walked slowly toward a caisson and slumped wearily against the wheel. It was a beautiful night. Galaxies of stars twinkled brightly in the deep blue velvet sky, and a pale sliver of a moon hung low over the western Sierras. On the banks of the river below lay the little village with its few orange and yellow lights occasionally piercing the darkness. But off there in the northeast was the war. Only five miles away distant flashes of cannon, the bursting of shells, ,and the whining of shrapnel marked the battlefield where men were fighting, killing, murdering"Over there in the village is my Maria, and I cannot be with her. I must go out and kill some man, while Maria gives life to my son. Death and life--on Christmas Eve. Madre de Dios, help her, and help me. On such a night as this was your own son born. But there was no war then. War- life- death-kill- hate- }esu Christo- " �4 MANUSCRIPT Murmuring a prayer over and over, Jose dropped to his knees beside the caisson and rested his flushed face against the hard, cold metal. He knelt there for a long time, scarcely moving. The moon had almost vanished behind the distant mountain peaks when Jose raised his tear-streaked face. A faint bustle of activity had begun to show itself about the camp. He rose and walked slowly toward the barracks. Whispered instructions brought the men to the drill ground, and there they were loaded silently into the huge motor lorries. As quietly as possible, devoid of lights, the lorries carried them to a ravine about three miles from the camp. Here the men again assembled. Following a sharp command from the officer in charge, they started along the floor of the ravine. Crawling through brambles, brushing against trees, stumbling over rocks and stones, Jose made his way with his comrades along the bottom of the gully. Mter marching nearly half an hour the captain called a halt. "Listen, men, just beyond this bend the ravine flattens out. Not more than a hundred yards away is a loyalist machine gun nest. They have been quiet for nearly an hour, and we must destroy them before they start in again. When I give the signal, every man run for it. Be ready with your hand grenades, and don't give up! Ready!" Jose found himself running forward through a shower of dirt and stones. He stumbled and fell, but was on his feet again. There was a man running toward him. He threw his hand grenade. It made a beautiful explosion. Then he stopped. Something had happened. His legs wouldn't work- he couldn't move. He rolled into a shell hole and lay there- wondering- wondering- wonderingHe wasn't fighting. He was supposed to throw a hand grenade, but he couldn't. Get that machine gun nest. But it was so quiet. Now he could sleep. And Maria was all right, too. Somehow he knew that she was all right. Quiet- peace- silencioso noche. Peace on earthgood will toward men. It was so good to be able to sleep- not guns -no noise-no war- just peace on earthMaria Belgrano smiled sleepily at the tiny baby resting in the curve of her arm. Such a funny muchacho, this little Jose. And how proud big Jose would he. A son on Christmas Eve. "Su padre will be surprised when he comes home, mi muchachita. When the war is ended and he can stay with us all the time-we �SPRING, 1939 5 shall have great fun, we three. Sleep, mi nina. It is Christmas Eve and God has been kind. Muchas gracias, Madre Maria, for sending me a son. Go to sleep, my baby. Peace on earth- good will toward men. Peace on earth-" -Winifred Cheely, '41. Proposition Could I but love you, dear, so tenderly That seeing you would cause my pulse to leap , That dreaming you would steal away my sleep, That your slight ills would bring me agony; Could I but have the heart you have for me, Or feel a bit of this you say is deep; Or sacrifice-enough that I might weep; I'd stake my all on you quite happily. If I were sure my heart would really break, Though I knew, too, that you would soon forget; If I were certain pain would truly make The verses come as they have not come yet; I'd very gladly give, and gladly take Whatever disappointment I could get. -Miriam M. Hawthorn, '39. �6 MANUSCRIPT Take Your Lamp Away Aladdin, you've been kind But take your lamp away. It fails, recalling memories Years have put asunder. Aladdin, take your lamp away! Put before me instead the growing .... The pulsing life I used to live. In that life I had the tune Temple bells each morning made. At night I went to sleep With beating drums that held communion With the gods of night. Day break was saluted By the silver throats of bugles on the city wall Fifty at a time and perfect in their unison. Aladdin, when you find a lamp A machine or thought Powerful enough to bring it all back Then visit me often when I am alone And longing for the past. Your genie is still bewildered at my demand. Does he know that memory is unpreparable? Unpredictable? A traitor to desire? Knows he not where I am from? Take him and your lamp away! -Eric Liljestrand, '42. �SPRING, 7 1939 Everything Set Everything set. A quart of whiskey and a package of cigarettes in my pocket. The space under the garage door carefully packed with gunny-sacks. A wad of paper stuck into the broken glass of the window I forgot to have fixed. Everything set. Now to start the car. Mustn't give it too much gas. Pull out the throttle just a little farther. Couldn't use your foot accelerator for a job like this. Too much danger of your foot slipping off and spoiling everything. Gear in neutral. Brake set. The windows of the coupe lowered. Everything set. Nothing to do now but wait. A deep draught of the whiskeyman, that stuff re.ally takes hold. Wonder where Marty got it. Must ask him the next time I-but there won't be a next time! A cigarette. Gosh this lighter takes a long time to get hot. Sorlieone ought to invent one that wouldn't necessitate waiting sixty seconds before you can light a cigarette on it. Oh well, I won't need to worry about that confounded thing much longer. A deep drag- ah, that's good. Funny how I like cigarettes. Wonder if they have them where I'm going. My fingers are kinda numb but I don't feel cold. That whiskey should warm me up soon enough. Everything set-no, not quite. The radio. Must go out while the brass band plays. Hope it's something nice and peppy. Some good swing number. " ... just been listening to a brief review of the news of the day, brought to you by the makers of Enos Soap, Enos Soap, Chips, and Enos Tissue Soap. This is station KRLC, Columbus. We now bring you a quarter hour of tea-time dance tunes played by Freddie Long and his orchestra. As their first number, Freddie and the boys are going to play that current favorite--'My Reverie'.- Freddie." "My Reverie", quite a tune that. Marion's favorite. Great girl, Marion, but too serious. She was out for a husband, home, and kids. None of the home and kids stuff for me--better as it is. But she sure had class. Have to hand it to her there. A swell looker. She'd make a darn good wife, too. Maybe I should have taken her up on it. Maybe a wife and kids was what I needed. Maybe I wouldn't be doing this now if- hell, getting soft? Better have another swig of that whiskey and forget Marion. �8 MANUSCRIPT Damn, I can't smell a thing. But then they say you can't smell Carbon Monoxide anyway. Throw out that butt and light another cigarette. Hang that lighter. Wait, wait, wait- wait for everything in this world, even to light a cigarette. What's the name of that thing they're playing now? "Lambeth Walk", that's it. Gee, Edith and I sure got plastered the night we danced that one. Funny, Edith. She was the kind that didn't care whether you were drunk or sober, just give her a smile and dish out the dough- that's Edith. Marion told me she was no good. And I told Marion to mind her own business. If I only had let Edith alone I would have two thousand more to my name now. I have Marion to thank for getting rid of her that cheap. Good old Marion. Take some more whiskey. Get good and drunk. Maybe the whiskey will get you before the gas does. "Deep in a Dream", that's a good number. Marion liked that a lot. Said it was just like herself. Wanting me and waiting for me and me not coming. Maybe I should have left her a note. She won't understand. She'll think it's because of Edith and that's not it at all. Gosh, I feel funny, kinda sleepy. Is it the whiskey or the gas? Say, I better get out of here. I've gotta see Marion and explain. I can't move---I must be checkin'. Oh God, let me out of here. God let me turn off that ignition- I can't move! Can't see or feel a darn thing, but I can hear the music. Funny, I always did want to go out while the band was playin'. "God, I don't wanta die. Let me come back, let me come back. I'll set everything right by Marion and me, I- swear it! I'll- seteverything- - ! -Bartlett Lubbers, '42. �SPRING, 1939 9 High Voltage Hank, pausing just inside the door, blinked in the dim light of the shop. He pulled out a blue bandana handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his face. As soon as his eyes were adjusted to the light, he went to a row of old lockers lined up against the side wall. Taking from number eight a towel and a piece of tar soap, he ambled to the washroom. He opened the door. Someone had forgotten to turn off the shower the men had rigged up, and the water was dripping away in defiance of the sign on the wall- Turn Off the Shower and that Means You! Hank reached up and gave the knob an extra hard twist. The water gurgled spasmodically and stopped. He frowned at the sight of the dirty washbowl. Glancing around the room, he spied a can of Old Dutch Cleanser on the floor. Behind it lay a sock which from its appearance had been there some months. He picked up the cleanser, carefully sprinkled some of the powder into the basin, took a worn down hand brush lying in a soap tray and began vigorously to clean. He felt some vague satisfaction in watching the dirt disappear; but he knew the rusty spot where the water dripped down couldn't be removed. After cleaning the bowl, he filled it with cold water, washed his hands and face and ran a comb through his thinning hair. The side door slammed. He paused. Then he heard a loud, young voice say, "Gee, but it's hot!" Another replied, "Ain't it though?" As soon as he identified the voices, he continued combing his hair and looking at the bald spots rather abstractedly in the wavery mirror. He jerked around guiltily when he saw the grinning, perspiring face of Pat reflected. Pat began, "Where'd you go, Hank? Boy, oh boy, was it hot up on that sub-station!" "It wasn't exactly coolon that pole where I was workin' this morning." "Say, who does old 'fish-eye' Johnson think he is sending us all up on the hot spots when it's a hundred and ten in the shade?" "'Cause the cable's goin' to hell that's why, and 'cause as long as Johnson can sit in an air-conditioned office, he ain't goin' to worry about the boys down here." �10 MANUSCRIPT Hank folded his towel up and started to leave the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dirty sock on the floor. He stooped over, picked it up and threw it out the narrow window. Then he put his things back in the locker and took out a lunch bucket. One workman was stretched out on a narrow bench fanning himself with an old company magazine. Hank pulled up a chair and sat down to the table-an old drawing board supported by two saw horses. Pat drew up a chair beside Hank's and unwrapped the news· paper covering of his lunch; then straightened the paper out to read. Three more laborers came in and joined Hank and Pat. After they had in turn cursed the weather and Boss Johnson, the group fell into a silence and all that could be heard was the sound of their eating and the buzzing of flies and the muffled sounds from the street. The man on the bench was still stretched out fanning himself. With startling suddenness a song broke into the quiet of the shop and echoed in the corners where the discarded dust-covered tools lay. Hank's head jerked up. He shifted his eyes nervously about as the voice rose higher and higher. He waited for the last note-he knew it would come~the last words would be "e di pensier". The voice reached the top tone; it lingered, then stopped. Hank's head dropped and he studied the lunch he had put up that morning. The side door flew open admitting a glaring path of whirling dust particles from the top of the opening down to the floor. Hank turned and saw Tony standing in the doorway. His shirt was tied around his waist leaving exposed a pair of broad muscular shoul· ders and arms. His wet hide looked as if it had been greased. His black hair was damp and each lock clung to his scalp in a tight corkscrew. "Hey, Tony," Pat called out. "Shut that door. We're trying to keep it cool in here." "Wassa' mat' wit' da sun, eh? Sun is playnta good for ya. Looka' me. In Italia the sun she shine lika dis all da time. Looka' da Italians. Playnta healthy pipples." "Yeah ? Well, we're no E yetalians." "Okay, okay." Tony burst into song again. He crossed the room and soon his singing was accompanied by a loud splashing of water. Hank thought about the can of Dutch Cleanser on the floor-he �SPRING, 1939 11 could see the dirty spots reappearing. Tony started singing one phrase over and over. Hank could see him watching himself in the mirror. Hank looked at Lem stretched out on the bench- that bastard of a Tony, didn't he think that anyone ever wanted to sleep and not hear him yowling around the place all the time. It was too damned hot today for anybody's singing. Tony came out of the washroom, took his lunch out of the locker and drew up a chair to the table. Two of the men had to move their chairs to make room for him. "Maybe I should ought to sit by Skeeny, eh? More room over dere," he said, smiling broadly at Hank. "No wonder your'e skeeny -you got no wife to mak' you good grub." He opened his lunch and started lining up the various articles on the table. Hank's nose twitched convulsively. The pungent odor of garlic, onions and strong mouldy cheese mingled with the stale smells -of the shop. Hank kept his eyes down. He knew that Tony would take exactly four large bites from a sandwich; then he would take a big gulp of vino. The gulps were timed as perfectly as the notes of Tony's song. Hank rubbed his nose- the smell! The same awful acrid smell day after day and Tony sitting over there-smiling and cocksure, ignoring Hank's annoyance. Hank clenched his fist under the table - that awful loud gulping! He had been listening to it every noon for two years--how many more? Tony with an expansive gesture slapped Pat on the back, "You goin' marry dat gal I seen you wit' las' night?" "Sure, sure, I guess so," Pat said, attempting casualness. "Playnta nice-Iookin' gal. Thin like my Maria when we gotta' married. Now my Maria playnta fat- I don't min'." He grinned at the men. "You don' wanta wait like Skeeny here. Women don' like old, bald-headed men. Aain't dat right, Skeeny? How come you never get married, eh? How come dat?" Hank could feel his face turning color. His pale blue eyes lit up with feeling. He got up very slowly. His whole face twitched. "Listen you, no damned wop is going to butt into my business and get away with it!" Tony shrugged his shoulders. "Was sa' mat' with you, eh ? You can't tak a little kidding? Wal, I guess this is too hot day for Skeeny. Mak's heem hot under the collar." �12 MANUSCRIPT Tony broke into laughter at his joke, and the other men did too. Tony's joke was only an excuse to laugh. Their laughter was caused by their relief; they didn't want a fight on- not today. Hank heard their laughter as a signal of his defeat. He couldn't remain at the table- there would be something ignominious in having to sit back down. He turned away and walked to one of the benches. He lay down on the bench and covered his face with a newspaper. He could hear the men laughing and Tony's laugh ringing above them all. A deck of cards was slapped on the table and the sound of shuffling was heard. Someone suggested that Tony enter the amateur contest at the Rialto as an Italian gondolier. Pat said they could get the employees to buy tickets and applaud for him. The company would approve because it would be good publicity. The men elected Pat as Tony's manager. Hank thought if they'd quit making kid plans for one man to earn a little extra dough and spend more time talking over organizing, they'd all be able to earn more. It was the dago's fault. He told the men how bad things were in that damned country where he come from and that made them satisfied to grovel before Johnson and the rest of the higher-ups. Johnson thought it kept the men happy if he gave a couple of stinkin' parties a year and filled the men up with a lot of tripe about company loyalty and let them swallow it on free beer. It was men like Tony that made them satisfied. Hank flopped over on the hard bench. He wanted to leave, but he had to wait to take the men to the sub-station in the truck. And why should he leave? He had as much right in this shop as anyone. Hadn't he worked for the company fifteen years and Tony only two? Tony's voice rang out again. Hank felt the wooden bench beneath him vibrate. He flopped over again- it was too bad when a man couldn't get a little rest at noon. He heard the scraping of chairs, then Pat's voice, "Hey, Hank. Come on. It's time to go." Hank threw the newspaper off his face. He yawned and stretched, pretending to have been asleep. He went to his locker, put his lunch bucket in and took out his cap . He shuffled across the room and out the door. He stood blinking for a moment in the terrific light of the sun; then he climbed into the old truck which stood in the shade of �SPRING, 1939 13 the building. Pat came out and climbed in beside Hanle "It'll do a hundred and twelve this afternoon." "Yah," Hank answered briefly. Hank heard the other men climbing in the back of the truck. He turned around. Everyone was in but Tony. Tony was always late,. always taking up somebody's time. The side door slammed. Hank heard Tony say, "Wal, sun she's still shinin'." "Did ya expect it to be cloudy?" one of the men answered back. Hank didn't hear any more. He stepped on the gas, the motor roared, and they were off. The heat of the motor came up through the worn-out floor board and burned Hank's feet. He swung in recklessly ahead of traffic and drove a good rate down to the end of Lincoln Avenue to the sub·station. He slowed down and stopped in front of the "sub". The men climbed out of the truck and with little more conversation went to their various jobs. Hank went over to his tool cart. He didn't want to talk to any of them. He watched Tony as he climbed the tall steel structure to mount a set of insulators which were directly under the bus-bars carrying eleven thousand volts. He turned away. He didn't want Tony to catch him watching. In a few minutes he heard Tony's shrill whistle. He turned around. He glared at Tony. What did that wop want, whistling at him like a dog? "Hey, Skeeny, toss me us a wrench, will ya?" Why didn't he remember to take his tools up with him? Just a careless workman, that was all. Every time he got on a job it was, "Toss me this" or "Toss me that". Hank picked up a wrench and with a quick aim threw it up. It went about four feet under Tony and landed on the concrete platform. "Hey," Tony shouted, "wassa' mat? Dontcha' eat your spinach? My Joe could do better dan dat and he's just a little fella'. Put something behind date Maybe I should come down after it, eh?" Tony laughed and Hank heard two of the men chuckling. Hank walked over to the platform and picked up the wrench. He'd get it up there this time. No damned dago was going to make a fool out of him. His Joe ... He'd show him ... Hank took a slow wind-up and released the wrench. It spun up above Tony's head. Hank saw Tony's hand shoot up to catch it. In that awful moment, Hank tried to speak out a warning not to reach �14 MANUSCRIPT for it. There was a terrific flash of blue-white light accompanied by a ripping sound as if giant hands were tearing a circus tent. The wrench fell down to the platform again, but this time not alone. Tony-a human torch- crashed down beside it. Hank leaned up against the tool chest. He tried to run, but he couldn't move. He tried to call out, but he was voiceless. The men were running toward Tony, their faces almost unrecognizable. Hank could hear the rapid praying of Pat. People ran out from restaurants and stores. Now the sidewalk in front of the "sub" was full. Three minutes before just Hank had been standing there. Hank looked at their faces. Some of them he knew. He heard the screech of the ambulance. He wondered who had sent for it. Four men were getting out. Their uniforms were a glaring white in the sun. He saw them lay Tony on a stretcher. One doctor bent over him; then covered him up with a sheet. Hank watched the sheet go over Tony's head. Everyone was talking in hushed excited voices. Hank noticed the woman next to him was crying. He wondered if she were a friend of Tony's. Probably nota friend, just crying the way women do. Because of the crowd, Hank was able to avoid the other workmen. He got on a street car to go to the place where he had light housekeeping rooms. There was no choice for him but to relive the accident- to see the light flash, hear the noise of the arc, and t~ watch the flaming body fall. After that all was confusion and ababble of voices. If he hadn't thrown the wrench- or if Tony hadn't forgotten it in the first place--or if- All mechanical action became an effort for him. He was aware of every movement as he got off the car and walked up the street to a square white house. He slipped upstairs without Mrs. Milligan's seeing him. Resolutely he bathed and changed his clothes. Then he wrote a short letter and left some money in an envelope on the dresser. Mrs. Milligan called up the stairs, "Oh, Mr. Anderson, did you hear about the dreadful accident at your company today?" "Yes, Mrs. Milligan, I heard about it." He closed the door. He waited until he heard Mrs. Milligan go out to do her Saturday marketing. Then he took a street car down town. He went to the Union Station and tried to think. He watched a newsboy go from person to person. Some wouldn't answer him, some would �15 SPRING,1939 shake their heads, and some would say no. The boy reached him. "Paper, mister? Read all about the accident. Man burned to death." Hank kept his eyes down and shook his head. The porter started calling out. It sounded almost like singingTony wouldn't come into the shop anymore singing and shouting around. If he went back to the shop, Tony wouldn't be there. Hank fixed his attention on what the porter was saying. "Train for Minneapolis and St. Paul on Track Five." Hank went to the ticket office and said, "One for Minneapolis, please." They said that since the W. P. A. there was plenty of work for men in the fields, especially in August. Betty Greene, '40. Past Tense I was your sweetheart, and you were my love When the earth was new last spring; I still was a maid and you still were a lad, And we dreamed what the years should bring. I was your sweetheart, and you were my love When the world was young last May, But the earth is grown old, and we are grown wise, And our dreams sent packing away. - Miriam M. Hawthorn, '39. �16 MANUSCRIPT I Sighed for the Shepherd Lad I sighed for the shepherd ladFair-haired and slight, he came. But I tired of the shepherd lad, And I sickened upon his name. I smiled to the straight young page Clad in his crimson cloak, But I saw him forever a page, And presently I awoke. The scholar I hastened to view, Wearing his cap and gown, But I shrank away from the view Lest my heart be stricken down. Once more I turned to the mirror, And I watched the knights ride by, But I looked away from the mirror, Looked away scarce knowing why. I sighed for a silver yardstick; I measured the mantle gold; "The prince shall wear it," I said, "Though I wait till the stars grow cold." I cut for the prince his mantle, And I left my shining loom; He was strangely well fit by the mantle Beneath his purple plume. -Miriam M. Hawthorn, '39. �SPRING, 1939 17 How to Get the Most Out of College Introduction to a Student Handbook By Petit Pedante. "We who are about to die-" These are the words that are on the lips. of the graduating seniors - and it is just like dying to leave the old alma mater where, for four years, one gives his all and spends the best years of his entire life to prepare for the rest- and for what? What is there for any of us after the sheep-skin has passed into our hands? This year, by way of a parting salute, the graduates have left for the rest of us a store of valuable notes, which are little less than rules on the methods for getting the utmost from a college education. These maxims and suggestions have been compiled and are presented in a handbook of convenient pocket size to be sold at a nominal sum, so that all may take advantage of this prized material. As President of the Student Council, Captain of the football team, President of Y. M. C. A., and chairman of the Student Committee for the advancement of scholarship, I have been asked to write this essay by way of introducing the little book to all students who are co~scientious and forward-looking young people. Herein, I present a few samples from the book. First, let me say: students may find it difficult to become accustomed to some of the methods listed, but, we are assured by our elders, will find, after having become facile with much practice plus frequent and intense study of the handbook, that this is the most profitable, the surest- in short- the only way to get through school. It will be necessary by close observation and trial to determine which methods are best adapted to certain subjects and certain professors, not overlooking the physical aspects, such as desks, seating, size of room, etc. One of the most important truths spoken by our seniors is that class attendance is not valuable and is, in many cases, unnecessary. Of course, where narrow-minded professors take roll -call, and shortsighted, old-fashioned officials enforce rules concerning loss of credit, lowering of grade-points, etc., it becomes advisable to appear in class about once a week or to have someone call your name or number. When the text is followed very closely, spend your time in . I �l 18 MANUSCRIPT class sleeping. Good health is one of the first essentials for success in college, and the night hours are assuredly not to be wasted in sleep. However, when a professor is the sort who lectures in addenda to the text, it is wise to take notes on everything he says, not forgetting that even a well-placed cough may be significant; for this type usually tests on his own remarks as being more important than the book. Moreover, be sure to underline each word in the reading material which he repeats or refers to in any way. These provisions are the best aids in making out cribs for examinations and quizzes. In speaking of cribs, let me here present a few suggestions from a long list in the handbook: 1. Cribs are to be written as small as possible on convenient slips of paper, size and shape depending on where they are to be placed during examination. Suggested places are: (a) under coat or sweater sleeve at the wrist, (b) in suit coat pocket, (c) in wide cuff at waist of sweater, (d) on the knee under hose (black ink shows through best), (e) in cuff of trousers, (f) immediately under exam paper, or, if blue-books are used, in another blue-book (this last is very successful). 2. If slips of paper cannot be safely used, write notes on (a) shirt cuffs, (b) skin at wrist or knee, (c) adhesive tape on hand and wrist, or tightly wrapped about pencil or pen. 3. If sure of material to be covered, the best method is to write before going to class, and to hand in the ready-prepared sheet. The mention of prepared answers brings up the point about ways of getting advance information concerning examination questions. One of the oldest and most admirable methods is the following, which can be used only in classes of two or more sections. If there are large numbers in each section, it is safe to try attending a pre· vious section of the examination; receiving a test-sheet; noting down all of the things you do not know and must look up; and returning the blank sheet or actually walking out with it. This is a nearly airtight procedure, for, should you be asked by the professor why you are attending the wrong section, you can offer that it was impossible for you to be present at the regular hour. Then go ahead- take the test- you can't do any worse than you would have in your correct section, never having seen the exam. Be sure to have cribs handy in case of such an emergency. If ever you are without cribs �SPRING, 1939 19 It IS possible to arrange with your neighbor a system of taps or signals (for several very fine illustrations see p. 231). Perhaps a neighbor will exchange papers or watch the prof. while you go through text and will warn you of approaching dangers. We are frequently reminded of the importance of friendships in college and after graduation. Many fine friends are the best asset a man or woman can have in guiding his personality and abetting him in his career. Therefore, the wise student will cultivate the secretaries of each of his professors, for they, too, can be very helpful in getting exam questions for him, or even in fixing a grade on the record, should he be found with a low one some time. It is always best to be particular and artful in selecting friends. It is wise to remember that the friendship of your professors is important, too. Even though they may seem queer, and you do not understand what they are talking about, even in light conversation, acquire their best will. Many of the finer points of polishing are given in the book. On these I present a few notations. Though polishing has been looked down upon by some, professors and students, alike, are coming to see the advantages to be gained by closer and more frequent contact between members of the two groups. Professors are superior human beings, but, nevertheless, human, and from them a student is able to gain much for his personality as well as his grade-point. In the handbook the entire field of applepolishing has been divided into two main fields. One concerns itself with the differences between male and female approaches, and the other field, which cuts across the first, presents the crude and the subtle methods with details about proper etiquette in polishing and the effectiveness of various methods. This is a very important field and requires at least six semester hours of Psychology (preferably Abnormal) to completely comprehend the suggestions and be able to adapt them with best advantage to each professor. Last of all, remember, social life and contacts are the all-important things in college. We all realize that subject-matter is of secondary importance. How often we hear it said by our relatives, alumni, professors, chapel speakers and others: Students forget • nearly everything they learn, anyhow. The learning process is one not only of remembering but also of forgetting. It might be possible to show by graphs (for which there is no place here) that a far greater total proportion of material is forgotten than is remem- �20 MANUSCRIPT bered. But it is not easy to forget friends and social experiences, and therein, I believe, is proved the greater importance of social • life in comparison to facts and figures. During some class periods and chapel periods, converse with your neighbor- make new acquaintances, take advantage of each shining hour. If your neighbor proves uninteresting, try quiet meditationperhaps in your mind you can work out a difficult dance step or figure out just what happened in that last hand of cards to beat you. This is known to Psychologists as introversion. Spend at least three hours each day in complete extroversion too. Learn to be pleasant and popular. These are only a few hints from a rich supply, collected and thoroughly annotated in the book. Such splendid advice will serve us well. We thank our seniors not for ourselves, alone, but for many generations to come, who will live to honor their names (as listed on the back fly-leaf of the handbook). PETIT PEDANTE, Chairman of the Student Committee for the Advancement of Scholarship. - Margaret Gusteson, '40. Only Gray dusk, with ghostly fingers soft, Now reaches in to comfort me As I sit here at my window. Gray thoughts, dull as the dusk itself, Float softly out to lose themselves Deep in that endless shadow. The echo of a joyous shout Returns to mock a faded smileThis, left of all we used to know. -Kathryn Madison, '42. �SPRING, 21 1939 The Parthenon A visitor to the city of Athens in the year 430 B. C. would have heard the whole city exclaiming about the newly-completed temple on the Acropolis, the citadel reserved for the worship of the chief Grecian deities. Joining the crowd gathered there to admire the city's new marvel, he would observe the workmen removing the last bits of scaffolding from around a gleaming white, many-pillared building that faces east and crowns the summit of its rock-bound setting. Though large beside the other structures grouped around it, the temple he cannot help but admire is so gracefully and fitly fashioned that it creates an impression not so much of size as of beauty. A pleasing pattern of vertical masses is formed by the array of fluted columns, imposing in their simple dignity, that support the gently pitched roof above the impressive sculptures of the pediments. Today, however, no such sight awaits the traveler who voyages to historic Greece and rides over the modern highway to its ancient and modern capital city, Athens. A shattered and time-scarred ruin, still noble in spite of its ignoble fate, is all that remains to mark the site of the Parthenon, the matchless temple of Athena Parthenos erected almost 2400 years ago. Yet around the world, in museums, in parks and in monumental structures are to be found constant reminders of the Parthenon's former grandeur. In this country, Nashville, Tennessee, boasts a replica of Athena's temple that is absolutely exact as far as human knowledge is able to determine the original's appearance. The Elgin marbles in the British museum comprise a collection of sculptures from the Parthenon that includes almost half the Panathenais procession depicted on the inner frieze, as well as 15 of the 92 carved slabs of the metopes or outer frieze. Any public building of architectural merit that follows the Grecian pattern embodies some of the features that made the Parthenon famous both to the age that conceived and executed it and to all succeeding ages. It can hardly be doubted that the Parthenon essentially was a thing of beauty to have awakened so much admiration. Furthermore, it is not difficult to understand the elements that entered into its beauty. In the first place was the genius of Phidias who besides �22 MANUSCRIPT achieving undying fame with his superb ivory-and-gold statue of Athena also directed the efforts of Ictinus and Callicrates, the actual architects. One eminent archeologist and scholar, Charles Newton Smiley, says, "Phidias and Ictinus have transmuted into stone the subtlest mental and spiritual experiences of a far more transcendental age than that of the 17th century in Venice." "No other such apotheosis of human reason," as Smiley calls it, has been achieved on such a scale in any age. Intended of course for the worship and perhaps for the enchantment of the Athenian concept of deity, the Parthenon proves to have been conceived in definite mathematical ratios. There is a problem for higher mathematics in the carefully compounded curves that shape the echinus of each column's capital, and in the delicate entasis or swelling that gives elasticity and life to each column. The temple at Basbae executed by Ictinus alone lacks these mathematical niceties and without them just that graceful beauty for which the Parthenon is noted. But one is not aware of the engineering incorporated in the execution because he is so awed by the building's perfection. Tht1re j'~ neither any excess or deficiency about the details of the Parthenon, and because of that, unity and completeness are achieved. The figures of the pediments present poise, self-control and self-masteryemotion subservient to reason; such a quality of rightness that the sight of it no doubt inspired Socrates to make the daring inference of a universal master mind employed in "disposing all parts for the best, putting each particular in the best place." Faced with the problem of constructing a temple suitable and worthy for the worship of the Goddess of Wisdom and Grace, Phidias set about to erect a fit enclosure for the image his mind's eye already had conceived. So he built it of marble throughout, 101 feet across its eastern and western fronts and 228 feet down its sides. To uphold the stately roof he placed eight graceful doric columns at each end and fifteen more along each side. Six inner columns in eac~ of the two porticos guarded the entrances to the inner chambers. The principal of these was the Hekatompedos, 100 feet long and containing four great columns behind Athena's statue that reached up to the ceiling. Over the eastern entrance toward which the image of the goddess faced, Phidias carved the group that depicted the birth of Athena from the brain of Zeus. From this east pediment came the fragment of Ilissus and the more complete �SPRING, 1939 23 Dionysius (mistakenly considered by some to be Perseus-centuries before his time) which nearly all critics concur in ranking above the Apollo Belvedere in the Vatican. Athena's struggle with Poisedon, god of the sea, for the land of Attica is the myth that appears in sculptured marble on the west pediment. On the inner frieze, Phidias carved a two-way procession that proceeds in both directions from over the west entrance along the sides and comes just short of meeting over the east entrance. Worshippers on the way to the Athenian festival comprise the sculptures of the metopes, some slabs of which still are in place on the original edifice. The inner frieze excels the outer one by its uniformly high standard of art which some but by no means all of the metopes attain. The Parthenon probably was complete in all its details by 430 B. C. although the statue of Athena had been dedicated eight years before. As a glorious place of worship for the Greeks of that day, Athena's temple stood for refinement against barbarism- the relegious creed of the Athenian's written large in chaste marble for the whole world to wonder at and to admire. When Socrates declared to Plato, "There is no release or salvation from evil except by the attainment of the highest virtue and wisdom," he only was repeating what Phidias had proclaimed in stone 50 years before by carving the ignominious Pandora on Athena's pedestal beneath her feet. As an inspiring and sublime work of sacred art the pride of Athens stood secure and intact for centuries. It was reverenced by the Romans, converted into a church by the earl y Christians, transformeq into a mosque by the Turks and even then visited by particularly adventu-resome travelers. Then Turkey and Venice in 1684 engaged in a war and thinking the Christians would respect its sanctity, the Parthenon was made the Turk's powder magazine, only to be bombarded and blown up September 26, 1687. -Charels Seward, '39. �24 MANUSCRIPT Strike An alarm clock screamed out of the grayness, jerking him straight up in bed while his hands blundered on the chair beside him; then he remembered that their own was broken that night he'd met Frakes, his old manager, and come home ugly drunk. This one, now, belonged to Lane, down the hall, who had a regular job in the sausage department of the local packing company. Orval sighed and dropped heavily back onto the springless bed, only a thin mat covering the boards. Wide awake now, he lay staring out of the narrow curtainless window at the dingy windows of the house across the alley. The baby fussed. His wife awoke instantly, sat up, and gathered the baby from between them to croon to her and hush her cries. "Let her cry, I'm awake," he said sharply and got up to dress in his only clothes, which had been tossed over the bed-rail. Stella, carrying the baby, went over to the boys where they slept on the bed springs which were perched precariously on orange crates. She shook them roughly, and when they protested, "Get up at once, Donald, you've got to go to school." At this the older rose out of the pile of ragged quilts and, without stepping onto the cold, splintery floor, stretched across to a chair on which his few clothes lay. The distance was too great, the bed was too unstable, over went the whole works, dumping the bed-clothes, the springs, and his younger brother on top of him. "Good Lord, Donald, I ought to beat the daylights out of you for this," shouted his mother, setting the wailing baby on the bed while she went to the rescue. Warren, the younger boy, began to shriek from fright. The father, cursing his son's stupidity, continued his dressing. Orval was a big brute of an man, an ex-prizefighter, whom unemployment and hard drink had pushed further into the depths. His wife, Stella, had worked in a ten cent store before he married her at the height of his ring career. She was a washed-out blonde, dissatisfied with her lot in life, yet not knowing what to do about it. Wrapped in a cheap rayon housecoat which Orval had given her for Christmas, Stella heated water on the single gas plate for the weak tea and hard bread without butter which formed their break- �po SPRING, 1939 25 fast. In the midst of this meagre meal somone rapped on the door. Opened, the doorway revealed Mrs. Lane, whose husband had long since gone to work. Without preliminaries, she told her news, "Say, my husband heard the sheriff is hiring deputies for five dollars a day because of the strike at the tanning company, and I thought I'd tell you. Maybe if you'd get down there quick they'd take you, seeing how you used to prizefight and all." At the prospect of work at this price the whole family brightened up. Orval gulped the rest of his tea, dashed cold water on his face, buttened his shirt and put on his only necktie, a polka-dotted bow tie, which contrasted incongruously with his shabby, wrinkled clothes. He hurriedly left the drab room in the musty, smelly rooming house under the shadow of huge gas storage tanks and ca~e into the comparatively fresh air of the railroad yards which he crossed to reach the business part of town where the courthouse was located. Thirty minutes' walk brought him to his destination where he joined a crowd of men, similar to himself, milling about in the marble lobby. He edged as near to the door of the sheriff's office as he could and leaned against a Grecian pillar to wait. After about an hour, the glass-paneled door opened and the sheriff came out and announced that he would make his selections. He walked about in the crowd, curtly sending those he picked into his office. Orval noticed that the strong, tough-looking ones were those generally chosen and his hopes came up a mite from the level to which they had dropped. As the sheriff approached his pillar, he straightened up and thrust himself forward. The sheriff saw him, paused, and then nodded toward the office. Orval grinned triumphantly and hurried through the door to join the chosen gang. A few more came, then the sheriff himself bustled in. Quickly the men were sworn in, badges were handed out, and the sheriff gave his instructions. "Now men, the company wants, uh ... I mean, I want you to pitch in and fight if the strikers begin anything. Beat 'em up good. I picked you because you looked like good fighters, now get your weapons, but remember let them start it." Here the sheriff winked elaborately which raised a guffaw from the crowd of toughs before him. "There's trucks here and you can get right out there on duty. That's all." Baseball bats were handed out �26 MANUSCRIPT and before he knew it, Orval was standing in a crowded open truck, feeling the crisp air rush against his face as they sped toward the fortressed factory. * * * * George Smith lay drowsing in bed, listening to the pleasant sound of dishes rattling in the kitchen, smelling the heavenly odor of boiling coffee and frying pancakes. At last Katie, his wife, called him for the third time, "Get up this minute, George Smith, you know you're due on the picket line at 8. Get up at once, this is absolutely the last call." "Hurry up, pop, or I'll eat your bacon," George, Jr. called from the breakfast table. At this threat George rolled over and, stretching and yawning, dressed in the clean clothes which Katie had laid out for him. This done, he strolled casually to the kitchen, glancing proudly about at his home as he went. These four rooms, and the ground they stood on were his and Katie's. They had worked hard to save enough for the down payment and to keep up the monthly installments. And now- the strike. If they should lose - but he shook this dark thought from him, they couldn't! Mter his comfortable breakfast he walked the short distance to the factory where he relieved another man who had been on all night duty. Somehow, even though the day was dreary, everyone in the line was cheerful. This was the eighth day of the strike and the rumor dashed around that the owners were feeling their losses. * * * * Everything was very quiet. There seemed to be no one in the plant and the picket line passed the time in telling jokes. At ten o'clock the monotony was broken by the arrival of the trucks of deputies. These immediately drove past the picket line and into the plant where the gates were locked after them. The deputies were unloaded from the trucks and herded into the space behind the gates. Between the gates and the picket line was a "No Man's Land" expanse of pavement. After the arrival of the deputies the picket line increased tremendously. Within half an hour it was doubled. The deputies were outnumbered and even 'Ilheir clubs were no better than those of their enemies across the way. Some of the regular deputies began calling out insults to the pickets, but when the new recruits protested, they were told by the regulars that they could "lick" those "softie" pickets easy. �po SPRING, 1939 27 On the picket line Geo.rge Smith sto.o.d resentfully listening to. the deputies' calls. So.me o.f the strikers sho.uted answers of which he appro.ved. He wished regretfully that he eQuId think o.f brilliant replies to.o.. The presence o.f the deputies certainly didn't make fo.r peace. There was an underto.ne to' the weather that was mo.re sinister. The sky was o.vercast and the clo.uds seemed waiting fo.r a signal to' release a do.wnpo.ur o.n bo.th sides. Orval lo.o.ked to' the heavens and wo.ndered if this jo.b was wo.rth five do.llars. He shivered a little fro.m nervo.usness and fro.m the gently penetrating wind which crept aro.und the place. Geo.rge was beco.ming mo.re incensed at the injustices suffered by the strikers. His anger kept him ho.t. He hadn't time to. no.tice the signs o.f a sto.rm. The cro.wd was muttering no.w o.f what they wo.uld do. to. those lo.usy deputies when they caught them o.utside. A few bo.lder spirits began to. thro.w sto.nes that fell inside the pro.tecting gates. At last o.ne o.f the regular deputies was kno.cked do.wn. The o.thers milled aro.und their fallen co.mrade. Suddenly o.ne o.f them exclaimed, "Tho.se yello.w do.gs, let's go. get them." So.meho.w, Orval never knew, the gates were o.pened and he was swept alo.ng in the cro.wd that raced acro.ss the pavement to.ward the strikers, who. fell back mo.mentarily befo.re the surprise o.f the o.nslaught. Then they in their turn, with a sho.ut, rushed fo.rward to. the battle. Orval, at first, was a little puzzled as to. what to. do. until he saw his co.mrades trying to. break their clubs o.ver any heads they came to.. He entered this game with zest and began to. tally the number o.f strikers he had struck do.wn. Geo.rge hung back fo.r a mo.ment, reluctant to. fight, then changed his mind and began to. run after his co.mpanio.ns. When he came up the battle was already under way. The deputies held the advantage o.f a surprise attack, but this was so.o.n o.verco.me by the strikers' numbers. Geo.rge was trying to. distinguish between friend and fo.e when he chanced to. see a huge hulk o.f a man in a po.lka-do.t tie bearing do.wn o.n him. He turned to. meet the attack. This will be Number Five, thought Orval, I'm do.ing well. But wo.uld-be Number Five had seen him co.ming and was ready fo.r him. Geo.rge ducked under the splintered bat which Orval still carried and the two. men grappled, each trying to. deliver the finishing blo.w, but finally it seemed that the pro.fessio.nal fighter must win. �28 MANUSCRIPT His opponent knew less about the business, but at this critical moment, a friend of George turned and saw the uneven struggle. He approached and waiting for an opportunity brought his club down on the head of the man of the polka-dot tie with such force that Orval dropped solidly in his tracks. "Thanks a lot, pal," George said when he regained his breath, "I though 1 was a goner sure." And glancing down at the man at his feet, he spied the badge glistening on the dirty shirt front. "I think I'll just take this for a souvenir," he added. -l- * * .;c- Mrs. Lane burst into Stella's one room home, panting from excitement. "Your man that was one of the deputies, he got his head broke in a big fight out at the tanning company. They say it was awful, the strikers beat up the deputies all over the place. You'd better hurry and go to the hospital. I'll keep the kids: for you. Wait'll 1 get my crocheting, I'll be back." Stella, stunned, began combing her hair and straightening herself up. As she looked at her face in the mirror, terror came over her and she said aloud, "What'll we do?" After a second the horror of the question filled her whole soul and it seemed she could think of nothing else. "What will happen to us now?" * * * * George Smith returned home ' that night, singing in his heart. After the rout of the deputies, the owners had given in and negotiations for a settlement were under way. Soon they would be back at work again, he and Katie could go on paying for the house and maybe--after that- a car. His eyes shone at this dr·eam. But he must not think of the future. Right now he had a good-looking deputy's badge to give Katie as a souvenir of the time before they were rich. -Patricia Warner, '40. �SPRING, 29 1939 Quebec Summer I've always wanted to gaze on the breath-taking sweep of Alaskan mountains. I've spent whole hours dreaming of a pack-trip through Glacier National Park. But if some good fairy were to appear tomorrow and invite me to take my choice of summer vacations, I wouldn't hesitate a minute. "Please", I'd say quickly, "I'll take a summer in Quebec." "A Summer in Quebec!" The very words call up a complete vista of happy hours. Even the entrance to this perfect holiday, an entrance made via the Customs office at Rouse's Point, is exhilarating. Hundreds of people are milling around waiting for the official blessing which will certify them as being r~asonably free of anything which would seem undesirable to Canadian eyes, but no one minds the waiting. It merely gives an added feeling of zest to the excitement of entering another country. Permission once granted, how gaily we ride across the border into this friendly foreign nation, for when you enter Canada through the province of Quebec the word "foreign" seems truly appropriate. If Alberta or Ontario had been our point of entry, we might easily have thought ourselves still in the United States but Quebec is the heart of the French Country. As we drive along through the beautiful green landscape, our delight increases. The scenery of Quebec is particularly lovely, with its rolling fields, its frequent forests, and its unexpected brooks, but even this beauty is only a background for the quaintness we see around us. "Quaint" is an adjective which receives much punishment in any description of Quebec, but how can that be avoided? Quebec is quaint. Down an arched lane of beech trees, we see a farmhouse. No Iowa farm would recognize it, though, for this house was built at least a century ago and in its dormer windows, overhanging roof, and timid clinging to the earth, is a recognizable visitor from the Old World. Oh, and there comes the family that lives in this queer old house. A whole wagonload of jolly-looking "habitants". They've spent the day in their fields, all of them, from great-grandpa to the newest of the many babies, but they're still gay and laughing and wave at us frantically as long as we're in sight. �30 MANUSCRIPT Now we see ahead of us a group of men walking. But what in the world can they be wearing? 0, yes, those are priests on a pilgrimage of some sort and they're wearing the long black cassocks and flat hats traditional in their church. They aren't the men of grave mien we rather expected to see but young, round-faced boys with "country" written plainly on their rosy cheeks. They seem to be enjoying their trip and kick up great clouds of dust with their clumsy boots as they stride along the highway. And now, a score of wayside shrines and picturesque villages behind us, we are driving through the modern little city of Levis. Levis isn't beautiful, nor very important in itself, but- and that's a very important "but"- it's the gateway to the city of a million dreams, the city of Quebec. There it lies, history itself, just across the green St. Lawrence River. How it towers above us as, accompanied by a motely collection of tourists, nuns and monks, we approach it on a ferry-boat. We look up in awe and mumur, "No wonder Montcalm thought no one could get up there without his permission! " What puzzles us is how we're going to get away up there in the clouds. The problem is 'Soon solved, however, for our ferry deposits us at the foot of an elevator which immediately whisks us up to our goal. We are actually standing on Dufferin Terrace. The Terrace is thronged with crowds of holiday-minded people. Some are leaning over the railing admiring the magnificent view of th~ river as it surges past the citadel and on to Montreal. Others are chattering at the little tables scattered about, while still others are enjoying the music of the brilliantly-uniformed band of the Third Grenadier Guards, which is just finishing a stirring rendition of the Canadian classic, "The Maple Leaf Forever". Just behino. the terrace we see the Chateau Frontenac, beautiful and imposing hotel, where one may meet everyone from the Archbishop of Australia to a favorite movie star, and to the left of the Chateau is our main interest in Quebec, the historic citadel. We are fortunate enough to have a British soldier as a guide for our citadel tour but, contrary to our expectations, he doesn't enjoy being stationed here. "Quebec is too French," he says, "and people don't like us even if we do own the place." He laughs and shows us the parade ground, where the soldiers drilled and the women used to do the washing, one woman being laundress for a hundred men. On our �SPRING, 1939 31 recovery from this piece of information, we are shown the rusted old cannons which still frown, though helplessly now, on the St. Lawrence. One tiny cannon in particular is pointed out with great pride. The inscription on it reads, "Captured by the British at Bunker Hill". A quick-witted American saves the day, however, by remarking casually, "You fellows have the cannon all right, but don't forget: we still have the hill!" Our citadel tour completed, we decide to take a walk through the town; so off we go down the Terrace, past the many statues of Frontenac and Montcalm, even past all the importunate drivers of that unique French vehicle, the caleche. We trudge up and down the steep, cobble-stoned streets, enjoying intensely the sense of strangeness, the narrow roads, the tiny-paned windows of the ancient houses that almost seem to lean toward us, and the constant and vivacious chatter of French. We peep into the English Cathedral, where it. is still easy to imagine the presence of the British governors and their charming ladies; pay a visit to the Basilica, where the pulse of this city beats almost audibly; and peer down at Lower Town, which we hope to visit tomorrow. As we look up, we see, away down the river, the lights, of a great liner just coming in from England. Our vacation certainly has started out well. But, alas, this little portion of it has been enjoyed only through what Wordsworth once called, "The inward eye which is the bliss of solitude." It's been fun, all right, but it can't possibly approach reality. Hmmm- I wonder if there's any way to get in touch with that fairy I mentioned! -Marjorie Cowling. �32 MANUSCRIPT The Hitch. Hiker An' he stood there a -singin' in the rain, His thumb outstretched for motorists to see; His heart a-boundin' in a place that's free While standin' there a-singin' in the rain. Fifty cars were hurried past him Through the wet and shiny street, And some were urged by drunken feet On a peddle down below a crazy-s.wingin' Steerin' wheel. A-singin' in the rain was he, Standin' there ... not exactly cold, But slightly shiverin' from the dampish wind While the proud and stuck-up cars swung by Unevenly. Maybe the turnin' light from red to green Would bring a line of sympathetic motorists But mostly maybe not! He'd keep a-thumb in' there until the next light turned. He'd be keep in' warm by singin' in the rain. On a golden throne and unhappy Kings are always catered to. But he? He's a self appointed king the highways crown, Content to ask a ride and wave a cheerful thanks To them as has their cars too full of other things. An' these motorists are strange, an' mostly likeable; They don't cater to his thumb, But rather answer to their fancy's wish An' stop their cars to let him in. o he's happy on the road in sun and rain For he's as like as not to sing when the goin's rough An' whistle when the clouded sun breaks through An' shines agairi. -Eric Liljestrand, '42. �16 MANUSCRIPT I Sighed for the Shepherd Lad I sighed for the shepherd ladFair-haired and slight, he came. But I tired of the shepherd lad, And I sickened upon his name. I smiled to the straight young page Clad in his crimson cloak, But I saw him forever a page, And presently I awoke. The scholar I hastened to view, Wearing his cap and gown, But I shrank away from the view Lest my heart be stricken down. Once more I turned to the mirror, And I watched the knights ride by, But I looked away from the mirror, Looked away scarce knowing why. I sighed for a silver yardstick; I measured the mantle gold; "The prince shall wear it," I said, "Though I wait till the stars grow cold." I cut for the prince his mantle, And I left my shining loom; He was strangely well fit by the mantle Beneath his purple plume. - Miriam M. Hawthorn, '39. ��� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College. Through its several titles—Manuscript, Perspectives, and Kiosk—the magazine has a long history of celebrating creative writing and art on campus. It began publication in 1938 under the title of Manuscript before changing its name to Perspectives in 1953. Then in 1971 it took another name that it is known by currently: Kiosk. It is still published annually by the Morningside College English Department. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1938- Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Morningside College Library Morningside College English Department Ponder, Marcie: Digital Creator Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical PDF Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Title A name given to the resource Kiosk Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource "The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children," (The Kiosk, 2003). Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. JV MANUSCRIPT OR 1 0 IDE CO LE B LIBR MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE VOL.1 SPRING 1939 • NO.2 I MANUSCRIPT MIRIAM M. HAWTHORN, Editor LESTER OLSON, Business Manager Associate Editors BETTY GREENE IRENE JOHNSON LYNN BEYER, Volume I CHARELS SEWARD Faculty Advisor Spring, 1939 Number 2 CONTENTS Page Foreword ___ .___ ..... ____ .__ .. ____ .... __ .. __ .. __ .. __________________ .... __ .. __ .. __ .________________ .2 Peace on Earth .. ____ .. ________________ .... _____________ .. _ ________ Winifred Cheely .. 3 Proposition .. _____ .. __ .__________ ....... __ .... __ .. __ .. _ ____ Miriam. M. Hawthorn .. 5 Take Your Lamp Away..... _ _ __ .. __ .. __ .. _____ ... ____ .__ Eric Liljestrand .. .... 6 Everything SeL ........ ____ ... __ .. __ .. __ ..... ____________ ... ____ ...Bartlett Lubbers 7 High Voltage ____ .. ______________ .____ .. __ ... _____ .. __ .. __ .. _______ Betty Lou Greene 9 Past Tense __ .... __________________ ._____ .. ___ .. __________ .. __ .Miriam M . Hawthorn 15 I Sighed for the Shepherd Lad _______________ .. __ .Miriam M. Hawthorrz.. 16 How to Get the Most Out of College______________ Margar:et Gusteson 17 Only .__ .. __ .. _____ ... __ ......................... ___ .. __ ... __ .. _ ....... __ Kathryn Madison 20 The Parthenon .... __________ ......_________ .. ____ .. ____ ._________ .. __ .Charels Seward 21 Strike _______ .. _________ .... __ .. ______ .. __ ........ __ .. ______ .... ______ . __ .Patricia Warner 24 Quebec Summer..._. __ .. __ ._________________________ ... __________ M arjorie Cowling 29 The Hi tch- Hiker... _____________ .... __ .. ___ .. __ .. __ ... ______________ Eric Lil jestrand 32 Published twice a year by the students of Morningside College, Sioux City, Iowa. Subscription: fifty cents a year; twenty· five cents a copy. FOREWORD In presenting the second issue of Manuscript the editors wish once more to thank those friends who have lent the magazine their support and those who have contributed in other ways to its publication. Special words of appreciation are due Professor Lynn Beyer who first saw the field for a literary magazine at Morningside, and who has generously given of both his time and counsel to develop the possibilities. of that feature of our college life. The reception of the magazine this year has been gratifying, and the staff joins in desiring for next year better and more frequent issues. ... Peace on Earth "But, Su Excelencia, 1 must have permission to leave the camp tonight. Mi Maria-my brother has just brought word that tonight -well, senor, it is our first baby, and I must be with her. I promised! 1 implore you, senor, please let me go into the town. 1 will come back as soon as possible, I will speak to no one--but now-I want to be with my Maria!" General Rosas placed his hand on the shoulder of the slender young man standing before him and slowly shook his head. "I am sorry, } ose, but not tonight. Last night, perhaps, or tomorrow night, but not tonight. I have just received orders that no man is to leave the camp under any conditions. I should like to help you, but- well, you see how it is." "Oh, but senor! Do you not have a wife of your own? Do you not have children? 1 promise you that- " "Senor Belgrano ! You have heard the orders. I can do nothing. That is all!" "Si, senor." Jose saluted, turned on his heel, and walked to the door of the dugout. There he hesitated, turned with one last imploring look at the unyielding face of his superior, and stepped out into the darkness. His eyes were filled with tears of anger and disappointment as he walked slowly toward a caisson and slumped wearily against the wheel. It was a beautiful night. Galaxies of stars twinkled brightly in the deep blue velvet sky, and a pale sliver of a moon hung low over the western Sierras. On the banks of the river below lay the little village with its few orange and yellow lights occasionally piercing the darkness. But off there in the northeast was the war. Only five miles away distant flashes of cannon, the bursting of shells, ,and the whining of shrapnel marked the battlefield where men were fighting, killing, murdering"Over there in the village is my Maria, and I cannot be with her. I must go out and kill some man, while Maria gives life to my son. Death and life--on Christmas Eve. Madre de Dios, help her, and help me. On such a night as this was your own son born. But there was no war then. War- life- death-kill- hate- }esu Christo- " 4 MANUSCRIPT Murmuring a prayer over and over, Jose dropped to his knees beside the caisson and rested his flushed face against the hard, cold metal. He knelt there for a long time, scarcely moving. The moon had almost vanished behind the distant mountain peaks when Jose raised his tear-streaked face. A faint bustle of activity had begun to show itself about the camp. He rose and walked slowly toward the barracks. Whispered instructions brought the men to the drill ground, and there they were loaded silently into the huge motor lorries. As quietly as possible, devoid of lights, the lorries carried them to a ravine about three miles from the camp. Here the men again assembled. Following a sharp command from the officer in charge, they started along the floor of the ravine. Crawling through brambles, brushing against trees, stumbling over rocks and stones, Jose made his way with his comrades along the bottom of the gully. Mter marching nearly half an hour the captain called a halt. "Listen, men, just beyond this bend the ravine flattens out. Not more than a hundred yards away is a loyalist machine gun nest. They have been quiet for nearly an hour, and we must destroy them before they start in again. When I give the signal, every man run for it. Be ready with your hand grenades, and don't give up! Ready!" Jose found himself running forward through a shower of dirt and stones. He stumbled and fell, but was on his feet again. There was a man running toward him. He threw his hand grenade. It made a beautiful explosion. Then he stopped. Something had happened. His legs wouldn't work- he couldn't move. He rolled into a shell hole and lay there- wondering- wondering- wonderingHe wasn't fighting. He was supposed to throw a hand grenade, but he couldn't. Get that machine gun nest. But it was so quiet. Now he could sleep. And Maria was all right, too. Somehow he knew that she was all right. Quiet- peace- silencioso noche. Peace on earthgood will toward men. It was so good to be able to sleep- not guns -no noise-no war- just peace on earthMaria Belgrano smiled sleepily at the tiny baby resting in the curve of her arm. Such a funny muchacho, this little Jose. And how proud big Jose would he. A son on Christmas Eve. "Su padre will be surprised when he comes home, mi muchachita. When the war is ended and he can stay with us all the time-we SPRING, 1939 5 shall have great fun, we three. Sleep, mi nina. It is Christmas Eve and God has been kind. Muchas gracias, Madre Maria, for sending me a son. Go to sleep, my baby. Peace on earth- good will toward men. Peace on earth-" -Winifred Cheely, '41. Proposition Could I but love you, dear, so tenderly That seeing you would cause my pulse to leap , That dreaming you would steal away my sleep, That your slight ills would bring me agony; Could I but have the heart you have for me, Or feel a bit of this you say is deep; Or sacrifice-enough that I might weep; I'd stake my all on you quite happily. If I were sure my heart would really break, Though I knew, too, that you would soon forget; If I were certain pain would truly make The verses come as they have not come yet; I'd very gladly give, and gladly take Whatever disappointment I could get. -Miriam M. Hawthorn, '39. 6 MANUSCRIPT Take Your Lamp Away Aladdin, you've been kind But take your lamp away. It fails, recalling memories Years have put asunder. Aladdin, take your lamp away! Put before me instead the growing .... The pulsing life I used to live. In that life I had the tune Temple bells each morning made. At night I went to sleep With beating drums that held communion With the gods of night. Day break was saluted By the silver throats of bugles on the city wall Fifty at a time and perfect in their unison. Aladdin, when you find a lamp A machine or thought Powerful enough to bring it all back Then visit me often when I am alone And longing for the past. Your genie is still bewildered at my demand. Does he know that memory is unpreparable? Unpredictable? A traitor to desire? Knows he not where I am from? Take him and your lamp away! -Eric Liljestrand, '42. SPRING, 7 1939 Everything Set Everything set. A quart of whiskey and a package of cigarettes in my pocket. The space under the garage door carefully packed with gunny-sacks. A wad of paper stuck into the broken glass of the window I forgot to have fixed. Everything set. Now to start the car. Mustn't give it too much gas. Pull out the throttle just a little farther. Couldn't use your foot accelerator for a job like this. Too much danger of your foot slipping off and spoiling everything. Gear in neutral. Brake set. The windows of the coupe lowered. Everything set. Nothing to do now but wait. A deep draught of the whiskeyman, that stuff re.ally takes hold. Wonder where Marty got it. Must ask him the next time I-but there won't be a next time! A cigarette. Gosh this lighter takes a long time to get hot. Sorlieone ought to invent one that wouldn't necessitate waiting sixty seconds before you can light a cigarette on it. Oh well, I won't need to worry about that confounded thing much longer. A deep drag- ah, that's good. Funny how I like cigarettes. Wonder if they have them where I'm going. My fingers are kinda numb but I don't feel cold. That whiskey should warm me up soon enough. Everything set-no, not quite. The radio. Must go out while the brass band plays. Hope it's something nice and peppy. Some good swing number. " ... just been listening to a brief review of the news of the day, brought to you by the makers of Enos Soap, Enos Soap, Chips, and Enos Tissue Soap. This is station KRLC, Columbus. We now bring you a quarter hour of tea-time dance tunes played by Freddie Long and his orchestra. As their first number, Freddie and the boys are going to play that current favorite--'My Reverie'.- Freddie." "My Reverie", quite a tune that. Marion's favorite. Great girl, Marion, but too serious. She was out for a husband, home, and kids. None of the home and kids stuff for me--better as it is. But she sure had class. Have to hand it to her there. A swell looker. She'd make a darn good wife, too. Maybe I should have taken her up on it. Maybe a wife and kids was what I needed. Maybe I wouldn't be doing this now if- hell, getting soft? Better have another swig of that whiskey and forget Marion. 8 MANUSCRIPT Damn, I can't smell a thing. But then they say you can't smell Carbon Monoxide anyway. Throw out that butt and light another cigarette. Hang that lighter. Wait, wait, wait- wait for everything in this world, even to light a cigarette. What's the name of that thing they're playing now? "Lambeth Walk", that's it. Gee, Edith and I sure got plastered the night we danced that one. Funny, Edith. She was the kind that didn't care whether you were drunk or sober, just give her a smile and dish out the dough- that's Edith. Marion told me she was no good. And I told Marion to mind her own business. If I only had let Edith alone I would have two thousand more to my name now. I have Marion to thank for getting rid of her that cheap. Good old Marion. Take some more whiskey. Get good and drunk. Maybe the whiskey will get you before the gas does. "Deep in a Dream", that's a good number. Marion liked that a lot. Said it was just like herself. Wanting me and waiting for me and me not coming. Maybe I should have left her a note. She won't understand. She'll think it's because of Edith and that's not it at all. Gosh, I feel funny, kinda sleepy. Is it the whiskey or the gas? Say, I better get out of here. I've gotta see Marion and explain. I can't move---I must be checkin'. Oh God, let me out of here. God let me turn off that ignition- I can't move! Can't see or feel a darn thing, but I can hear the music. Funny, I always did want to go out while the band was playin'. "God, I don't wanta die. Let me come back, let me come back. I'll set everything right by Marion and me, I- swear it! I'll- seteverything- - ! -Bartlett Lubbers, '42. SPRING, 1939 9 High Voltage Hank, pausing just inside the door, blinked in the dim light of the shop. He pulled out a blue bandana handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his face. As soon as his eyes were adjusted to the light, he went to a row of old lockers lined up against the side wall. Taking from number eight a towel and a piece of tar soap, he ambled to the washroom. He opened the door. Someone had forgotten to turn off the shower the men had rigged up, and the water was dripping away in defiance of the sign on the wall- Turn Off the Shower and that Means You! Hank reached up and gave the knob an extra hard twist. The water gurgled spasmodically and stopped. He frowned at the sight of the dirty washbowl. Glancing around the room, he spied a can of Old Dutch Cleanser on the floor. Behind it lay a sock which from its appearance had been there some months. He picked up the cleanser, carefully sprinkled some of the powder into the basin, took a worn down hand brush lying in a soap tray and began vigorously to clean. He felt some vague satisfaction in watching the dirt disappear; but he knew the rusty spot where the water dripped down couldn't be removed. After cleaning the bowl, he filled it with cold water, washed his hands and face and ran a comb through his thinning hair. The side door slammed. He paused. Then he heard a loud, young voice say, "Gee, but it's hot!" Another replied, "Ain't it though?" As soon as he identified the voices, he continued combing his hair and looking at the bald spots rather abstractedly in the wavery mirror. He jerked around guiltily when he saw the grinning, perspiring face of Pat reflected. Pat began, "Where'd you go, Hank? Boy, oh boy, was it hot up on that sub-station!" "It wasn't exactly coolon that pole where I was workin' this morning." "Say, who does old 'fish-eye' Johnson think he is sending us all up on the hot spots when it's a hundred and ten in the shade?" "'Cause the cable's goin' to hell that's why, and 'cause as long as Johnson can sit in an air-conditioned office, he ain't goin' to worry about the boys down here." 10 MANUSCRIPT Hank folded his towel up and started to leave the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dirty sock on the floor. He stooped over, picked it up and threw it out the narrow window. Then he put his things back in the locker and took out a lunch bucket. One workman was stretched out on a narrow bench fanning himself with an old company magazine. Hank pulled up a chair and sat down to the table-an old drawing board supported by two saw horses. Pat drew up a chair beside Hank's and unwrapped the news· paper covering of his lunch; then straightened the paper out to read. Three more laborers came in and joined Hank and Pat. After they had in turn cursed the weather and Boss Johnson, the group fell into a silence and all that could be heard was the sound of their eating and the buzzing of flies and the muffled sounds from the street. The man on the bench was still stretched out fanning himself. With startling suddenness a song broke into the quiet of the shop and echoed in the corners where the discarded dust-covered tools lay. Hank's head jerked up. He shifted his eyes nervously about as the voice rose higher and higher. He waited for the last note-he knew it would come~the last words would be "e di pensier". The voice reached the top tone; it lingered, then stopped. Hank's head dropped and he studied the lunch he had put up that morning. The side door flew open admitting a glaring path of whirling dust particles from the top of the opening down to the floor. Hank turned and saw Tony standing in the doorway. His shirt was tied around his waist leaving exposed a pair of broad muscular shoul· ders and arms. His wet hide looked as if it had been greased. His black hair was damp and each lock clung to his scalp in a tight corkscrew. "Hey, Tony," Pat called out. "Shut that door. We're trying to keep it cool in here." "Wassa' mat' wit' da sun, eh? Sun is playnta good for ya. Looka' me. In Italia the sun she shine lika dis all da time. Looka' da Italians. Playnta healthy pipples." "Yeah ? Well, we're no E yetalians." "Okay, okay." Tony burst into song again. He crossed the room and soon his singing was accompanied by a loud splashing of water. Hank thought about the can of Dutch Cleanser on the floor-he SPRING, 1939 11 could see the dirty spots reappearing. Tony started singing one phrase over and over. Hank could see him watching himself in the mirror. Hank looked at Lem stretched out on the bench- that bastard of a Tony, didn't he think that anyone ever wanted to sleep and not hear him yowling around the place all the time. It was too damned hot today for anybody's singing. Tony came out of the washroom, took his lunch out of the locker and drew up a chair to the table. Two of the men had to move their chairs to make room for him. "Maybe I should ought to sit by Skeeny, eh? More room over dere," he said, smiling broadly at Hank. "No wonder your'e skeeny -you got no wife to mak' you good grub." He opened his lunch and started lining up the various articles on the table. Hank's nose twitched convulsively. The pungent odor of garlic, onions and strong mouldy cheese mingled with the stale smells -of the shop. Hank kept his eyes down. He knew that Tony would take exactly four large bites from a sandwich; then he would take a big gulp of vino. The gulps were timed as perfectly as the notes of Tony's song. Hank rubbed his nose- the smell! The same awful acrid smell day after day and Tony sitting over there-smiling and cocksure, ignoring Hank's annoyance. Hank clenched his fist under the table - that awful loud gulping! He had been listening to it every noon for two years--how many more? Tony with an expansive gesture slapped Pat on the back, "You goin' marry dat gal I seen you wit' las' night?" "Sure, sure, I guess so," Pat said, attempting casualness. "Playnta nice-Iookin' gal. Thin like my Maria when we gotta' married. Now my Maria playnta fat- I don't min'." He grinned at the men. "You don' wanta wait like Skeeny here. Women don' like old, bald-headed men. Aain't dat right, Skeeny? How come you never get married, eh? How come dat?" Hank could feel his face turning color. His pale blue eyes lit up with feeling. He got up very slowly. His whole face twitched. "Listen you, no damned wop is going to butt into my business and get away with it!" Tony shrugged his shoulders. "Was sa' mat' with you, eh ? You can't tak a little kidding? Wal, I guess this is too hot day for Skeeny. Mak's heem hot under the collar." 12 MANUSCRIPT Tony broke into laughter at his joke, and the other men did too. Tony's joke was only an excuse to laugh. Their laughter was caused by their relief; they didn't want a fight on- not today. Hank heard their laughter as a signal of his defeat. He couldn't remain at the table- there would be something ignominious in having to sit back down. He turned away and walked to one of the benches. He lay down on the bench and covered his face with a newspaper. He could hear the men laughing and Tony's laugh ringing above them all. A deck of cards was slapped on the table and the sound of shuffling was heard. Someone suggested that Tony enter the amateur contest at the Rialto as an Italian gondolier. Pat said they could get the employees to buy tickets and applaud for him. The company would approve because it would be good publicity. The men elected Pat as Tony's manager. Hank thought if they'd quit making kid plans for one man to earn a little extra dough and spend more time talking over organizing, they'd all be able to earn more. It was the dago's fault. He told the men how bad things were in that damned country where he come from and that made them satisfied to grovel before Johnson and the rest of the higher-ups. Johnson thought it kept the men happy if he gave a couple of stinkin' parties a year and filled the men up with a lot of tripe about company loyalty and let them swallow it on free beer. It was men like Tony that made them satisfied. Hank flopped over on the hard bench. He wanted to leave, but he had to wait to take the men to the sub-station in the truck. And why should he leave? He had as much right in this shop as anyone. Hadn't he worked for the company fifteen years and Tony only two? Tony's voice rang out again. Hank felt the wooden bench beneath him vibrate. He flopped over again- it was too bad when a man couldn't get a little rest at noon. He heard the scraping of chairs, then Pat's voice, "Hey, Hank. Come on. It's time to go." Hank threw the newspaper off his face. He yawned and stretched, pretending to have been asleep. He went to his locker, put his lunch bucket in and took out his cap . He shuffled across the room and out the door. He stood blinking for a moment in the terrific light of the sun; then he climbed into the old truck which stood in the shade of SPRING, 1939 13 the building. Pat came out and climbed in beside Hanle "It'll do a hundred and twelve this afternoon." "Yah," Hank answered briefly. Hank heard the other men climbing in the back of the truck. He turned around. Everyone was in but Tony. Tony was always late,. always taking up somebody's time. The side door slammed. Hank heard Tony say, "Wal, sun she's still shinin'." "Did ya expect it to be cloudy?" one of the men answered back. Hank didn't hear any more. He stepped on the gas, the motor roared, and they were off. The heat of the motor came up through the worn-out floor board and burned Hank's feet. He swung in recklessly ahead of traffic and drove a good rate down to the end of Lincoln Avenue to the sub·station. He slowed down and stopped in front of the "sub". The men climbed out of the truck and with little more conversation went to their various jobs. Hank went over to his tool cart. He didn't want to talk to any of them. He watched Tony as he climbed the tall steel structure to mount a set of insulators which were directly under the bus-bars carrying eleven thousand volts. He turned away. He didn't want Tony to catch him watching. In a few minutes he heard Tony's shrill whistle. He turned around. He glared at Tony. What did that wop want, whistling at him like a dog? "Hey, Skeeny, toss me us a wrench, will ya?" Why didn't he remember to take his tools up with him? Just a careless workman, that was all. Every time he got on a job it was, "Toss me this" or "Toss me that". Hank picked up a wrench and with a quick aim threw it up. It went about four feet under Tony and landed on the concrete platform. "Hey," Tony shouted, "wassa' mat? Dontcha' eat your spinach? My Joe could do better dan dat and he's just a little fella'. Put something behind date Maybe I should come down after it, eh?" Tony laughed and Hank heard two of the men chuckling. Hank walked over to the platform and picked up the wrench. He'd get it up there this time. No damned dago was going to make a fool out of him. His Joe ... He'd show him ... Hank took a slow wind-up and released the wrench. It spun up above Tony's head. Hank saw Tony's hand shoot up to catch it. In that awful moment, Hank tried to speak out a warning not to reach 14 MANUSCRIPT for it. There was a terrific flash of blue-white light accompanied by a ripping sound as if giant hands were tearing a circus tent. The wrench fell down to the platform again, but this time not alone. Tony-a human torch- crashed down beside it. Hank leaned up against the tool chest. He tried to run, but he couldn't move. He tried to call out, but he was voiceless. The men were running toward Tony, their faces almost unrecognizable. Hank could hear the rapid praying of Pat. People ran out from restaurants and stores. Now the sidewalk in front of the "sub" was full. Three minutes before just Hank had been standing there. Hank looked at their faces. Some of them he knew. He heard the screech of the ambulance. He wondered who had sent for it. Four men were getting out. Their uniforms were a glaring white in the sun. He saw them lay Tony on a stretcher. One doctor bent over him; then covered him up with a sheet. Hank watched the sheet go over Tony's head. Everyone was talking in hushed excited voices. Hank noticed the woman next to him was crying. He wondered if she were a friend of Tony's. Probably nota friend, just crying the way women do. Because of the crowd, Hank was able to avoid the other workmen. He got on a street car to go to the place where he had light housekeeping rooms. There was no choice for him but to relive the accident- to see the light flash, hear the noise of the arc, and t~ watch the flaming body fall. After that all was confusion and ababble of voices. If he hadn't thrown the wrench- or if Tony hadn't forgotten it in the first place--or if- All mechanical action became an effort for him. He was aware of every movement as he got off the car and walked up the street to a square white house. He slipped upstairs without Mrs. Milligan's seeing him. Resolutely he bathed and changed his clothes. Then he wrote a short letter and left some money in an envelope on the dresser. Mrs. Milligan called up the stairs, "Oh, Mr. Anderson, did you hear about the dreadful accident at your company today?" "Yes, Mrs. Milligan, I heard about it." He closed the door. He waited until he heard Mrs. Milligan go out to do her Saturday marketing. Then he took a street car down town. He went to the Union Station and tried to think. He watched a newsboy go from person to person. Some wouldn't answer him, some would 15 SPRING,1939 shake their heads, and some would say no. The boy reached him. "Paper, mister? Read all about the accident. Man burned to death." Hank kept his eyes down and shook his head. The porter started calling out. It sounded almost like singingTony wouldn't come into the shop anymore singing and shouting around. If he went back to the shop, Tony wouldn't be there. Hank fixed his attention on what the porter was saying. "Train for Minneapolis and St. Paul on Track Five." Hank went to the ticket office and said, "One for Minneapolis, please." They said that since the W. P. A. there was plenty of work for men in the fields, especially in August. Betty Greene, '40. Past Tense I was your sweetheart, and you were my love When the earth was new last spring; I still was a maid and you still were a lad, And we dreamed what the years should bring. I was your sweetheart, and you were my love When the world was young last May, But the earth is grown old, and we are grown wise, And our dreams sent packing away. - Miriam M. Hawthorn, '39. 16 MANUSCRIPT I Sighed for the Shepherd Lad I sighed for the shepherd ladFair-haired and slight, he came. But I tired of the shepherd lad, And I sickened upon his name. I smiled to the straight young page Clad in his crimson cloak, But I saw him forever a page, And presently I awoke. The scholar I hastened to view, Wearing his cap and gown, But I shrank away from the view Lest my heart be stricken down. Once more I turned to the mirror, And I watched the knights ride by, But I looked away from the mirror, Looked away scarce knowing why. I sighed for a silver yardstick; I measured the mantle gold; "The prince shall wear it," I said, "Though I wait till the stars grow cold." I cut for the prince his mantle, And I left my shining loom; He was strangely well fit by the mantle Beneath his purple plume. -Miriam M. Hawthorn, '39. SPRING, 1939 17 How to Get the Most Out of College Introduction to a Student Handbook By Petit Pedante. "We who are about to die-" These are the words that are on the lips. of the graduating seniors - and it is just like dying to leave the old alma mater where, for four years, one gives his all and spends the best years of his entire life to prepare for the rest- and for what? What is there for any of us after the sheep-skin has passed into our hands? This year, by way of a parting salute, the graduates have left for the rest of us a store of valuable notes, which are little less than rules on the methods for getting the utmost from a college education. These maxims and suggestions have been compiled and are presented in a handbook of convenient pocket size to be sold at a nominal sum, so that all may take advantage of this prized material. As President of the Student Council, Captain of the football team, President of Y. M. C. A., and chairman of the Student Committee for the advancement of scholarship, I have been asked to write this essay by way of introducing the little book to all students who are co~scientious and forward-looking young people. Herein, I present a few samples from the book. First, let me say: students may find it difficult to become accustomed to some of the methods listed, but, we are assured by our elders, will find, after having become facile with much practice plus frequent and intense study of the handbook, that this is the most profitable, the surest- in short- the only way to get through school. It will be necessary by close observation and trial to determine which methods are best adapted to certain subjects and certain professors, not overlooking the physical aspects, such as desks, seating, size of room, etc. One of the most important truths spoken by our seniors is that class attendance is not valuable and is, in many cases, unnecessary. Of course, where narrow-minded professors take roll -call, and shortsighted, old-fashioned officials enforce rules concerning loss of credit, lowering of grade-points, etc., it becomes advisable to appear in class about once a week or to have someone call your name or number. When the text is followed very closely, spend your time in . I l 18 MANUSCRIPT class sleeping. Good health is one of the first essentials for success in college, and the night hours are assuredly not to be wasted in sleep. However, when a professor is the sort who lectures in addenda to the text, it is wise to take notes on everything he says, not forgetting that even a well-placed cough may be significant; for this type usually tests on his own remarks as being more important than the book. Moreover, be sure to underline each word in the reading material which he repeats or refers to in any way. These provisions are the best aids in making out cribs for examinations and quizzes. In speaking of cribs, let me here present a few suggestions from a long list in the handbook: 1. Cribs are to be written as small as possible on convenient slips of paper, size and shape depending on where they are to be placed during examination. Suggested places are: (a) under coat or sweater sleeve at the wrist, (b) in suit coat pocket, (c) in wide cuff at waist of sweater, (d) on the knee under hose (black ink shows through best), (e) in cuff of trousers, (f) immediately under exam paper, or, if blue-books are used, in another blue-book (this last is very successful). 2. If slips of paper cannot be safely used, write notes on (a) shirt cuffs, (b) skin at wrist or knee, (c) adhesive tape on hand and wrist, or tightly wrapped about pencil or pen. 3. If sure of material to be covered, the best method is to write before going to class, and to hand in the ready-prepared sheet. The mention of prepared answers brings up the point about ways of getting advance information concerning examination questions. One of the oldest and most admirable methods is the following, which can be used only in classes of two or more sections. If there are large numbers in each section, it is safe to try attending a pre· vious section of the examination; receiving a test-sheet; noting down all of the things you do not know and must look up; and returning the blank sheet or actually walking out with it. This is a nearly airtight procedure, for, should you be asked by the professor why you are attending the wrong section, you can offer that it was impossible for you to be present at the regular hour. Then go ahead- take the test- you can't do any worse than you would have in your correct section, never having seen the exam. Be sure to have cribs handy in case of such an emergency. If ever you are without cribs SPRING, 1939 19 It IS possible to arrange with your neighbor a system of taps or signals (for several very fine illustrations see p. 231). Perhaps a neighbor will exchange papers or watch the prof. while you go through text and will warn you of approaching dangers. We are frequently reminded of the importance of friendships in college and after graduation. Many fine friends are the best asset a man or woman can have in guiding his personality and abetting him in his career. Therefore, the wise student will cultivate the secretaries of each of his professors, for they, too, can be very helpful in getting exam questions for him, or even in fixing a grade on the record, should he be found with a low one some time. It is always best to be particular and artful in selecting friends. It is wise to remember that the friendship of your professors is important, too. Even though they may seem queer, and you do not understand what they are talking about, even in light conversation, acquire their best will. Many of the finer points of polishing are given in the book. On these I present a few notations. Though polishing has been looked down upon by some, professors and students, alike, are coming to see the advantages to be gained by closer and more frequent contact between members of the two groups. Professors are superior human beings, but, nevertheless, human, and from them a student is able to gain much for his personality as well as his grade-point. In the handbook the entire field of applepolishing has been divided into two main fields. One concerns itself with the differences between male and female approaches, and the other field, which cuts across the first, presents the crude and the subtle methods with details about proper etiquette in polishing and the effectiveness of various methods. This is a very important field and requires at least six semester hours of Psychology (preferably Abnormal) to completely comprehend the suggestions and be able to adapt them with best advantage to each professor. Last of all, remember, social life and contacts are the all-important things in college. We all realize that subject-matter is of secondary importance. How often we hear it said by our relatives, alumni, professors, chapel speakers and others: Students forget • nearly everything they learn, anyhow. The learning process is one not only of remembering but also of forgetting. It might be possible to show by graphs (for which there is no place here) that a far greater total proportion of material is forgotten than is remem- 20 MANUSCRIPT bered. But it is not easy to forget friends and social experiences, and therein, I believe, is proved the greater importance of social • life in comparison to facts and figures. During some class periods and chapel periods, converse with your neighbor- make new acquaintances, take advantage of each shining hour. If your neighbor proves uninteresting, try quiet meditationperhaps in your mind you can work out a difficult dance step or figure out just what happened in that last hand of cards to beat you. This is known to Psychologists as introversion. Spend at least three hours each day in complete extroversion too. Learn to be pleasant and popular. These are only a few hints from a rich supply, collected and thoroughly annotated in the book. Such splendid advice will serve us well. We thank our seniors not for ourselves, alone, but for many generations to come, who will live to honor their names (as listed on the back fly-leaf of the handbook). PETIT PEDANTE, Chairman of the Student Committee for the Advancement of Scholarship. - Margaret Gusteson, '40. Only Gray dusk, with ghostly fingers soft, Now reaches in to comfort me As I sit here at my window. Gray thoughts, dull as the dusk itself, Float softly out to lose themselves Deep in that endless shadow. The echo of a joyous shout Returns to mock a faded smileThis, left of all we used to know. -Kathryn Madison, '42. SPRING, 21 1939 The Parthenon A visitor to the city of Athens in the year 430 B. C. would have heard the whole city exclaiming about the newly-completed temple on the Acropolis, the citadel reserved for the worship of the chief Grecian deities. Joining the crowd gathered there to admire the city's new marvel, he would observe the workmen removing the last bits of scaffolding from around a gleaming white, many-pillared building that faces east and crowns the summit of its rock-bound setting. Though large beside the other structures grouped around it, the temple he cannot help but admire is so gracefully and fitly fashioned that it creates an impression not so much of size as of beauty. A pleasing pattern of vertical masses is formed by the array of fluted columns, imposing in their simple dignity, that support the gently pitched roof above the impressive sculptures of the pediments. Today, however, no such sight awaits the traveler who voyages to historic Greece and rides over the modern highway to its ancient and modern capital city, Athens. A shattered and time-scarred ruin, still noble in spite of its ignoble fate, is all that remains to mark the site of the Parthenon, the matchless temple of Athena Parthenos erected almost 2400 years ago. Yet around the world, in museums, in parks and in monumental structures are to be found constant reminders of the Parthenon's former grandeur. In this country, Nashville, Tennessee, boasts a replica of Athena's temple that is absolutely exact as far as human knowledge is able to determine the original's appearance. The Elgin marbles in the British museum comprise a collection of sculptures from the Parthenon that includes almost half the Panathenais procession depicted on the inner frieze, as well as 15 of the 92 carved slabs of the metopes or outer frieze. Any public building of architectural merit that follows the Grecian pattern embodies some of the features that made the Parthenon famous both to the age that conceived and executed it and to all succeeding ages. It can hardly be doubted that the Parthenon essentially was a thing of beauty to have awakened so much admiration. Furthermore, it is not difficult to understand the elements that entered into its beauty. In the first place was the genius of Phidias who besides 22 MANUSCRIPT achieving undying fame with his superb ivory-and-gold statue of Athena also directed the efforts of Ictinus and Callicrates, the actual architects. One eminent archeologist and scholar, Charles Newton Smiley, says, "Phidias and Ictinus have transmuted into stone the subtlest mental and spiritual experiences of a far more transcendental age than that of the 17th century in Venice." "No other such apotheosis of human reason," as Smiley calls it, has been achieved on such a scale in any age. Intended of course for the worship and perhaps for the enchantment of the Athenian concept of deity, the Parthenon proves to have been conceived in definite mathematical ratios. There is a problem for higher mathematics in the carefully compounded curves that shape the echinus of each column's capital, and in the delicate entasis or swelling that gives elasticity and life to each column. The temple at Basbae executed by Ictinus alone lacks these mathematical niceties and without them just that graceful beauty for which the Parthenon is noted. But one is not aware of the engineering incorporated in the execution because he is so awed by the building's perfection. Tht1re j'~ neither any excess or deficiency about the details of the Parthenon, and because of that, unity and completeness are achieved. The figures of the pediments present poise, self-control and self-masteryemotion subservient to reason; such a quality of rightness that the sight of it no doubt inspired Socrates to make the daring inference of a universal master mind employed in "disposing all parts for the best, putting each particular in the best place." Faced with the problem of constructing a temple suitable and worthy for the worship of the Goddess of Wisdom and Grace, Phidias set about to erect a fit enclosure for the image his mind's eye already had conceived. So he built it of marble throughout, 101 feet across its eastern and western fronts and 228 feet down its sides. To uphold the stately roof he placed eight graceful doric columns at each end and fifteen more along each side. Six inner columns in eac~ of the two porticos guarded the entrances to the inner chambers. The principal of these was the Hekatompedos, 100 feet long and containing four great columns behind Athena's statue that reached up to the ceiling. Over the eastern entrance toward which the image of the goddess faced, Phidias carved the group that depicted the birth of Athena from the brain of Zeus. From this east pediment came the fragment of Ilissus and the more complete SPRING, 1939 23 Dionysius (mistakenly considered by some to be Perseus-centuries before his time) which nearly all critics concur in ranking above the Apollo Belvedere in the Vatican. Athena's struggle with Poisedon, god of the sea, for the land of Attica is the myth that appears in sculptured marble on the west pediment. On the inner frieze, Phidias carved a two-way procession that proceeds in both directions from over the west entrance along the sides and comes just short of meeting over the east entrance. Worshippers on the way to the Athenian festival comprise the sculptures of the metopes, some slabs of which still are in place on the original edifice. The inner frieze excels the outer one by its uniformly high standard of art which some but by no means all of the metopes attain. The Parthenon probably was complete in all its details by 430 B. C. although the statue of Athena had been dedicated eight years before. As a glorious place of worship for the Greeks of that day, Athena's temple stood for refinement against barbarism- the relegious creed of the Athenian's written large in chaste marble for the whole world to wonder at and to admire. When Socrates declared to Plato, "There is no release or salvation from evil except by the attainment of the highest virtue and wisdom," he only was repeating what Phidias had proclaimed in stone 50 years before by carving the ignominious Pandora on Athena's pedestal beneath her feet. As an inspiring and sublime work of sacred art the pride of Athens stood secure and intact for centuries. It was reverenced by the Romans, converted into a church by the earl y Christians, transformeq into a mosque by the Turks and even then visited by particularly adventu-resome travelers. Then Turkey and Venice in 1684 engaged in a war and thinking the Christians would respect its sanctity, the Parthenon was made the Turk's powder magazine, only to be bombarded and blown up September 26, 1687. -Charels Seward, '39. 24 MANUSCRIPT Strike An alarm clock screamed out of the grayness, jerking him straight up in bed while his hands blundered on the chair beside him; then he remembered that their own was broken that night he'd met Frakes, his old manager, and come home ugly drunk. This one, now, belonged to Lane, down the hall, who had a regular job in the sausage department of the local packing company. Orval sighed and dropped heavily back onto the springless bed, only a thin mat covering the boards. Wide awake now, he lay staring out of the narrow curtainless window at the dingy windows of the house across the alley. The baby fussed. His wife awoke instantly, sat up, and gathered the baby from between them to croon to her and hush her cries. "Let her cry, I'm awake," he said sharply and got up to dress in his only clothes, which had been tossed over the bed-rail. Stella, carrying the baby, went over to the boys where they slept on the bed springs which were perched precariously on orange crates. She shook them roughly, and when they protested, "Get up at once, Donald, you've got to go to school." At this the older rose out of the pile of ragged quilts and, without stepping onto the cold, splintery floor, stretched across to a chair on which his few clothes lay. The distance was too great, the bed was too unstable, over went the whole works, dumping the bed-clothes, the springs, and his younger brother on top of him. "Good Lord, Donald, I ought to beat the daylights out of you for this," shouted his mother, setting the wailing baby on the bed while she went to the rescue. Warren, the younger boy, began to shriek from fright. The father, cursing his son's stupidity, continued his dressing. Orval was a big brute of an man, an ex-prizefighter, whom unemployment and hard drink had pushed further into the depths. His wife, Stella, had worked in a ten cent store before he married her at the height of his ring career. She was a washed-out blonde, dissatisfied with her lot in life, yet not knowing what to do about it. Wrapped in a cheap rayon housecoat which Orval had given her for Christmas, Stella heated water on the single gas plate for the weak tea and hard bread without butter which formed their break- po SPRING, 1939 25 fast. In the midst of this meagre meal somone rapped on the door. Opened, the doorway revealed Mrs. Lane, whose husband had long since gone to work. Without preliminaries, she told her news, "Say, my husband heard the sheriff is hiring deputies for five dollars a day because of the strike at the tanning company, and I thought I'd tell you. Maybe if you'd get down there quick they'd take you, seeing how you used to prizefight and all." At the prospect of work at this price the whole family brightened up. Orval gulped the rest of his tea, dashed cold water on his face, buttened his shirt and put on his only necktie, a polka-dotted bow tie, which contrasted incongruously with his shabby, wrinkled clothes. He hurriedly left the drab room in the musty, smelly rooming house under the shadow of huge gas storage tanks and ca~e into the comparatively fresh air of the railroad yards which he crossed to reach the business part of town where the courthouse was located. Thirty minutes' walk brought him to his destination where he joined a crowd of men, similar to himself, milling about in the marble lobby. He edged as near to the door of the sheriff's office as he could and leaned against a Grecian pillar to wait. After about an hour, the glass-paneled door opened and the sheriff came out and announced that he would make his selections. He walked about in the crowd, curtly sending those he picked into his office. Orval noticed that the strong, tough-looking ones were those generally chosen and his hopes came up a mite from the level to which they had dropped. As the sheriff approached his pillar, he straightened up and thrust himself forward. The sheriff saw him, paused, and then nodded toward the office. Orval grinned triumphantly and hurried through the door to join the chosen gang. A few more came, then the sheriff himself bustled in. Quickly the men were sworn in, badges were handed out, and the sheriff gave his instructions. "Now men, the company wants, uh ... I mean, I want you to pitch in and fight if the strikers begin anything. Beat 'em up good. I picked you because you looked like good fighters, now get your weapons, but remember let them start it." Here the sheriff winked elaborately which raised a guffaw from the crowd of toughs before him. "There's trucks here and you can get right out there on duty. That's all." Baseball bats were handed out 26 MANUSCRIPT and before he knew it, Orval was standing in a crowded open truck, feeling the crisp air rush against his face as they sped toward the fortressed factory. * * * * George Smith lay drowsing in bed, listening to the pleasant sound of dishes rattling in the kitchen, smelling the heavenly odor of boiling coffee and frying pancakes. At last Katie, his wife, called him for the third time, "Get up this minute, George Smith, you know you're due on the picket line at 8. Get up at once, this is absolutely the last call." "Hurry up, pop, or I'll eat your bacon," George, Jr. called from the breakfast table. At this threat George rolled over and, stretching and yawning, dressed in the clean clothes which Katie had laid out for him. This done, he strolled casually to the kitchen, glancing proudly about at his home as he went. These four rooms, and the ground they stood on were his and Katie's. They had worked hard to save enough for the down payment and to keep up the monthly installments. And now- the strike. If they should lose - but he shook this dark thought from him, they couldn't! Mter his comfortable breakfast he walked the short distance to the factory where he relieved another man who had been on all night duty. Somehow, even though the day was dreary, everyone in the line was cheerful. This was the eighth day of the strike and the rumor dashed around that the owners were feeling their losses. * * * * Everything was very quiet. There seemed to be no one in the plant and the picket line passed the time in telling jokes. At ten o'clock the monotony was broken by the arrival of the trucks of deputies. These immediately drove past the picket line and into the plant where the gates were locked after them. The deputies were unloaded from the trucks and herded into the space behind the gates. Between the gates and the picket line was a "No Man's Land" expanse of pavement. After the arrival of the deputies the picket line increased tremendously. Within half an hour it was doubled. The deputies were outnumbered and even 'Ilheir clubs were no better than those of their enemies across the way. Some of the regular deputies began calling out insults to the pickets, but when the new recruits protested, they were told by the regulars that they could "lick" those "softie" pickets easy. po SPRING, 1939 27 On the picket line Geo.rge Smith sto.o.d resentfully listening to. the deputies' calls. So.me o.f the strikers sho.uted answers of which he appro.ved. He wished regretfully that he eQuId think o.f brilliant replies to.o.. The presence o.f the deputies certainly didn't make fo.r peace. There was an underto.ne to' the weather that was mo.re sinister. The sky was o.vercast and the clo.uds seemed waiting fo.r a signal to' release a do.wnpo.ur o.n bo.th sides. Orval lo.o.ked to' the heavens and wo.ndered if this jo.b was wo.rth five do.llars. He shivered a little fro.m nervo.usness and fro.m the gently penetrating wind which crept aro.und the place. Geo.rge was beco.ming mo.re incensed at the injustices suffered by the strikers. His anger kept him ho.t. He hadn't time to. no.tice the signs o.f a sto.rm. The cro.wd was muttering no.w o.f what they wo.uld do. to. those lo.usy deputies when they caught them o.utside. A few bo.lder spirits began to. thro.w sto.nes that fell inside the pro.tecting gates. At last o.ne o.f the regular deputies was kno.cked do.wn. The o.thers milled aro.und their fallen co.mrade. Suddenly o.ne o.f them exclaimed, "Tho.se yello.w do.gs, let's go. get them." So.meho.w, Orval never knew, the gates were o.pened and he was swept alo.ng in the cro.wd that raced acro.ss the pavement to.ward the strikers, who. fell back mo.mentarily befo.re the surprise o.f the o.nslaught. Then they in their turn, with a sho.ut, rushed fo.rward to. the battle. Orval, at first, was a little puzzled as to. what to. do. until he saw his co.mrades trying to. break their clubs o.ver any heads they came to.. He entered this game with zest and began to. tally the number o.f strikers he had struck do.wn. Geo.rge hung back fo.r a mo.ment, reluctant to. fight, then changed his mind and began to. run after his co.mpanio.ns. When he came up the battle was already under way. The deputies held the advantage o.f a surprise attack, but this was so.o.n o.verco.me by the strikers' numbers. Geo.rge was trying to. distinguish between friend and fo.e when he chanced to. see a huge hulk o.f a man in a po.lka-do.t tie bearing do.wn o.n him. He turned to. meet the attack. This will be Number Five, thought Orval, I'm do.ing well. But wo.uld-be Number Five had seen him co.ming and was ready fo.r him. Geo.rge ducked under the splintered bat which Orval still carried and the two. men grappled, each trying to. deliver the finishing blo.w, but finally it seemed that the pro.fessio.nal fighter must win. 28 MANUSCRIPT His opponent knew less about the business, but at this critical moment, a friend of George turned and saw the uneven struggle. He approached and waiting for an opportunity brought his club down on the head of the man of the polka-dot tie with such force that Orval dropped solidly in his tracks. "Thanks a lot, pal," George said when he regained his breath, "I though 1 was a goner sure." And glancing down at the man at his feet, he spied the badge glistening on the dirty shirt front. "I think I'll just take this for a souvenir," he added. -l- * * .;c- Mrs. Lane burst into Stella's one room home, panting from excitement. "Your man that was one of the deputies, he got his head broke in a big fight out at the tanning company. They say it was awful, the strikers beat up the deputies all over the place. You'd better hurry and go to the hospital. I'll keep the kids: for you. Wait'll 1 get my crocheting, I'll be back." Stella, stunned, began combing her hair and straightening herself up. As she looked at her face in the mirror, terror came over her and she said aloud, "What'll we do?" After a second the horror of the question filled her whole soul and it seemed she could think of nothing else. "What will happen to us now?" * * * * George Smith returned home ' that night, singing in his heart. After the rout of the deputies, the owners had given in and negotiations for a settlement were under way. Soon they would be back at work again, he and Katie could go on paying for the house and maybe--after that- a car. His eyes shone at this dr·eam. But he must not think of the future. Right now he had a good-looking deputy's badge to give Katie as a souvenir of the time before they were rich. -Patricia Warner, '40. SPRING, 29 1939 Quebec Summer I've always wanted to gaze on the breath-taking sweep of Alaskan mountains. I've spent whole hours dreaming of a pack-trip through Glacier National Park. But if some good fairy were to appear tomorrow and invite me to take my choice of summer vacations, I wouldn't hesitate a minute. "Please", I'd say quickly, "I'll take a summer in Quebec." "A Summer in Quebec!" The very words call up a complete vista of happy hours. Even the entrance to this perfect holiday, an entrance made via the Customs office at Rouse's Point, is exhilarating. Hundreds of people are milling around waiting for the official blessing which will certify them as being r~asonably free of anything which would seem undesirable to Canadian eyes, but no one minds the waiting. It merely gives an added feeling of zest to the excitement of entering another country. Permission once granted, how gaily we ride across the border into this friendly foreign nation, for when you enter Canada through the province of Quebec the word "foreign" seems truly appropriate. If Alberta or Ontario had been our point of entry, we might easily have thought ourselves still in the United States but Quebec is the heart of the French Country. As we drive along through the beautiful green landscape, our delight increases. The scenery of Quebec is particularly lovely, with its rolling fields, its frequent forests, and its unexpected brooks, but even this beauty is only a background for the quaintness we see around us. "Quaint" is an adjective which receives much punishment in any description of Quebec, but how can that be avoided? Quebec is quaint. Down an arched lane of beech trees, we see a farmhouse. No Iowa farm would recognize it, though, for this house was built at least a century ago and in its dormer windows, overhanging roof, and timid clinging to the earth, is a recognizable visitor from the Old World. Oh, and there comes the family that lives in this queer old house. A whole wagonload of jolly-looking "habitants". They've spent the day in their fields, all of them, from great-grandpa to the newest of the many babies, but they're still gay and laughing and wave at us frantically as long as we're in sight. 30 MANUSCRIPT Now we see ahead of us a group of men walking. But what in the world can they be wearing? 0, yes, those are priests on a pilgrimage of some sort and they're wearing the long black cassocks and flat hats traditional in their church. They aren't the men of grave mien we rather expected to see but young, round-faced boys with "country" written plainly on their rosy cheeks. They seem to be enjoying their trip and kick up great clouds of dust with their clumsy boots as they stride along the highway. And now, a score of wayside shrines and picturesque villages behind us, we are driving through the modern little city of Levis. Levis isn't beautiful, nor very important in itself, but- and that's a very important "but"- it's the gateway to the city of a million dreams, the city of Quebec. There it lies, history itself, just across the green St. Lawrence River. How it towers above us as, accompanied by a motely collection of tourists, nuns and monks, we approach it on a ferry-boat. We look up in awe and mumur, "No wonder Montcalm thought no one could get up there without his permission! " What puzzles us is how we're going to get away up there in the clouds. The problem is 'Soon solved, however, for our ferry deposits us at the foot of an elevator which immediately whisks us up to our goal. We are actually standing on Dufferin Terrace. The Terrace is thronged with crowds of holiday-minded people. Some are leaning over the railing admiring the magnificent view of th~ river as it surges past the citadel and on to Montreal. Others are chattering at the little tables scattered about, while still others are enjoying the music of the brilliantly-uniformed band of the Third Grenadier Guards, which is just finishing a stirring rendition of the Canadian classic, "The Maple Leaf Forever". Just behino. the terrace we see the Chateau Frontenac, beautiful and imposing hotel, where one may meet everyone from the Archbishop of Australia to a favorite movie star, and to the left of the Chateau is our main interest in Quebec, the historic citadel. We are fortunate enough to have a British soldier as a guide for our citadel tour but, contrary to our expectations, he doesn't enjoy being stationed here. "Quebec is too French," he says, "and people don't like us even if we do own the place." He laughs and shows us the parade ground, where the soldiers drilled and the women used to do the washing, one woman being laundress for a hundred men. On our SPRING, 1939 31 recovery from this piece of information, we are shown the rusted old cannons which still frown, though helplessly now, on the St. Lawrence. One tiny cannon in particular is pointed out with great pride. The inscription on it reads, "Captured by the British at Bunker Hill". A quick-witted American saves the day, however, by remarking casually, "You fellows have the cannon all right, but don't forget: we still have the hill!" Our citadel tour completed, we decide to take a walk through the town; so off we go down the Terrace, past the many statues of Frontenac and Montcalm, even past all the importunate drivers of that unique French vehicle, the caleche. We trudge up and down the steep, cobble-stoned streets, enjoying intensely the sense of strangeness, the narrow roads, the tiny-paned windows of the ancient houses that almost seem to lean toward us, and the constant and vivacious chatter of French. We peep into the English Cathedral, where it. is still easy to imagine the presence of the British governors and their charming ladies; pay a visit to the Basilica, where the pulse of this city beats almost audibly; and peer down at Lower Town, which we hope to visit tomorrow. As we look up, we see, away down the river, the lights, of a great liner just coming in from England. Our vacation certainly has started out well. But, alas, this little portion of it has been enjoyed only through what Wordsworth once called, "The inward eye which is the bliss of solitude." It's been fun, all right, but it can't possibly approach reality. Hmmm- I wonder if there's any way to get in touch with that fairy I mentioned! -Marjorie Cowling. 32 MANUSCRIPT The Hitch. Hiker An' he stood there a -singin' in the rain, His thumb outstretched for motorists to see; His heart a-boundin' in a place that's free While standin' there a-singin' in the rain. Fifty cars were hurried past him Through the wet and shiny street, And some were urged by drunken feet On a peddle down below a crazy-s.wingin' Steerin' wheel. A-singin' in the rain was he, Standin' there ... not exactly cold, But slightly shiverin' from the dampish wind While the proud and stuck-up cars swung by Unevenly. Maybe the turnin' light from red to green Would bring a line of sympathetic motorists But mostly maybe not! He'd keep a-thumb in' there until the next light turned. He'd be keep in' warm by singin' in the rain. On a golden throne and unhappy Kings are always catered to. But he? He's a self appointed king the highways crown, Content to ask a ride and wave a cheerful thanks To them as has their cars too full of other things. An' these motorists are strange, an' mostly likeable; They don't cater to his thumb, But rather answer to their fancy's wish An' stop their cars to let him in. o he's happy on the road in sun and rain For he's as like as not to sing when the goin's rough An' whistle when the clouded sun breaks through An' shines agairi. -Eric Liljestrand, '42. 16 MANUSCRIPT I Sighed for the Shepherd Lad I sighed for the shepherd ladFair-haired and slight, he came. But I tired of the shepherd lad, And I sickened upon his name. I smiled to the straight young page Clad in his crimson cloak, But I saw him forever a page, And presently I awoke. The scholar I hastened to view, Wearing his cap and gown, But I shrank away from the view Lest my heart be stricken down. Once more I turned to the mirror, And I watched the knights ride by, But I looked away from the mirror, Looked away scarce knowing why. I sighed for a silver yardstick; I measured the mantle gold; "The prince shall wear it," I said, "Though I wait till the stars grow cold." I cut for the prince his mantle, And I left my shining loom; He was strangely well fit by the mantle Beneath his purple plume. - Miriam M. Hawthorn, '39.  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Manuscript: Volume 01, Number 02 Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource Manuscript contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Hawthorn, Miriam M.: Editor Olson, Lester: Business Manager Greene, Betty: Associate Editor Johnson, Irene: Associate Editor Seward, Charels: Associate Editor Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Perspectives Kiosk Abstract A summary of the resource. Manuscript contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Table Of Contents A list of subunits of the resource. Foreword--2 Peace on Earth--3 Proposition--4 Take Your Lamp Away--6 Everything Set--7 High Voltage--9 Past Tense--15 I Sighed for the Shepherd Lad--16 How to Get the Most Out of College--17 Only--20 The Parthenon--21 Strike--24 Quebec Summer--29 The Hitch-Hiker--32 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cheely, Winifred: Author Hawthorn, Miriam: Author Liljestrand, Eric: Author Lubbers, Bartlett: Author Green, Betty Lou: Author Gusteson, Margaret: Author Madison, Kathryn: Author Warner, Patricia: Author Cowling, Majorie: Author Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1939 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-14 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-14 Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger Kiosk Manuscript Perspectives student publications http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/912066a2239c3910221519f2b36507c3.pdf 05fe7efb035cbf472aa897bba145ee68 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Kiosk: Volume 65 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Subject The topic of the resource Student Publications Description An account of the resource The Kiosk contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ponder, Marcie Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2014-1-23 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-12-9 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-9 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF 7.05 MB 60 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Kiosk-Vol65-No01_KDC_2003_01-01_01.pdf Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. McKinley, Aly: Cataloger PDF Text Text The Kiosk ��Spring 2003 published by the English department of Morningside College .. ��I{iosk Staff EDITOR-IN-CHIEF NONFICTION EDITORS FICTION EDITORS POETRY EDITORS COVER ART DIRECTOR LAYOUT AND DESIGN FACULTY ADVISOR Cathie Stangl Kay Goldsmith Michelle Handsaker-Joloud Jenny Nicklin Crista Rustwick Michelle Handsaker-Joloud Jenny Nicklin Jessi Plueger Sheila Partridge Cathie Stangl Dr. Stephen Coyne Copyright 2003 by The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children . �Creative Writing Award Winners FIRST PLACE The Day They Buried Grandpa Rick Rector SECOND PLACE Bride-Be-Damned Megan Cook THIRD PLACE An Unlikely Hero Dustin Cooper HONORABLE I know Now MENTION COVER ART I{ay Goldsmith Kristin Bierbaum About This Year's Judge Barrie Jean Borich writes creative nonfiction and is the author . of My Lesbian Husband, winner of an American Library Association GLBT book award. She lives with her beloved, Linnea Stenson, their cat Nastasya Filippovna and their dog, Dusty Springfield, in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Visit her Web site at www.barriejeanborich.net. All entries are judged blindly by the editors, and no entry receives special consideration. Staff members are eligible for contest placement, but are not eligible for prize money . �Table of Contents Editor's Foreword iv Cathie Stangl 1 NONFICTION An Unlikely Hero Dustin Cooper 5 POETRY Scrambled Jessi Plueger 5 POETRY Don't We All Jessi Plueger 6 NONFICTION II<nowNow Kay Goldsmith 10 POETRY The Sax Jan Dehner 11 FICTION Looking Back Kay Goldsmith 14 POETRY X i-iv Jessi Plueger 16 NONFICTION Bride-Be-Damned Megan Cook 21 POETRY I Finally Moved to South Dakota Rick Rector 21 POETRY The Wake Rick Rector 22 POETRY Psychology Man I<nows Annie Dilocker 23 FICTION Immersed Jenny Nicklin 26 POETRY Winter Ginny Eberly 27 POETRY Fairy Princess Allison Landers 28 NONFICTION Gravity Kay Goldsmith 30 POETRY Welding Weary Jason Walker 30 POETRY The Scholar Jason Walker 31 FICTION Home Game Jenny Nicklin 35 POETRY What's the Fun in That? Ginny Eberly 36 NONFICTION Ding-Dong the Lockridge is Dead Kaleen Hird 41 POETRY Untitled Rick Rector 41 POETRY The Day They Buried Grandpa Rick Rector 42 POETRY Sparkling Splinters Jessi Plueger 44 Contributor and Staff Notes �Editor's Foreword CATHIE STANGL _ R- eaders of The Kiosk will note that in our Table of Contents this issue there is a label by some pieces that says "Nonfiction." Avid readers of The Kiosk will note that this label, that way. It was and is the truth. There's no "autobiographical fiction" term to hide behind. short for a genre titled "creative nonfiction," place, but quite another to say you'd put it in has never appeared in this magazine before. print. Thank you for your stories, and thank you for your honesty. So what is this stuff we call creative nonfiction? I like to define it as nonfiction that isn't boring. But I'm told this is not the proper definition. A more appropriate definition is So I'd like to thank all of the contributing creative nonfiction authors. It was one thing to be brave enough to write it down in the first While we're on this topic of thank yous, I nonfiction in the form of a story. Well, okay, must put in mine, which are semi-brief. Thank you to Steve, who said, "There's no need to freak out yet ... wait 'till Friday." I'll go with the flow: it's true stories. Thank you to Marcie, the English department What every definition seems to leave out is the part about bravery. It is daring and in- queen and fairy. conceivably difficult to tell the truthparticularly in memoir-type pieces which we have printed here. To lay the whole story- tors- Michelle, Thank you to all my ediJenny, Crista, Jessi, and Kay-for all the reading and hours drinking the whole truth-out there in print is bold. bad coffee and discussing submissions and sappy love poems. Thank you to Jan Dehner, Katie Harder, and Steve for copyediting, Once it's down in black and white you can't which is one of the worst jobs in the world. If Megan Cook's mother calls Thank you to Megan and Marcie for helping her up in a fit and says, "I never said you with layout and design ideas. A special thank needed to lose weight, I can't believe you said that," Megan is stuck. She can't take it back, and she can't say that's not what she meant by you to our judge Barie Jean Borich, whose writing I adore and everyone should read. And finally, a thank you to Sheila, who is a marvelous cover art director, and even more take it back. it. She wrote it that way because it happened iv The Kiosk �Cathie Stangl marvelous "best good friend," who kept- and run so far it couldn't even see the box any- always keeps-me sane from stmi to finish, more. and who seems to be able to put up with more home when you're only ten, was probably not sides of me than even I can. the best idea for step two in a transition. We s o now I must say that the truth about this year's Kiosk is that it is a leap. It is This, like running too far away from can run a little further with each transition, but we can' t leap the entire distance in one go (as much as I hate to admit this). a risk I am throwing out into the world I tried to focus this issue on one thing: space. What I see in past Kiosks is cramped If it takes creativity. The Kiosk needs room to breathe. and taking full responsibility for. off and flies, I will take credit for it. If it It needs room to be expressive, liberal, and plummets to the ground and its gruesome death I suppose I will also take credit for this. big. So this Kiosk is big. It's magazine-size, has a bigger staff, and includes a new genre. I I see this Kiosk as the second in a series of just hope it is, as they say, "Bigger and bet- transitions. Last year's Kiosk, like its slogan, ter," because I must admit I feel like slapping was a little "outside the box." I took the inno- a big sticker across the cover that says, "Under vations of that issue and ran with them. I had Construction." But I will contain myself, so I so many ideas and changes I wanted to try, but gIve you the Spring 2003 issue of The if we'd done them all The Kiosk would have Kiosk . • The Kiosk v ---~. ��NONFICTION An Unlikely Hero DUSTIN COOPER M y father player and Magic was mine. to me for the last year. Brock is 6' 4 with an athletic I always wore the number 32 build, dark hair and a dark complexion. I like to say to represent Magic and Brock always wore 23 to represent J ordan. As he ap- that he got his good looks from me even though he the numbers of our heroes proaches the white Mazda he doesn't really look like me. on our chests gave us a sense cannot see clearly into the Even though Brock and I do of pride. It almost made us window because of the lack not share the same appear- those people in some magi- of lighting in this dark lot. ance, we do share a lot of cal kind of way. When he arrives at the car he the same interests. Brock, I have not been the epit- sees his son lying in the like me, is a huge basketball ome of a great older brother. backseat, motionless. Tears nut. He has been playing We have even come to start to well up in his eyes as the game since he was just a blows a few times. I would he tries to open the door. boy. We used to play into usually come out on top . The door is locked and he the night in our driveway However, now I might want now notices that there is a piece of paper resembling a just for the love of the game, to be more careful. Brock and I have been through note of some kind on the Like most siblings, my some stages where we were brother and I have had our each other's worst enemies. disagreements about little However, the majority of the things. I always teased him time I consider him one of y little (only by that Magic Johnson was bet- my best friends . The only age) brother, ter than Michael Jordan. Brock, has been somewhat of an inspiration Jordan was Brock' s favorite thing that I ever wanted to be to Brock was the "hero" professional every older brother was sup- walks up to the still car in the church parking lot not knowing if his son is alive . dashboard of the car. M and for each other. basketball Wearing The Kiosk 1 �An Unlikely Hero posed to be to his little stay home and sleep. The spond well to this punish- brother. I wanted Brock to time he spent in bed had ment and finally went over wear my number on his started to far out-weigh the the top. He claimed that he chest to represent me (even time he spent awake doing did not want to be a part of though my number is 32). something productive. It our family anymore and that was as if he was trying to he hated all of us. high school I knew that he avoid people. The times us that he would be better was going to be an even bet- that he did make it to school off on his own. After a little ter athlete than I ever was. he would get into fights more arguing, my dad, not He was already ahead of me with others. He claimed knowing what to do, gave at his age in many aspects of that all of these people were Brock his keys back. He told his life. He was already a making fun of him. Maybe him that he could go with his three-sport, star athlete and this was true, but the old friends but he had to be of Brock would not have let it home at 11 :30 PM. friends . Brock was the type bother him. brother responded by saying of kid who, with his laid football. back attitude, was hard not this, my parents had found house. to like. It seemed as though out from the school's princi- curfew came and went. Brock had the perfect high pal that Brock had told one 4:00 school life ahead of him . of the other students that he living room of my house What lay beneath Brock' s was thinking of committing with my mom. outer shell was a whirlpool suicide. The student, scared eyes of negative emotions that, in of what would happen, told drained look made me angry time, would cause my bother the · principal. My parents with my brother for doing to crack. talked to Brock about the this to us. comment, and Brock blew it same time, I was as sad and family noticed some differ- off like it was worried as I had ever been in ences in Brock' s carefree at- Somehow my parents and I my life. titude. weren't too sure about his looking for my brother, all I explanation. could do was sit there with When had a Brock wide entered variety It all started when the Things started to bother him a lot lTIOre and he He even quit On top of all of a joke. "whatever" and He told left My the That night Brock's AM At I was sitting in the and Her puffy emotionally However, at the With my dad out started to verbally snap on One day Brock had got- my mom and think about the people for little or no reason. ten in trouble for one thing possibility of having to play His grades started to fall and or another and my father de- basketball in the driveway there were many days when cided that it would be best by myself. he would not go to school to take his car privileges because he just wanted to away. 2 The Kio sk Brock did not re- �Dustin Cooper A fter seeing the note some professional help, and like he did not care about on the dashboard things would go back to the anything. It broke my heart of the car my fa- way they were before all of ther starts to panic. He starts this. The doctor found my to see my little brother like that. frantically shaking the car brother was suffering from a Until that point I did not yelling for my brother to type of depression. My realize how much I loved unlock the door. There is brother was really sick and this kid. It was the hardest still no movement from the was not happy with any as- thing in the world for me to inside of the car. With tears pect of his life. see my brother like that. in his eyes and a helpless When it was time for How could this happen to a tone of voice my dad tries to me to go visit Brock in the kid with so much potential? bang on the glass of the win- hospital, I did not know how How could this kid's life be dow. After shaking, bang- he would react to seeing me. so bad that he would rather ing, and wishing that the He would not talk to my par- be dead? movement of the car would ents when they went to see though Brock was ending it wake him up, the reality of him because he blamed them all. the situation starts to set in. for putting him there. I was once -bright Just when all hope is almost almost · scared to go to see dreams and he was quitting gone, Brock moves. My dad him because I did not know life. cries for him to wake up and if he blamed me, too. It seemed as He was quitting his basketball open the door. Brock slowly When I walked into the sits up, unlocks the door and room that he was staying in I steps out of the car. My fa- saw my brother lying on the ther grabs Brock from the bed face down. car and embraces him in his was sitting in a chair with games with a smile on my arms. Emotionally torn be- tears in her eyes. I said, face. I sat in the front row. tween happiness and sad- "Hey what's up buddy, how I stood up and cheered when ness, he can only get three are ya?" myoid teaIn did something words out of his mouth: "I My mom T he other'day I went to one of my high school's basketball He replied by saying, good. I was even happy be- "Hey," as if someone had cause I got to talk to people After this incident with forced him to say something. that used to come and watch my brother, I thought the After a while he would worst was over. I imagined talk to me a little but nothing pleased when my team won that after we admitted him close conversation. the game. However, the best into the psychiatric ward of Brock looked like he had part of the game was when Mercy Medical he would get given up on life. He talked myoid number 32 checked love you." to a me play. I was even more Th e Kiosk 3 �An Unlikely Hero into the game. With a proud through. Life is funny smile and tears, I listened to sometimes. At first I wanted came to discover is that now the announcer ' say, "Now to be Brock's hero, and I I wore the number on my checking into the game for . wanted Brock to wear my wanted to be. But what I chest for a new reason. I number on his chest to rep- was representing my brother. resent me. I wanted him to I took pride in being Brock' s take pride in being my little older brother. Brock has be- Brock survived his depres- brother. come nly unlikely hero. + sion and I thank God every seemed as though I had got- day for helping my brother ten to be the hero I always the Raiders, number Brock Walker." 32, I now have a new hero. 4 The Kio sk In the end it �Scrambled JESSI PLUEGER scrambled runny runningto gether i'm scrambled funny howthesewordsallruntogether let's run together hold hands sunny runnIng our faces are running d o w n our bodies Don't We All our brains fry well scrambled JESSI PLUEGER I want a fat intelligence and a thin body an open mind and closed thoughts a happy personality and a sad hypocriticality a light impression but a heavy likability little embarrassment - a lot of courage more have and less want The Kiosk 5 �NONFICTION II{nowNow KAy GOLDSMITH I can hear voices Suddenly, I feel so home- Do I say, "I'm sorry"? I get and a lot of com- sick and scared. I cannot a warm, safe feeling as we motion the believe what is happening unite and exchange hugs . I background as my parents' and I am afraid to ask too alTI neighbor, many questions. in glad to be home. Perhaps I Mom says we need to what happened. Leo speaks am afraid to make it awk- go to the funeral home, see softly and calmly to me as ward for Leo, I am not sure. Dad, order flowers, and de- he explains that my dad It is all a blur. cide on the obituary an- Leo , recounts nouncement. All I want to stood up from his chair to After Leo and I finish get ready for a church meet- our conversation, I worry do is stay in Mom's house ing and died of a heart at- about the cost of flying back surrounded by loved ones, tack. As Leo tells lne what hOlne for the funeral. After drink coffee, and get my happened, all, rent is due in a week. children and husband settled neatly cropped yard, bloom- My In. ing flowers , and his little children, my husband, and I When I see my dad for white dog. Then I renlember fly to South Dakota and as I the first time since he died, I lny mom and dad ' s nlani- climb out of the car in am afraid to get near him. cured lawn. My dad and Mom' s driveway, I know I Mom encourages me to walk Leo used to do their lawn will never forget how she up and touch him and I feel work at the same time. They looks. She is tired, her eyes like a child instead of an conversed over the fence and are red, and her hair is un- adult. We order flowers and shared gossip, church news, characteristically uncombed. I get nervous that they cost and so on. My parents live My brother, Mark, and my so much. My brother, sister, in Rapid City, South Dakota, sister, Jane, have flown in and I decide to pay for the and we live in Los Gatos, the same day. I am nervous flowers ourselves. California (near San Jose). to see my mom. Do I cry? making up for lost time we 6 I envision The Kiosk his three preschool-age As if �Kay Goldsmith could have spent with Dad, don ' t have to worry that he we each spend eighty dollars will hurt them the way he Mom's velvet green- and or- on flowers. My thoughts go hurt us." ange-flowered loveseat. My I settle down into I am so relieved to hear brother walks around the liv- him say this that I admit the ing room and glances at the same feeling . Luckily, my photo albums, condolence mom and sister are in the cards, and bedroom sorting out Dad' s wi thin his reach. I sense he family are alone In clothes to take to Goodwill. is leading up to doing some- The silence IS I continue to look at my thing silly, but what bad tim- awkward · and we are at a brother with shocked disbe- ing. My sister and I watch loss for words. I do not feel lief as I recall the times Dad him as he glances around the sad that Dad died and I won- beat us both with a belt. It room and we look at one an- der why I have not cried. I did not matter if we had other in anticipation. thought the grieving would done anything wrong. Jane brother is notorious for be- automatically come without did not get hit nearly as of- ing silly and making people thought. In fact, I imagined ten. She was the eldest and laugh. we would behave the way favored one. Mom and Dad It was a surprise for me people do in movies and encouraged her to go to col- to see him yesterday. I did soap operas. They appear to lege while they told me I not recognize him as he cry, mourn, and grieve with- was too stupid to go. I re- stepped off the airplane at out any forethought. member the times Mark and the Rapid City Regional Air- I formed an alliance. We port. It is hard to !Jelieve the both felt Dad favored Jane last time we were· to gether because was five years ago. back to the bills at home. L ater, my sister, the house. brother, mom, I do not feel like . crying. In fact, . I feel somewhat relieved that my dad died. I feel very guilty and bad for these emotions. I am afraid to ad- she was not adopted, and we were. looks and whatever IS My He considerably older My sister comes into than the last time I saw hiITI. the living room and my Somehow I never imagined Then my brother says, brother says, "You do know we would get old. "I am kind of glad Dad is that if Mom died instead of used to exercise and had a dead. " Dad, he would paint the physique other men would walls black." die for. mit them to anyone. I look at him In shock We all start Mark Even his shiny giggling and try not to laugh blonde hair used to be im- He says, "Because Dad because we worry that Mom peccably styled. was mean and cruel, and if I will catch us being silly at youthful have children someday, I such an inappropriate time. placed with a beer belly and and ask why. physique Now his IS The Kiosk re- 7 • �IknowNow He looks solutely livid. My sister and follow him to help Aunt as if he has not slept for days I do not know what to do so Bertha and Uncle Jim with and his unruly hair is dull we sit there . their luggage. hunched posture. and lifeless. But somehow he kept the same bright My brother says, "I'm We are all happy to see one another and we begin to reminisce about okay, I just sneezed." old times . Aunt Bertha and I smile and pleasant demeanor My mom says, "Stop that makes everyone around rattling Dad ' s chair, it makes have him feel happy and carefree. the same sound as when he Mark and Uncle Jim are I remember he used to try to fell back in it during his close because they both like get customers in restaurants heart attack. " She runs into to fish. Uncle Jim and Mark to gawk out the window by the stand together and converse staring out for a long time. brother sits there stulliled. other . room and my always been close . over old times. Finally, the custoiners would All of a sudden I see the Aunt Bertha sits next to realize there was nothing to whole event as hilarious and me and tells nle their Ger- stare at and they would re- run out of the room laugh- man shepherd they had for sume ing. many years finally died. eating their meals My brother and sister I while furtively glancing at follow me and think I mn remember the fun times I my brother. cryIng. Then they see me had with their dog, Spike, mind, I know he is capable laughing and start to laugh when I went to stay with of just about anything, bar- too. them over summer vaca- nng InJunng anyone. laughing at such a thing and tions. we hope Mom will not find run through the meadows vorite brown recliner and us giggling. with him. leans way back. Up pops comes into the living room tears from the closeness and the foot rest and he browses and we carryon as if nothing warmth that radiates from through happened. Aunt Bertha. With this in He sits in my dad ' s fa- a magazine and We all feel guilty for Later, Mom looks as if he could fall asleep. flip flops around in the chair. Dad ' s chair makes a horrible I feel close to Aunt Bertha puts her Then he sneezes about six times in a row and Mark and I used to arms around my shoulders A car pulls up out- and side in the drive- Honey, your dad was really way. My favorite proud of both of you. says, "You know, In rattling noise and starts to aunt, Bertha, and uncle, Jilll, fact, I know everything you squeak as my brother contin- are here. and ues to make a fool of him- and walks towards the fo yer from the time you moved self. Mom comes runnIng to open the door and let out of this house. He wrote into the rOOln and looks ab- them in. Mom, Jane, and I and talked about you all the 8 The Kiosk Mark jUInps up Mark accomplished �Kay Goldsmith say, "How can that be? Dad at us and never told us he I'm shocked as I glance used to tell us he 'wished he was proud." over at Mark. He has a look never adopted us whenever of disbelief on his face~ he beat us. He always yelled time. " I Aunt Bertha hugs me as I begin to cry. + The Kio sk 9 �The Sax JAN DEHNER Screaming across the darkness, reaching into deep, dark chambers, pulling out arrows and sealing up wounds, courting, consuming, joy, ecstasy. Perplexed, raising its voice and crying out. It enlbraces, lingering a while to breath and to soothe, then melting, long and low, fading away. Complete. 10 The Kiosk �FICTION Looking Back I{Ay GOLDSMITH I recall gazing out the upstairs ho- window, bright gold needle-point church stee- tel room window. ples and ivy-covered red brick buildings pro- Rain drops trickle on the people below who trude above the foggy horizon. walk and stand outside on the cobblestone I slowly leave the safety of my hotel room streets. It has been raining for one week with- and descend the long, winding stairwell. I ap- out any break. In fact, sometimes the sun does proach the warm and brightly lit lobby. Big, not shine for months on end. Everyone totes crystal vases filled with red, white, and yellow an umbrella. This cold, rainy, and dismal roses adorn the gray marble countertops and weather is typical for this small town in West windowsills in the lobby. Velvety, red carpet Germany. Nestled against the shoreline of the adds a touch of plushness and elegance. Shiny Nordsee, lies the town of Gromitz. This is my brass umbrella stands are placed near the door birth place, and I am here to find my birth for wet umbrellas. mother. white uniform welcomes visitors with a cup of Certainly, she would be happy and relieved to see me at the ripe age of nineteen? A waiter in a black and coffee. I smell the nutty and bitter aroma of shoppers the coffee on the waiter's silver tray as he ap- down in the streets, coupled with the church proaches me and says, "Guten Tag. Mochten bells ringing across town, create a deep melancholy in. me. People in the streets are busy, Sie Kaffe?" I am grateful to have taken German preoccupied with purchasing flowers and food classes before coming to Gromitz. I welcome from the outdoor market stands. I cannot see his offer of coffee and gratefully reply, "Bitte their faces, but they seem oblivious to the fal ling raindrops and the cold tidal winds. I, on Schon." I yearn to speak more German with him the other hand, feel as if I cannot stop staring because somehow it feels natural for me to at the freshly cut bouquets of red, yellow, and speak. He offers me a cup of the dark brew as pink tulips that are neatly arranged in window I loiter around the lobby door and peer out boxes outside bakeries and shops. From the onto the busy streets. The black umbrella-domed Th e Kiosk 11 --~- �Looking Back The door in the hotel lobby revolves as dow now have faces . They look preoccupied people come and go . The noises that were with their shopping. I can smell fresh bread muted from the hotel window now blare out baking in the bakery as I walk past. I glance from all directions. I hear car horns, buses, towards some customers who are seated at a and people yelling. The scene sprawled be- table. They sip their coffee and carryon with fore me looks different than from the safety of conversation. A few people have light, blonde my hotel window. hair and similar facial features. I decide not to A portly gentleman in a gray trench coat walks through the revolving look anymore and stroll on. door and enters the lobby. He looks at me as I My thoughts wander back to my child- stand dumbfounded and apprehensive . He has hood. I used to watch people from my bed- facial features similar to mine. Surely, his room window and try to imagine their life sto- blonde hair, fair skin, blue eyes, high cheek- nes . Sometimes I made up outrageous, ex- bones, and the subtle overbite are purely coin- travagant stories about them. cidental. Could he be my father? The hair on lived in mansions with dozens of servants who my the back of my neck stands on end, and I waited on them. feel hot and clammy as I walk through the neighbors who lived in nearby towns and their door and out into the streets. The air smells offspring became romantically involved. A peculiar smell creates a feeling of dej a Or they had affairs with Suddenly, I notice the rain fall ing heavier musty and fishy . I open my black umbrella and huddle under its protective shell. Perhaps they and go about the task of finding my birth mother. I wonder if she will be upset if I show vu. I recall the smell as a mixture of oats and up on her doorstep without any warning. I wheat. Sometimes I used to smell the aroma cannot fathom how life can go on as usual for in America, especially after my grandma everyone around me. I am on the verge of cooked oatlneal for breakfast. But this aroma . finding my birth mother and ponder the many has a touch of something else. I ponder this questions that remain unanswered. Maybe I phenomenon as I hear church bells chime would have grown up to be someone signifi- twelve o'clock. cant. I suspect there are many Perhaps I could have invented some- churches in this small town because the thing and become famous. chimes resonate and echo from all directions. been different, had my mother kept me. Life would have The church chimes bring more angst and mel- My birth mother gave me up when I was ancholy as I wonder if my mother is sad that about one year old. It is unclear as to why she she gave me up for adoption. did not keep me . My birth certificate and I step cautiously onto the cobblestone adoption papers do not reveal the circum- streets and feel as if my heels will get caught stances around my adoption. I lived in a chil- in between the stones. The black umbrella- dren ' s shelter until I was adopted by an domed shoppers I spied on from the hotel win- An1erican family at the age of two. It is hard 12 Th e Kiosk �Kay Goldsmith to imagine what she went through when she tiously walk to the front desk. I ask if they gave me up . I nervously walk to a nearby telephone can help me locate information regarding my birth mother. booth outside a blue and white coffee shop. It I carefully say, "Guten Tag, Ich mochte feels good to get in out of the rain. I pick up meine geburtstag papier." The woman behind the big phone -book and thumb through the the desk stares at me as I ask for my birth records in German. pages for my birth mother' s last name. I am surprised and dismayed to see about twenty phone numbers with the same last name. More bad thoughts enter my mind. She responds, "Es tuit mir leid Wir konnen es nicht tuin." Suddenly, I feel intrusive, like I should Perhaps she has a new family now and did not tell her not be here at all. Maybe she will help me husband about me. She might tell me to go since I speak her language. But she says they away. I cannot bear the thought of ruining her cannot give out any records of adoptions at all. life at this point. Or worse yet, maybe she is I reply, "Danke schon." dead. I quickly close the phone book and I slowly turn around to leave with a mix leave the warmth of the phone booth. The rain of hopelessness and relief. I may never know showers down relentlessly on me as I open my what happened to my birth mother, but then umbrella. again she will not be put in an awkward posi- I bite my lip. I decide to visit the Children's Shelter that is listed on my birth certificate. It is only one block away from here. I can see a tall brick building loom in front of tion of facing a painful past that she would not want to deal with. I decide to leave the quaint town of Gromitz and not pursue my mission. me. I stand at the bottom of the steps as if frozen. A familiar and pungent smell emanates from the front door as it suddenly swings open. A woman in a long, black coat quickly I reflect on that momentous time - In my life, as I watch my youngest daughter leave home. She packs up her belongings walks down the worn cement steps. I nerv- as I gaze at her blonde hair, fair skin, blue ously glance up at the building and struggle to eyes, high cheekbones, and the subtle overbite. keep my knees from shaking. It smells like I hand her my black umbrella as she opens the oatmeal, cream of wheat, and coffee, all mixed front door. It is cold and has been raining for together. Why is this smell familiar? a week. The building is covered with crawling, She hesitantly walks down the ce- ment steps and O~lt into the cold and rain. + green ivy. I walk up the steps, and enter the hallway. My shoes make an echo as I cau- The Kiosk 13 �x • • I-IV JESSI PLUEGER I. I must say I like to feel ecstatic. lying in your lap looking up at you you look down at me I'm unable to express how gorgeous, bea'-.!tiful, lovely . you are so I only smile at you I like to feel you and just listen to you talk in the conversqtion of the room as everyone else ' s voice just fades out (I 'm not listening to them) you know I'm thinking of you you thinking of me smile back rub my hand everyone thinks they understand II. kind of how all the people disappeared is how I sometimes worry kind of how visitors stopped (that I never knew) . .. out of the blue. and everyone brings their own atmosphere and everyone knows what I fear let us not talk about what I fear 14 The Kio sk �Jessi Plueger III. without inhibitions you can see the real obnoxious me you still don't get to hear all of those things I think yet I talk quite a bit ... attempt to appeal to you to appeal to the room without inhibitions I inhabit a new attitude IV. And out there you want only to close your eyes (but not really) It's such a tranquil quiet that you're not sure you can hear and the light and ground absorb the sound as well as you but you want it to you want to stay there/here forever but on you this world is getting clever you feel that nature has some trick up its sleeve your thoughts are swirling you feel to leave you step through the doorway inside back to normal The Kiosk 15 �NONFICTION Bride-Be-Damned MEGAN COOK I received the in- bottom of my stomach as 1 parents vitation in the dropped the card. "1 am al- braska. 1 am awake for two mail weeks be- most twenty-two, and 1 am rings before looking at the fore the event; the words getting married," 1 thought. clock, " hich tells me it is w printed in red raised ink on All the excitement 1 felt much too early. 1 nudge my the linen card: "Bridal Fair thirty had fiance, busy snoring in the 2002." 1 would be going turned to more stress, and 1 most offensive and irritating with my mother, my niece, felt an ulcer burning my way (in the beginning 1 and my sister, ten years my stomach thought it "cute" in the same senIOr. where my heart had hit it. As my fingers ran seconds lining ago precisely In Kearney, N e- manner with which children across the words "Bride and shower guests," my heart raised it- with undying affection). He self awkwardly. 1 imagined B wounded animals ridal Fair Sunday finally rolls onto his side and and 1 awake to the the cacophony ends. 1 con- sound of the tele- sider answering the phone "1 was having an- with a chipper, " It is ten- napkin samples and flipping other one of those night- thirty on Sunday morning. though matted mares where it is the Big This better be important," pages of photographers ' best Day, and the only things but settle on the ever fash- collections, the timeless ex- that are finalized are the ionable, "Hello. " preSSIons and dress and the tuxedo, which My mother ' s VOice re- grooms smiling at us from my fiance and 1 are wearing turns in an especiall y dry among family as we rush around town in a tone, "Are you awake?" members lined up on church frantic and desperate search nod into the phone. steps. My heart, though it for an officiate and the just calling to remind you fl uttered, landed hard in the phone number of his grand- that you and your sister need the four of us roaming from sponsor booth to sponsor booth, feeling the soft cotton 16 the of black brides nameless The Kio sk phone. I "I'm �Megan Cook to be here by noon. I want my head. to get this thing done and I' ve never been to a wed- cover of the cake table. The over with. " ding, let alone planned one. next two hours I spent vomiting in the mint-green bath- there, then I hang up and go I am twenty-two, and I am getting married. " It's a man- back to sleep. tra. I assure her that we ' ll be "Twenty-two. champagne beneath the rooms in the church basement, which had been painted the day before. In my head, the smells of alco- W mother ' s e travel to . the con v entIon center in my leased to one wedding: my sister ' s. She hol puke and fresh paint still mingle. Ten years later, my had. told me the day before brother and I, grown and out She is in one of her particu- that she was pregnant, and I of church clothes, were on larly pleasant moods: she wasn't tell our way to Colorado Springs spent the entire morning ar- Mom. I was a junior brides- to rent a Ryder truck and glung God-knows- maid, a position which I move my sister and her three what with the live-in boy- took very seriously as a ten- children home to Iowa and friend, year-old. out of the ghetto-ized base about my Corolla. - A ctually, I've been common-law stepfather, Dick. supposed I to grew three Ann, my inches up and out between housing sister, croaks responses to the final dress fitting and the Force Base, where my soon- my mother' s line of tax re- day I walked down the aisle to-be ex-brother-in-Iaw was turn questions despite an un- beside who a fireman. She was leaving diagnosed case of laryngitis wore a boy's size twelve first, not more than three and the pain relievers she is rented tuxedo. weeks before his thirty-third taking for the three fresh were dusky rose and sea- birthday. Finally, the ro - stitches she has on her right foam green, very appropriate mance had ~nded . index finger. Her daughter, to dress, a help that he was screwing Kristin, prattles on about the brushed satin pink thing with her best friend and lying slumber starched about it. party of four my 1990. brother, My fluffy Her colors sleeves, of Petersen Air It didn 't Unfortunately for eleven-year-old girls she had itched in the June humidity him, the children had eyes last night to the window, to in places I couldn 't reach. I and mouths. the cars passing by, to her- fidgeted throughout the cere- self, but mostly to my transi- mony, was yelled at by my tive, wandering attention. "I mother, who had a raging am twenty-two, and I am hangover, and spent the en- getting married," I repeat in tire reception sipping stolen T he glass doors of the convention center open to a mass of The Kio sk 17 --~,. �Bride-Be-Damned hysteric mothers and their ister for all the drawings . the wall opposite the stage, equally hysteric daughters. She beams and dominating the decorations. There is confusion as we hands me my bride-be-made Another banner hangs oppo- scan the crowd for someone tote . I think of some snappy site us, yelling "MARRIED who looks like he or she is "milking tragedy for all it ' s IN THE USA." My mother el- worth" remark, but, consid- comes over the loud speaker, bows me in the ribs, my fa- ering that it would be lost on "Ladies and gentlemen, the vorite of her habits, and her, turn and head back to fashion show is going to be- points in the direction of a my threesome of bored at- gin in twenty minutes . table in front of which are tendants. They look like the order"to be eligible for door formed several -attempts at three stooges of the wedding pnzes, straight lines. "You register world, if the three stooges stamped card must be turned there," she says . stuck to a script formulated in at the registration table Hesitant, I make my by the History Channel; dry, before the beginning of the way through blond curls and yawning, full of war stories. show. Thank you." cell phones to the registra- "Well, this ought to be a tion table, where men in good tilTIe," I think. in charge. a smile your A voice In completed, I hold up the card. Too much white back at us. space looks A fire in my tuxedos and women in alter- We get in line and in- nating red and blue sequined stantly become part of a mother's eyes signals that gowns guard stacks of invi- moving current taking us this no longer a fun family tations and black ball-point past by event, but a tour of duty, a pens. Behind them hangs a beauty consultants, photog- mission assigned to us from banner reading "Bridal Fair raphers, caterers, DJ s, for- some unknown personage 2002: Married in the USA. " mal wear salesmen and lim- behind a curtain. She is I pull the invitation from my ousine drivers, my mother ' s quick with a plan. "Okay back pocket, unfold it, and sharp elbow like an oar con- girls," she says to Ann and hand it to the nearest patriot. stantly in my ribs . "Grab a me, "You go get the rest of "I pre-registered," I explain. pen, grab a pen," she whis- your stamps, and Kristin and She smiles and begins shov- pers. I will get seats. You have ing various brochures into a row hallway deposits us, at plastic bag similar to the its end, into the main room. My sister, limp though ones that Malibu Barbie and Our eyes turn to the massive she is, takes the bride-be- her adn1irers are carrying stage built in the center. made tote, which, as it gets around, telling me to be sure People rush by us, scribbling heavier with more literature that I get a stamp on my card figures into their day plan- from lTIOre sponsors, seems from every sponsor and reg- ners . There is a giant flag on more like a bride-be-damned 18 The Kio sk booths manned The river of the nar- twenty minutes." �Megan Cook bag. I fo llow; filling out registration cards In her way in red, white, and blue . der the white satin covering Then they come singly in my mother ' s belly. wake as she scans every white gowns, the trims spar- I could never get her to booth almighty kling as the models walk in talk about her wedding, even We get to time with the music. Under when she was drunk. the end, missing two stamps . the weight of glass bead- has never told me why they My mother appears to tell us work and twenty-pound pet- got married in Fort Dodge, that she has found seats on ticoats, swooshing since my mother was from the . other side of the room, strides add new harmonies. Storm Lake and my father that we only have ten min- The crowd is transfixed . from Glidden. utes, and what did we mean My mother's elbow finds its n1ember if I found the pic- we two way into my side every time ture before or after my father "Y ou know, if a dress comes in which she left. for the Stamp Holder. were stamps? mIssIng these people really wanted to their thinks I will look good. She I don't re- My brother helped him help you out, they'd just pack his bags the day after stamp them all for you." Christmas. He was going to Not willing to admit defeat, she takes the card and heads back into the river, T he only picture I live with my mother's best have seen of my friend, who was less than parent' s wedding is two weeks divorced. pushing upstream to the re g- a Polaroid snapshot of my When my father lost his istration booth in search of mother in a short whi te job and my mother lost all Mary Kay and Younkers . dress standing beside my child support, we couldn't My sister and I struggle to father in a white tuxedo. afford the mortgage in Cali- keep up, but finally catch her They are holding hands be- fornia. at the registration table. She side the wedding cake, a was quick with a check for a stuffs pamphlets about bridal single -tiered Ryder truck, and soon we makeovers and Waterford telling all there is to know found crystal into the bag, and about the turn out at the Iowa. hands the card to a man in a First Presbyterian Church in My father married my tuxedo who smiles, "Just in Fort Dodge, Iowa, on Febru- stepmother sometime after time ladies. ary 8, 1970. My mother is a Ann's wedding and some- young twenty and my father, time before my twelfth birth- a younger twenty-two. You day, when I received a pack- the can't see my sister in the age, the first in three years, models parade picture, though she is mak- with a check signed with her down the run- ing her presence known un- new name. It' s another wed- The fashion show is about to begin." W e watch confection, My grandmother ourselves home in Th e Kio sk 19 �Bride-Be-Damned ding we have never talked about. This past Christmas my T he last of the mod- something like that. You els walks off the could stand to lose some stage, and the over- weight, y'know. " She pats father strongly urged me to head lights turn on. My my baby-free tummy and elope, which would save us mother already has her coat half-laughs. (meaning my fiance and me) on, and again we find our- scheduled to be my maid of both money and stress. selves following her as she . honor, says from behind us, had previously told my sister leads us out of the building "We could all stand to lose that he planned to help me quickly, in front of the flood some weight." out, paying for at least half of fellow fair-goers. I carry smiles, pulls in a double- of the wedding. I figured it that bride-be-damned bag lung full of menthol smoke. was some form of remit- under my arm as if it were a tance' deflated raft. like birthdays He and My mother Ann, who is My mom "I am twenty-two, and I am getting married," I say, Christmases past due plus lights a cigarette and pats interest, and like always, he my shoulder. "Did you see fell through. I already knew that one with the long train? hales that I would be walking my- If around my shoulders. + self down the aisle. enough, 20 The Kiosk we could alter that you could wear this time aloud. "Yup." My mom exand puts her arm �I Finally Moved to South Dakota RICK RECTOR I finally moved to South Dakota having lived so long across the river. I hate to go to work and leave her this new found love of earth, sky, magic, and rock. In my time, I'll pass on, but South Dakota won't. She will be, just like I want to. Now I know why I can't own land. The Wake Just like I can't own a cat. It agrees to stay. RICK RECTOR Slack breasted WOlnen in black print dresses Bring cold cuts on cracked ceramic saucers. There is bread with no butter Lukewarm lemonade in slick glasses That nearly slip through my fingers. Hot sun pounds through the filmy curtains And the rank smell of the street drifts in With the sound of cars and busses. With a nod I'm up Clomping toward the door Words of sympathy on my lips Handshakes and lowered eyes. He was my friend too. The Kiosk 21 �Psychology Man !{nows .ANNIE DILOCKER where are we right now? my literal man, I'm afraid you can not answer that easily. (literature and poetry is borne of life ' s conflicts. the best stuff is a mix of love and war.) so if you were to analyze, Mr. Psychology Man, what you think I'm thinking, would the material fill a poemor a novel? or would you be just as lost as me, not sure where to start in understanding the works of (lover's) words and hurts and the curedand if they can be? and I wonder if you ponder what I'm thinking, or if you think you already know (and if you do) then you' ve gone farther than I can go. 22 The Kiosk �FICTION Immersed JENNY NICKLIN F inals were over. Thank God. three blocks to her favorite shop. Wendy had just spent the last A few flakes were floating to the ground three hours filling blue books as the coed opened the door to the Cup 'n with essays on Hemingway, Faulkner, and Page. The cheerful bell jingled as Wendy said Steinbeck. She had worn her number two a prayer that the heavy snow would hold off pencil down to its nub and her poor hands until she left for home. She just needed time to herself before facing the dull highway and were cramped and smudged with graphite. "If I ever get feeling back, it will be a her family at the end of it. Christmas time miracle," Wendy thought. "And my brains are was so busy, and Wendy knew this was her leaking out of my ears. I will never form an- last opportunity for "me time." She was going other complex thought again. to take advantage of this chance. Note to self: send Dr. Thompson a thank you letter." Wendy shucked her heavy winter gar- The novel seminar had, thankfully, been ments and approached the counter. Wendy's last test of the semester, and Christ- owner, mas was just around the cotner. But before The Miriam, greeted her. "Wendy! So how were your finals?" she even thought about driving two hours home, she desperately needed to decompress. The Cup 'n Page was a favorite local hang out of Wendy's. A bookstore and coffee shop, a friendly young woman named "Abysmal. But they are done, and I am happy!" "Aren't you heading home for break?" the Cup 'n Page provided many hours of re- "Yes, but I'm still quite drained from Dr. laxation to the school-stressed young woman. T's final, and I wanted to refresh myself with This was exactly what Wendy desired before a quick mocha and book. Speaking of which, packing up and driving home. So she put on do you have any suggestions?" her coat and scarf and stepped from her dorm Wendy "Drink or book?" "I'll have my usual mocha-berry. But I could smell snow on the air as she walked the need a real light read - something that won't into the frosty Decen1ber afternoon. The Kiosk 23 �Immersed make me feel like I have to write an analytical essay. " tered her life. "I think I have just the thing. I just finished this absolutely horrible romance. Not ted to join you in a cup ofjava? smutty of course, but completely outlandish. the most searing emerald eyes she had ever It's called The Grounds of Desire , and it's beheld. Emerald eyes that were set in the face about finding love in a coffee house." of a Greek god-like specimen of man. Emer- Wendy laughed, "Sounds promising." "You' ll love it. I'll grab my copy with your mocha." ald eyes that seemed to pierce to the very Wendy settled into her favorite over- "Excuse me, miss. But might 1 be permitJJ Gwendolyn looked up from her mug into depths of her caffeinated soul. stuffed chair in a corner of the shop. White Wendy continued through the less-thanliterary reading material, an observer to the ri- Christmas lights were strung up between diculous coffee house courtship. shelves that, along with the lightly falling chuckles, however, Wendy couldn't help but snow outside, created the perfect cozy atmos- feel a bit jealous of Gwendolyn. "Why do all phere. Miriam brought over Wendy's bever- the good love stories have to be fictional?" Amid her age and reading material. Wendy took a sip, Currently single, Wendy had had her cursed her continual ability to forget that her share of past relationships. None ever really hot mocha was hot, and looked at the cover of worked out, though. her book. Wendy chuckled at the Fabio look- "friend-to-boyfriend-back-to-friend" pairings. a-like holding a giant gallon-sized coffee mug Then the one "crush-to-date, only to discover to the lips of his chosen ladylove. he was a complete jerk expecting his woman "Hey Miriam," she called across the empty store. "Where is my hunk to pour to wait on him hand and foot" relationship. scorching coffee down my throat?" There were several And, of course, the inevitable blind date disaster. Sure, Ricky was cute and at the top of his Miriam answered from the back room. class in medical school, but Wendy knew he But I'm was wrong for her when he snapped his fin- "Sorry kiddo, he ' s on back-order. supposed to get a shipment in next week." Wendy laughed and opened the front cover. She began to read. gers at the waitress and patted her tush as she walked away. Never once had an honest-toGod gentleman swept Wendy off her feet. The Grounds of Desire was coming to the pleasure in young Gwendolyn's life. The heat inevitable "happily ever after" conclusion. Wendy was relieved at the lack of smuttiness, in a cup was all that could fan the flame that despite the ridiculous plot. She was about to sought to build itself within the beauteous tell Miriam, "If they had consummated their That is, until Sebastian en- relationship on a pile of coffee beans, I would Coffee . .. ah coffee . . . was the only blonde's heart. 24 Th e Kiosk �Jenny Nicklin have had to kill you!" But before she could, a Toby's awaiting gaze, and then reached out to deep voice next to her caught her attention. scratch him behind the ears. She glanced up at "Excuse me, miss. Could I join you in a cup of java?" Miriam, whose teasing expression could not be restrained any longer. She burst out laugh- Wendy swallowed hard, turned her head, ing, and Toby looked up at his owner in an- looked into a pair of stunning emerald noyance. Wendy of course recognized this as eyes ... and laughed. the cat ' s usual expression. + The young woman stared deeply into The Kiosk 25 �Winter GINNY EBERLY I. Drive; as trees covered with ice go by my window. Frigid leaves. Cold, chipped bark. Solid trunk. Chilled twigs. Roots of rilne, unearthing. II. Hanging, Frozen sap. Like stalactites. 26 The Kiosk �Fairy Princess ALLISON LANDERS I once was your Fairy princess Caught amongst your web And you were a venomous spider Clouding up my head . Y 011 disgusting· wretched spider You ruined so many things Take the crown atop my head But do not clip my wings The Kiosk 27 �NONFICTION GravityKAy GOLDSMITH I stand before the their cage at night when ance. living room win- they are tired. Suddenly n1y daughters run into the living dow safe world is shaking and room and stare at the win- out over the swimming pool falling dow because it begins to rat- in the courtyard and wonder tremors beneath my feet. I if I should take my three stand still as if frozen in children for a quick swim time. and gaze apart by violent My two frightened tle. I coax my son and My son comes into daughters to follow me to the living room and begins the front hallway for shelter pool to cry. He has a glass of ap- from breaking windows and splashes against the sides ple juice in his hand that he falling objects. But we can- and flips up into the air. does not know what to do not reach the hallway be- Why is this happening when with. He drops the glass cause our television stand no one is in the pool? Our and the apple juice stays in collapses and topples over in two pet parakeets begin to mid-air. Eventually it trick- front of the doorway leading squawk and scurry into their les onto -the floor In slow out -of the living room. cage where they flap their motion as he tries to duck lose my composure as pic- wIngs bars. underneath the coffee table. tures, dishes, clocks, and Their behavior confuses me I atU proud of him for re- books fall all over the floor . since they are hand -trained membering the school earth- The sound of breaking glass, to come outside their cage quake drill. One of the most objects hitting the floor, and on their own. They usually important rules says for us splintering wood replace the perch and play on top of to duck under furniture for train-like sound of the earth- their cage where I built a protection from flying de- quake. jungle gYIU, swings, and lad- bris. He bumps his head on Eluergency sirens begin ders for thelU to play on dur- the edge of the shaking cof- to go off all over Los Gatos, They go into fee table and loses his bal- California, and people in our I watch as before supper. the water against ing the day. 28 In The Kiosk the the I �Kay Goldsmith apartment complex begin to run outside in panic. We are not allowed to ground shake. I notice that antennas that protrude The go back into our apartments the tremors stop and I take my due to the constant after- from apartment roof children and our birds down shocks sway back and forth. My the two flights of stairs into shake the apartment build- children the courtyard near the swim- Ings. Luckily, we all have rounded by strangers who ming pool. Here, the other small tents and camping gear are less than three feet from tenants have gathered, hug- that we use in the courtyard us. ging one another and crying. for the night. Our forty-five tightly, as the direction of I look at the swimming pool unit apartment complex is the wind shifts. Suddenly, I with most of its water splat- transforn1ed into a miniature notice it is getting cold. We tered out on the sidewalk campground for four days. watch the neighbors as they and notice a huge crack that My children and I are in an go about their business of runs from the deep to the awkward situation because settling in for the night. "Damn," I we have to spend time in shallow ends. that continue think to myself, "Now we close have to wait for the pool to to neighbors we do not know. be repaired before we can go swimming. " proximity with TV our and I are sur- I hug my children My children and I huddle together as we try to find our center of gravity. + Darkness falls as aftershocks continue to make the The Kiosk 29 �Welding Weary JASON WALKER Blue flashes Acetylene Mini stars by masked machines Hammers ringing eardrums screaming no one hears except for n1e Nose stings breathing fire odors fighting for control Smooth steel sharp edges one mistake could kill the pain The Scholar JASON WALKER A yearning soul before the sun He's come undone Lifeless paper shuffles before his eyes Weeks pass in a murky haze And worldly contact slowly dies 30 The Kiosk �FICTION Home ·Game JENNY NICKLIN I t was only 5:15 , my alma mater ' s hOlnecom- pened, and the e-mails be- and the gravel ing football game. "You . came less and less frequent, know you should go and until they disappeared completely. I wondered how my even for another hour and catch up with your friends. You'll regret it if you don't." fifteen minutes. I left home At least she gave me her couldn't help but think they early so I wouldn't have to teacher's pass so I wouldn't were great, with great jobs, walk too far. have to pay to get in. great families, great every- parking lot was already full. Kickoff wasn't I drove my best friends were now. I Buick around, searching for But I had to admit, now the elusive open space. The that I was there, I really was back windows of SUV sand hoping to see some of the the ticket taker's window on minivans stared at me, as if old gang. Lizzy, Johnny, my side of the field, I was warning me away with blank and I had been inseparable, completely sure that I could yet reproachful stares. The starting in junior high when renew Iny old friendships occasional rusty Gremlin or my dad was transferred to and things would be like banged up Beetle screamed Offutt Air Force Base. Right they were in high school: school spirit in white paint"Go Papio 1 "Beat Prep 1" " up through graduation, we gossip, eating, and cheering. were every bit the "three It had been six years of our "We're #11" musketeers" cliche. lives. I finally found a spot on But six years ago, I left thing. By the time I arrived at _ Things couldn't change so fast from those influential years. some grass, and began my for college. trek to the stadium. Earlier, stayed and attended the local I had been reluctant to come. university. We had prom- about to start, so I headed But my mother said it'd be towards the bleachers near "good" for me to spend a ised to keep in touch. With e-mail, it couldn't be easier, myoId proverbial hunting Friday night back in town at right? grounds, the band's stands. The other two Well, things hap- The pre-game show was The Kio sk 31 �Home Game Lizzy and I always had great more than my class, filed the stand. Their spirited ma- fun between performances, out onto the field and began roon-painted chests already sniffing pixie sticks (only their formations. One song began to peel in the frosty once, after the initial sting), after another, I moved my seeing how and long it Octo ber air. fingers as an air-flutist. would take for our tongues I was still standing in They finished with the the aisle in front of the to stick to our freezing in- traditional "Star-Spangled bleachers, looking up at the struments . We could always Banner," and the audience stands for a familiar face or count on Johnny, our own stood with them. It really empty seat. personal "Flutie Groupie," to was a glorious sight. toss up hot dogs during' the setting pre-winter sun left an woman next to me how our third quarter slump. Lizzy apricot glow on the field and team had been fairing over and I sat at the top of the reflected off of the polished the season. She looked back stands, so we could listen to trumpets and saxophones. at me as if I had asked, The I asked the nearest the dramas going on behind The team prepared to "Where us, under the bleachers, and enter the field while the from? " by the concessions stand. band marched off to "Our "They're 2 and 2." There one Team Will Shine." The tu- "Not bad. break-up per game, but on a bas did their marching spiral good night, we ' d get to hear on the track. a girl ' s hand connect with always made me laugh. the face of her new ex. can't believe these kids still Then, after the game, Liz follow that tradition. arid I would reenact the soap school ' s cheerleaders raced opera scenes for Johnny, onto the field with that same complete with exaggerated paper banner waiting to be swoons and dramatic stage ripped to shreds by the foot- I watched the kickoff, slaps. ball team in the evening ' s and the opponent ' s return, percussion's first display of masculinity. and then scanned the bleach- marching cadence jolted me The padded high school- ers behind me, and the con- back to reality. ers- the players, not the tinuous stream of people beat at the base of my spine, cheerleaders- raced onto walking around me. It was- and my eyes tingled in rec- the grunting. n 't even a playoff game, yet ognition. ba Ba ba Ba ba Ba Those same popular guys, the entire town seemed to Ba. The band, now close to who didn 't play football , have shown up . 200 members, at least 70 grunted back, shirtless, from was no one I really wanted was The 32 at The Kiosk least I felt the green Those guys turf I The does milk come How's the team we're playing?" " Creighton Prep? They ' re undefeated. " "Oh. I know they are a tough team. We had trouble with the- " "Shh. The game ' s starting. " But there �Jenny Nicklin to see. Where were my friends? We lived for these whom I shared everything: crushes, frustrations, joys, those great times we spent laughing and making memo- games, cheering on the team and She ries? The three of us. Now, with everyone else, celebrat- scooted closer to the person they were married. I didn't ing a victory or mourning a next to her to make a little even get an invitation. defeat. room for me, and I gave her a hug. My eyes returned to the field as depressed groans es- depression. "So how have you But, it had been six years. That's how long we'd been together in school. I caped the mouths around been?" me. The opposition had scored a -touchdown with - catch up on all I'd missed, didn't force me out. partly -out of interest, and Papillion stayed there, de- two minutes left in the first partly to assuage the guilt I spite my actions. quarter. The crowd shouted still felt at having lost touch at the team as if they actu- in the first place. _ "And IS what they were, and what ally would hear. Johnny around here? I they should remain. I had moved on. It wasn't fair for " me to expect Liz and John "Come How'd on, you guys. let that through?" I was anxious to haven't seen him yet." "Oh, you know . She seemed hesitant about "Lets go team!" "That's not good, guys!" something, but I encouraged her. "What?" "Actually . . ." She I had to JOIn In, "Get 'em now!" "Hey, Val?" looked up, resolution in her hit me in the gut. Memories. And That's just not to. "Val, are you ok?" "Of course ... sure." "I'm sorry." "Please, don't be. Really. I'm happy for you." eyes. "We're married." It felt like a football just I looked back up into chose to leave Papillion; it The "Thanks. " We sat silent as the the stands at the only person crowd cheered around me. crowd roared around us. not staring intently at the We had been best friends, equally important to each other, or so I had thought. missed another big play. "How are you?" "Great. Really great." "Lizzy? Is that you?" Had those six years together And I meant it. "I'm work- I hardly reco gnized her meant nothing? ing for a law firm in Boston. field. A woman was wav- ing. Was that really ... W as I so with a new "mature" shoul- blind in school that I could- der-length haircut, thin wire n't see a relationship build- glasses, ing between them? and 20 fewer pounds. Damn. But this is still the same girl wi th Had I just been a third wheel for six years? What about all of I 10 e it." "That's I wonderful, Val." "And you?" "I'm teaching 3rd grade The Kiosk 33 �Home Game at Tara Heights." but I was ready to leave. "Your The game was getting old, school?" elementary She nodded. "That's great." October air. I gave Liz a pat Liz was still squirming In her seat. and I was getting cold in the She kept her eyes down and said, "John's the assistant principal." "Wow. Already? Wonders never cease." "Right. You know how 'home-grown' the Papillion on the back. "I hate to go, The Kiosk "Bye, Liz." scoreboard. "Yes. I'm glad you "Here, let me give you from my purse. "Keep in touch." "Absolutely." we wouldn't. It wouldn't have made much difference. I didn't feel bad. Just indif- came." on an old receipt I fished 34 Valerie. " you again, Liz." "You mean inbred?" I muttered. It wasn't even halftime, "Sure. I will. Goodbye, As I maneuvered around the seated masses, I didn't even bother to look at the my e-mail." I jotted it down "Oh, nothing." Give my but I've got some work to take care of before I leave town. It was great seeing school district is." "What was that?" "Yes, well. love to John." I knew ferent. It was my last home football game. + �What's the Fun in That? GINNY EBERLY Adolf, with his "barely hangin' in there," see-through, white t-shirt. Beat red, Crayola green suspenders and faded blue jeans pulled up past his waist. "You play hearts." He says, in Lithuanian slowly so I can understand. "I'll keep score!" I say. He asks, "Why score? Just play." The Kiosk 35 �NONFICTION Ding-Dong the Lockridge is Dead KALEEN HIRD M y heart stopped beating. I to school with me, have looked at me as had heard about that kind though I was insane. They said that being a of thing happening now kid was the best time of their lives and going and then, but I had never really put much to that god-forsaken school helped to mold stock in the claims. Then when I was on the them into the individuals they are today. phone with my mother just a few days ago, it don't doubt that for a second, and I will admit happened. The one thing that I have wished that if I had gone to a different school, I would for over the last ten years had happened. I just quite possibly be a completely different per- sat and listened as my mother chattered on son. with the details. She had said the words, but it threshold of my elementary school again. just couldn't be. I even asked her to repeat her I But I never want to set foot over the The building itself isn't normally the type words slowly and carefully just to be sure that of building that would frighten me. I wasn't snoozing away happily. But her centuries old, decorated with cobwebs, and voice echoed in my mind as she said the harboring undead creatures intent upon swal- words again. lowing my soul. It is just a simple two-story It isn't "Lockridge is closing." brick building that was built around the turn of To be perfectly honest, I never want to see the century. The bricks range in color from a the inside of that elementary school ever rusty brown to a bright orange, and the win- again. I think I would rather have my throat dow shades are teal. Way to go for compli- ripped out by wild dogs or maybe even jump mentary colors. It's probably the only color off the tallest cliff (I am terrified of heights). combination that doesn't look like a pastel Some people, especially the people who went monster puked it up. 36 The Kio sk There is a huge play- �Kaleen Hird ground sprawled across the area behind the school, which as far as I know could be at They just kind of stand dejectedly For the first year, he was great. He would joke with us and smile, and he never made me run a lap because I was faster than his favorite student. After that first year, however, his mask slipped, and I got to see how he really was. above the rest of the blacktop waiting for He made up this hilarious little name someone to notice that they have been reduced game to make the class laugh. He'd take my to rusty metal circles at the tops of rusty metal last name and twist it just enough so he could poles. The rest of the playground consists of a rhyme it with "turd." He knew I hated it. I few plastic slides, a tire swing, a few metal had told him, asked him not to do it, but he slides, and the biggest empty field that a would wave an impatient hand in my direction bunch of hyperactive kids could ask for. All and find some reason to yell at me after class. in all, the school looks downright friendly . But He would play this little name game for half there is that old saying about never judging a of the class period while we played our daily- book ... designated torture sport. The sport was usu- least one square mile. Part of the playground is a small square of blacktop that is littered with swing sets and four net-less basketball hoops. I got a lot of good hard -earned torture out of that playground. During PE class, the ally the ever-popular kickball game or baseball. But Mr. Rose never singled me out in teacher, Mr. Crew, used to make us run laps. kickball. I have to give him credit for that. If I happened to finish first, he would send me But baseball, now, that was his thing. back to run a second lap with another student The first real problem I had during one of so they could "show me how to run slow." I his baseball games was when I was in the guess that wasn't so bad, but this is the same fourth grade. teacher who singled me out in the middle of a game again, and I was a little upset. To add to kickball game to make fun of me because I it all, he had been making some not so nice had never played it before and didn't know the comments about the girls in my class, and in rules. I swear he had invented some of those general, he was acting worse than the guys rules in his spare tilne. A couple of years were. They liked to make fun of us, but for later, he retired to start a new job working in a god 's sake, they were fourth graders, and he funeral home. was the teacher! I think the comment that fi- A new and even more rigor- He had been doing the name ous- when it came to the art of torment- nally sent me over the edge was, "Maybe I teacher showed up to teach us how to hate should help the girls out in this round, eh class. His name was Mr. Rose, and he was guys? After all, girls just aren 't very good at young and funny and didn't look like a wheez- this kind of thing." I just stood in the outfield ing skeleton. I actually thought that school and stared at him for a second. What was he was going to get just a little more bearable. saying? I had been under the impression that The Kiosk 37 �Ding-Dong the Lockridge is Dead we. were playing a simple game of baseball, actually it was probably wiffleball, and I assumed that he was a teacher. It was hard enough to hear that "boys are better" crap slumped in my seat. My hands started to shake as I realized what I had done. Somehow I managed to open my desk and find my book, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. I had to from the boys my own age, but it was impossi- force myself to concentrate. ble to take it from someone who was supposed thing never went unpunished, and I knew to know better. When I finally snapped out of sooner or later it would come in the form of my state of shock, I turned to my best friend Just. Leave. My heart had raced in my chest, It would come from the person who terrified me the most out of everyone I had ever encountered in that school. And sure enough, an hour later, he showed up at the classroom with his permanent frown on his mouth and his beady eyes glaring. It was the principal, but for the first time, when I probably actually deserved to be yelled at, he let me off with a warning. His name was Mr. Carr, and he hated me. I was certain of that and I still am, even after ten years. He was a tall man, easily over six feet tall, and very skinny. He always wore a brown suit, dark brown, like trees or chocolate. In kindergarten when I first saw him, he reminded me of Abraham Lincoln. He even seemed to smile like pictures of good ole Abe, but then again, most · of the teachers smiled like that at kindergarteners, a soft smile, kind and gentle. When their parents were around, that is. He had to crouch low just to shake my and I was having trouble seeing. hand. and asked her if she had heard that. She nodded as we waited for the next pitch. "Can you believe that?" I had asked, "Can you believe what he just said?" Granted, I probably shouldn't have said anything. I should probably just have waited until class was over and then asked him about it. I realized it as soon as I said it, because he swiveled around from his position on the pitcher's mound to look at me. His eyes were narrowed and a scowl was firmly in place on his lips. Did I mention that he was six feet tall and not what I would consider a scrawny weakling? Anyway, he turned and shouted at me the last thing I expected to hear. "I'm sick of you standing back there and bitching about my class," he shouted, "If you don't like this class, you can just leave." If you don't like my class. You. Can. But the That kind of my true source of torment. words echoed inside my skull. You can just It wasn't until the third grade when I leave. Everyone was staring at me, snicker- started to have issues with him. It started on ing. You can leave. And so I did. I left. I the bus. took off across the playground and raced up who would start it. the stairs to my classroom. I had been numb around me and pull at my shirt and call me all over, and my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. names like inbred, bitch, ho, idiot, and any- Mattson didn't even look up at me as I thing they could think of. They'd make fun of 38 The Kiosk There were two boys in particular They'd sit in the seats �Kale en Hird my face, my hair, my family, but mostly they would just make fun of me. Everything I did, everything I said, they would find a way to Mr. Carr would call me into his office and yell at me about what I had done wrong. make it one big stupid joke. If they were feel - I asked him how I was supposed to act, but he took it as insubordination. He took it as ing brave, they'd take a swipe at my arm and a mouthy little brat questioning his authority. try to leave a bruise. One of the boys even He told me that I knew how I needed to act lmocked out my front tooth and bloodied my and if I would just be like the rest of my class- lip. Once they started, their buddies would mates we wouldn't have to have these little join them, and soon half of the bus would be "talks." I will wholeheartedly admit that there laughing at me. I don't know exactly why were times when I deserved to get yelled at. they singled me out. It could have been be- There were times when I am sure I was a little cause nly clothes came from Goodwill, or that monster, but most of the time, I was going I was smaller than the rest of them. It could along with the class. I was behaving the way have been because I was one of those kids they behaved and making the wise-assed jokes It that they made . Those were the times when I could even have been because I had dark hair accepted whatever punishment they gave me. It could I lmew when I was wrong; I had been raised to have been any or all of those things, but all I lmow what was right and what was wrong. lmow is that they made bus rides like a jour- My mother was a Sunday school teacher- ney into hell for me. enough said. That could have been why it was who was always at the top of the class. while most of them were blonde. My mother used to call Mr. Carr and talk so hard to sit in Mr. Carr's office while he was to him about them, but it never did any good. scremning at me about behavior. He would tell her I provoked them, that I had even blamed me for a petition that my best done something wrong, and he was going to friend had started. It asked that something be speak to me about my behavior. I never lmew done about the behavior of the kids on the bus what he Ineant by that. As far as I knew, I and the bus driver being oblivious to it all. hadn't done anything but get on the damn bus. She admitted right in front of nle and to Mr. How is that provoking? Why was it my fault? Carr that she had started it, but he didn't even I distinctly remember him saying things like listen to her. As far as he was concerned, I that, because I used to pick up the phone when had done it. Justice didn't matter, because he Mom called him. I'd listen and hope he would knew how it all was. He just lmew that I was understand and maybe get them to leave me "up to something," and it would "not be toler- alone. He never did, and always, always, al- ated." It didn't even matter that almost every- ways after one of Mom's phone calls to him, one on the bus had signed the petition or that the teasing and the name-calling would get the title was written in my best friend's hand- worse. And always after Mom's phone calls, writing. Once he The Kiosk 39 �Ding-Dong the Lockridge is Dead I guess that was why it had been such a middle school. From what I have heard from shock when Mr. Carr didn 't kill me for leav- my nieces and nephews who are still trapped ing Mr. Rose's class. He was almost apologetic about the incident. For the first and only time in iny history at Lockridge Elementary in that school, it is still a hellhole. Mr. Rose is long gone, but Mr. Carr is still there and still singling out people who share my last name. School, I walked out of Mr. Carr's office un- One of my nieces had to leave the school be- punished. I think it may have had something cause of the way she was treated. to do with the fact that Mr. Rose admitted to makes me sad to think about it, which is why saying I could leave and to saying that stupid the minute I got off the phone with my crack about girls. In all honesty, I went out of mother, I ran out into the hallway and did a my way to avoid an argument with him for the next few weeks because he hadn't lied. I ex- little dance . Lockridge will close, and while Mr. Carr will still have a job as principal of pected it, but he had surprised me. another elementary school just a few miles It just I don't want to leave you with the impres- away, he lost half of his salary. The school sion that life at Lockridge got better for me. It itself might be torn down, and if that happens, stayed pretty much the same until I left for I want to be there. To light the match. + 40 The Kiosk �Untitled RICK RECTOR you can't wash madness off in the sink or in the shower or even in Lake Michigan I swam in Lake Michigan in 1978 Afterwards, I was still crazy my wife told me so my father told me so my brother told me so The Day They Buried Grandpa RICK RECTOR the day they buried Grandpa my brother told my dad "He looks like you when you ' re pissed." I thought about his jaw bone turning gray like a chicken bone does Grandma called my name from the Alzheimer's chair she sat in and I hugged her frailness very gently. later, at the lake I skinny dipped with Michele and we made love with the curtains open The Kiosk 41 �Sparkling Splinters JESSI PLUEGER splinters sparkling even in the evening in the darkening sky sailing overhead splinters caught by the glimpse of passersby lured in irresistible sparkle not far to go caught up in the beak shot up in retreat feathers floating splinters sparkling 42 The Kiosk ��Contributor and Staff Notes MEGAN COOK is a Kiosk ANNIE DILOCKER is a senior MI CHELLE veteran- she was a poetry from Missouri Valley, Iowa. J OLOUD is a senior from editor in 1999, Co-Editor-in- She is majoring in English Sioux City. Chief in 2000, and Editor-in- Writing with a minor in Mu- majoring in English Writing Chief in 2002. A senior, SIC. Annie edited fiction for and Religious Studies. Megan is majoring in Eng- the 2002 Kiosk and was addition to editing both po- lish Writing with a minor in Honorable Mention in the etry and creative nonfiction Mass Communications. Her Creative Writing Awards the this year, Michelle was pub- hometowns are Sioux City, sanle year. lished in the 2000 and 2002 Storm Lake, Iowa, She is double In Kiosks , and edited poetry in and Denair, California. HAND SAKER- GINNY EBERLY IS a JunIor 200l. majoring in Philosophy with DUSTIN COOPER is a senIor a minor in English Writing. KALEEN HIRD is from Brigh- from Sioux City. He is an From Sioux City, this is her ton, Iowa. rnaJ or first contribution to The Ki- more majoring in English osk. Writing with a minor in Stu- English Education with a minor in Mass Communications. This is Dus- She is a sopho- dio Art. tin's first contribution to The KA Y GOLDSMITH is a senior Kiosk. from Sioux City. She is a ALLISON Sociology major with a mi- freshman J AN DEHNER is an English nor in English Writing. Kay Wisconsin. She is majoring Writing finished 2 nd place in the in Art with a double minor 2002 Excellence in Writing in writes for The Weekender in Awards. and Business. Sioux City and wrote a nonfiction, this is Kay's first chapter for KUNI Public Ra- appearance on Kiosk staff, JENNY NICKLIN is a senIor dio's murder mystery book and her first publishing in English Literature major and by Iowa authors. the magazine. Religious major originally from Hinton, Iowa. 44 The Kio sk Jan Editing creative Mass LANDERS from IS a Hudson, Communications Studies mInor �Contributor and Staff Notes from Papillion, Nebraska. In this year, this is Jessi's sec- ing with a minor in Philoso- addition to editing poetry ond publishing in The Kiosk. phy. and fiction this year, she was In addition to being this year's Editor-In-Chief, also a poetry and fiction edi- RICK RECTOR is a JunIor Cathie was published in the tor for the 2002 Kiosk. from Sloan, Iowa, maJonng 2002 Kiosk, and also placed in English W ri ting. In addi- 2nd in the Creative Writing a tion to this year's pieces, he Awards and 1st in the Excel- In was published in the 1986 lence in Writing Awards the Mass Communications Elec- Kiosk and has received an same year. tronic Media with a minor in Honorable Mention in a na- Photography. tional poetry contest for his JASON WALKER IS a 2001 poem "The Wake." graduate SHEILA PARTRIDGE sophomore IS maJ onng From Law- rence, Kansas, Sheila is a former features reporter and of Morningside College with a double major photographer for The Mir - CRISTA RUSTWICK is a jun- in International Affairs and ror, a branch of the Law- ior from Sioux City. She is Contemporary History with As an English Education maj or a minor in Spanish. Cover Art Director, this is with a minor in Psychology. currently Sheila's first appearance on Editing this year's creative AmeriCorps VISTA as the Kiosk staff. nonfiction, this is Crista's Service Learning Coordina- first appearance on Kiosk tor for Morningside. This is staff. Jason's second publishing in rence Journal World. JESSI PLUEGER is a sopho- working He is for the Kiosk, and he placed 3 rd more from Sioux City majoring in English Writing CATHIE STANGL is a sopho- in the 1998 Excellence In with a minor in Psychology. more from Des Moines. She Writing Awards. In addition to editing poetry is majoring in English Writ- Th e Kiosk 45 ������ Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College. Through its several titles—Manuscript, Perspectives, and Kiosk—the magazine has a long history of celebrating creative writing and art on campus. It began publication in 1938 under the title of Manuscript before changing its name to Perspectives in 1953. Then in 1971 it took another name that it is known by currently: Kiosk. It is still published annually by the Morningside College English Department. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1938- Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Morningside College Library Morningside College English Department Ponder, Marcie: Digital Creator Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical PDF Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Title A name given to the resource Kiosk Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource "The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children," (The Kiosk, 2003). Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. The Kiosk Spring 2003 published by the English department of Morningside College .. I{iosk Staff EDITOR-IN-CHIEF NONFICTION EDITORS FICTION EDITORS POETRY EDITORS COVER ART DIRECTOR LAYOUT AND DESIGN FACULTY ADVISOR Cathie Stangl Kay Goldsmith Michelle Handsaker-Joloud Jenny Nicklin Crista Rustwick Michelle Handsaker-Joloud Jenny Nicklin Jessi Plueger Sheila Partridge Cathie Stangl Dr. Stephen Coyne Copyright 2003 by The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children . Creative Writing Award Winners FIRST PLACE The Day They Buried Grandpa Rick Rector SECOND PLACE Bride-Be-Damned Megan Cook THIRD PLACE An Unlikely Hero Dustin Cooper HONORABLE I know Now MENTION COVER ART I{ay Goldsmith Kristin Bierbaum About This Year's Judge Barrie Jean Borich writes creative nonfiction and is the author . of My Lesbian Husband, winner of an American Library Association GLBT book award. She lives with her beloved, Linnea Stenson, their cat Nastasya Filippovna and their dog, Dusty Springfield, in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Visit her Web site at www.barriejeanborich.net. All entries are judged blindly by the editors, and no entry receives special consideration. Staff members are eligible for contest placement, but are not eligible for prize money . Table of Contents Editor's Foreword iv Cathie Stangl 1 NONFICTION An Unlikely Hero Dustin Cooper 5 POETRY Scrambled Jessi Plueger 5 POETRY Don't We All Jessi Plueger 6 NONFICTION II<nowNow Kay Goldsmith 10 POETRY The Sax Jan Dehner 11 FICTION Looking Back Kay Goldsmith 14 POETRY X i-iv Jessi Plueger 16 NONFICTION Bride-Be-Damned Megan Cook 21 POETRY I Finally Moved to South Dakota Rick Rector 21 POETRY The Wake Rick Rector 22 POETRY Psychology Man I<nows Annie Dilocker 23 FICTION Immersed Jenny Nicklin 26 POETRY Winter Ginny Eberly 27 POETRY Fairy Princess Allison Landers 28 NONFICTION Gravity Kay Goldsmith 30 POETRY Welding Weary Jason Walker 30 POETRY The Scholar Jason Walker 31 FICTION Home Game Jenny Nicklin 35 POETRY What's the Fun in That? Ginny Eberly 36 NONFICTION Ding-Dong the Lockridge is Dead Kaleen Hird 41 POETRY Untitled Rick Rector 41 POETRY The Day They Buried Grandpa Rick Rector 42 POETRY Sparkling Splinters Jessi Plueger 44 Contributor and Staff Notes Editor's Foreword CATHIE STANGL _ R- eaders of The Kiosk will note that in our Table of Contents this issue there is a label by some pieces that says "Nonfiction." Avid readers of The Kiosk will note that this label, that way. It was and is the truth. There's no "autobiographical fiction" term to hide behind. short for a genre titled "creative nonfiction," place, but quite another to say you'd put it in has never appeared in this magazine before. print. Thank you for your stories, and thank you for your honesty. So what is this stuff we call creative nonfiction? I like to define it as nonfiction that isn't boring. But I'm told this is not the proper definition. A more appropriate definition is So I'd like to thank all of the contributing creative nonfiction authors. It was one thing to be brave enough to write it down in the first While we're on this topic of thank yous, I nonfiction in the form of a story. Well, okay, must put in mine, which are semi-brief. Thank you to Steve, who said, "There's no need to freak out yet ... wait 'till Friday." I'll go with the flow: it's true stories. Thank you to Marcie, the English department What every definition seems to leave out is the part about bravery. It is daring and in- queen and fairy. conceivably difficult to tell the truthparticularly in memoir-type pieces which we have printed here. To lay the whole story- tors- Michelle, Thank you to all my ediJenny, Crista, Jessi, and Kay-for all the reading and hours drinking the whole truth-out there in print is bold. bad coffee and discussing submissions and sappy love poems. Thank you to Jan Dehner, Katie Harder, and Steve for copyediting, Once it's down in black and white you can't which is one of the worst jobs in the world. If Megan Cook's mother calls Thank you to Megan and Marcie for helping her up in a fit and says, "I never said you with layout and design ideas. A special thank needed to lose weight, I can't believe you said that," Megan is stuck. She can't take it back, and she can't say that's not what she meant by you to our judge Barie Jean Borich, whose writing I adore and everyone should read. And finally, a thank you to Sheila, who is a marvelous cover art director, and even more take it back. it. She wrote it that way because it happened iv The Kiosk Cathie Stangl marvelous "best good friend," who kept- and run so far it couldn't even see the box any- always keeps-me sane from stmi to finish, more. and who seems to be able to put up with more home when you're only ten, was probably not sides of me than even I can. the best idea for step two in a transition. We s o now I must say that the truth about this year's Kiosk is that it is a leap. It is This, like running too far away from can run a little further with each transition, but we can' t leap the entire distance in one go (as much as I hate to admit this). a risk I am throwing out into the world I tried to focus this issue on one thing: space. What I see in past Kiosks is cramped If it takes creativity. The Kiosk needs room to breathe. and taking full responsibility for. off and flies, I will take credit for it. If it It needs room to be expressive, liberal, and plummets to the ground and its gruesome death I suppose I will also take credit for this. big. So this Kiosk is big. It's magazine-size, has a bigger staff, and includes a new genre. I I see this Kiosk as the second in a series of just hope it is, as they say, "Bigger and bet- transitions. Last year's Kiosk, like its slogan, ter," because I must admit I feel like slapping was a little "outside the box." I took the inno- a big sticker across the cover that says, "Under vations of that issue and ran with them. I had Construction." But I will contain myself, so I so many ideas and changes I wanted to try, but gIve you the Spring 2003 issue of The if we'd done them all The Kiosk would have Kiosk . • The Kiosk v ---~. NONFICTION An Unlikely Hero DUSTIN COOPER M y father player and Magic was mine. to me for the last year. Brock is 6' 4 with an athletic I always wore the number 32 build, dark hair and a dark complexion. I like to say to represent Magic and Brock always wore 23 to represent J ordan. As he ap- that he got his good looks from me even though he the numbers of our heroes proaches the white Mazda he doesn't really look like me. on our chests gave us a sense cannot see clearly into the Even though Brock and I do of pride. It almost made us window because of the lack not share the same appear- those people in some magi- of lighting in this dark lot. ance, we do share a lot of cal kind of way. When he arrives at the car he the same interests. Brock, I have not been the epit- sees his son lying in the like me, is a huge basketball ome of a great older brother. backseat, motionless. Tears nut. He has been playing We have even come to start to well up in his eyes as the game since he was just a blows a few times. I would he tries to open the door. boy. We used to play into usually come out on top . The door is locked and he the night in our driveway However, now I might want now notices that there is a piece of paper resembling a just for the love of the game, to be more careful. Brock and I have been through note of some kind on the Like most siblings, my some stages where we were brother and I have had our each other's worst enemies. disagreements about little However, the majority of the things. I always teased him time I consider him one of y little (only by that Magic Johnson was bet- my best friends . The only age) brother, ter than Michael Jordan. Brock, has been somewhat of an inspiration Jordan was Brock' s favorite thing that I ever wanted to be to Brock was the "hero" professional every older brother was sup- walks up to the still car in the church parking lot not knowing if his son is alive . dashboard of the car. M and for each other. basketball Wearing The Kiosk 1 An Unlikely Hero posed to be to his little stay home and sleep. The spond well to this punish- brother. I wanted Brock to time he spent in bed had ment and finally went over wear my number on his started to far out-weigh the the top. He claimed that he chest to represent me (even time he spent awake doing did not want to be a part of though my number is 32). something productive. It our family anymore and that was as if he was trying to he hated all of us. high school I knew that he avoid people. The times us that he would be better was going to be an even bet- that he did make it to school off on his own. After a little ter athlete than I ever was. he would get into fights more arguing, my dad, not He was already ahead of me with others. He claimed knowing what to do, gave at his age in many aspects of that all of these people were Brock his keys back. He told his life. He was already a making fun of him. Maybe him that he could go with his three-sport, star athlete and this was true, but the old friends but he had to be of Brock would not have let it home at 11 :30 PM. friends . Brock was the type bother him. brother responded by saying of kid who, with his laid football. back attitude, was hard not this, my parents had found house. to like. It seemed as though out from the school's princi- curfew came and went. Brock had the perfect high pal that Brock had told one 4:00 school life ahead of him . of the other students that he living room of my house What lay beneath Brock' s was thinking of committing with my mom. outer shell was a whirlpool suicide. The student, scared eyes of negative emotions that, in of what would happen, told drained look made me angry time, would cause my bother the · principal. My parents with my brother for doing to crack. talked to Brock about the this to us. comment, and Brock blew it same time, I was as sad and family noticed some differ- off like it was worried as I had ever been in ences in Brock' s carefree at- Somehow my parents and I my life. titude. weren't too sure about his looking for my brother, all I explanation. could do was sit there with When had a Brock wide entered variety It all started when the Things started to bother him a lot lTIOre and he He even quit On top of all of a joke. "whatever" and He told left My the That night Brock's AM At I was sitting in the and Her puffy emotionally However, at the With my dad out started to verbally snap on One day Brock had got- my mom and think about the people for little or no reason. ten in trouble for one thing possibility of having to play His grades started to fall and or another and my father de- basketball in the driveway there were many days when cided that it would be best by myself. he would not go to school to take his car privileges because he just wanted to away. 2 The Kio sk Brock did not re- Dustin Cooper A fter seeing the note some professional help, and like he did not care about on the dashboard things would go back to the anything. It broke my heart of the car my fa- way they were before all of ther starts to panic. He starts this. The doctor found my to see my little brother like that. frantically shaking the car brother was suffering from a Until that point I did not yelling for my brother to type of depression. My realize how much I loved unlock the door. There is brother was really sick and this kid. It was the hardest still no movement from the was not happy with any as- thing in the world for me to inside of the car. With tears pect of his life. see my brother like that. in his eyes and a helpless When it was time for How could this happen to a tone of voice my dad tries to me to go visit Brock in the kid with so much potential? bang on the glass of the win- hospital, I did not know how How could this kid's life be dow. After shaking, bang- he would react to seeing me. so bad that he would rather ing, and wishing that the He would not talk to my par- be dead? movement of the car would ents when they went to see though Brock was ending it wake him up, the reality of him because he blamed them all. the situation starts to set in. for putting him there. I was once -bright Just when all hope is almost almost · scared to go to see dreams and he was quitting gone, Brock moves. My dad him because I did not know life. cries for him to wake up and if he blamed me, too. It seemed as He was quitting his basketball open the door. Brock slowly When I walked into the sits up, unlocks the door and room that he was staying in I steps out of the car. My fa- saw my brother lying on the ther grabs Brock from the bed face down. car and embraces him in his was sitting in a chair with games with a smile on my arms. Emotionally torn be- tears in her eyes. I said, face. I sat in the front row. tween happiness and sad- "Hey what's up buddy, how I stood up and cheered when ness, he can only get three are ya?" myoid teaIn did something words out of his mouth: "I My mom T he other'day I went to one of my high school's basketball He replied by saying, good. I was even happy be- "Hey," as if someone had cause I got to talk to people After this incident with forced him to say something. that used to come and watch my brother, I thought the After a while he would worst was over. I imagined talk to me a little but nothing pleased when my team won that after we admitted him close conversation. the game. However, the best into the psychiatric ward of Brock looked like he had part of the game was when Mercy Medical he would get given up on life. He talked myoid number 32 checked love you." to a me play. I was even more Th e Kiosk 3 An Unlikely Hero into the game. With a proud through. Life is funny smile and tears, I listened to sometimes. At first I wanted came to discover is that now the announcer ' say, "Now to be Brock's hero, and I I wore the number on my checking into the game for . wanted Brock to wear my wanted to be. But what I chest for a new reason. I number on his chest to rep- was representing my brother. resent me. I wanted him to I took pride in being Brock' s take pride in being my little older brother. Brock has be- Brock survived his depres- brother. come nly unlikely hero. + sion and I thank God every seemed as though I had got- day for helping my brother ten to be the hero I always the Raiders, number Brock Walker." 32, I now have a new hero. 4 The Kio sk In the end it Scrambled JESSI PLUEGER scrambled runny runningto gether i'm scrambled funny howthesewordsallruntogether let's run together hold hands sunny runnIng our faces are running d o w n our bodies Don't We All our brains fry well scrambled JESSI PLUEGER I want a fat intelligence and a thin body an open mind and closed thoughts a happy personality and a sad hypocriticality a light impression but a heavy likability little embarrassment - a lot of courage more have and less want The Kiosk 5 NONFICTION II{nowNow KAy GOLDSMITH I can hear voices Suddenly, I feel so home- Do I say, "I'm sorry"? I get and a lot of com- sick and scared. I cannot a warm, safe feeling as we motion the believe what is happening unite and exchange hugs . I background as my parents' and I am afraid to ask too alTI neighbor, many questions. in glad to be home. Perhaps I Mom says we need to what happened. Leo speaks am afraid to make it awk- go to the funeral home, see softly and calmly to me as ward for Leo, I am not sure. Dad, order flowers, and de- he explains that my dad It is all a blur. cide on the obituary an- Leo , recounts nouncement. All I want to stood up from his chair to After Leo and I finish get ready for a church meet- our conversation, I worry do is stay in Mom's house ing and died of a heart at- about the cost of flying back surrounded by loved ones, tack. As Leo tells lne what hOlne for the funeral. After drink coffee, and get my happened, all, rent is due in a week. children and husband settled neatly cropped yard, bloom- My In. ing flowers , and his little children, my husband, and I When I see my dad for white dog. Then I renlember fly to South Dakota and as I the first time since he died, I lny mom and dad ' s nlani- climb out of the car in am afraid to get near him. cured lawn. My dad and Mom' s driveway, I know I Mom encourages me to walk Leo used to do their lawn will never forget how she up and touch him and I feel work at the same time. They looks. She is tired, her eyes like a child instead of an conversed over the fence and are red, and her hair is un- adult. We order flowers and shared gossip, church news, characteristically uncombed. I get nervous that they cost and so on. My parents live My brother, Mark, and my so much. My brother, sister, in Rapid City, South Dakota, sister, Jane, have flown in and I decide to pay for the and we live in Los Gatos, the same day. I am nervous flowers ourselves. California (near San Jose). to see my mom. Do I cry? making up for lost time we 6 I envision The Kiosk his three preschool-age As if Kay Goldsmith could have spent with Dad, don ' t have to worry that he we each spend eighty dollars will hurt them the way he Mom's velvet green- and or- on flowers. My thoughts go hurt us." ange-flowered loveseat. My I settle down into I am so relieved to hear brother walks around the liv- him say this that I admit the ing room and glances at the same feeling . Luckily, my photo albums, condolence mom and sister are in the cards, and bedroom sorting out Dad' s wi thin his reach. I sense he family are alone In clothes to take to Goodwill. is leading up to doing some- The silence IS I continue to look at my thing silly, but what bad tim- awkward · and we are at a brother with shocked disbe- ing. My sister and I watch loss for words. I do not feel lief as I recall the times Dad him as he glances around the sad that Dad died and I won- beat us both with a belt. It room and we look at one an- der why I have not cried. I did not matter if we had other in anticipation. thought the grieving would done anything wrong. Jane brother is notorious for be- automatically come without did not get hit nearly as of- ing silly and making people thought. In fact, I imagined ten. She was the eldest and laugh. we would behave the way favored one. Mom and Dad It was a surprise for me people do in movies and encouraged her to go to col- to see him yesterday. I did soap operas. They appear to lege while they told me I not recognize him as he cry, mourn, and grieve with- was too stupid to go. I re- stepped off the airplane at out any forethought. member the times Mark and the Rapid City Regional Air- I formed an alliance. We port. It is hard to !Jelieve the both felt Dad favored Jane last time we were· to gether because was five years ago. back to the bills at home. L ater, my sister, the house. brother, mom, I do not feel like . crying. In fact, . I feel somewhat relieved that my dad died. I feel very guilty and bad for these emotions. I am afraid to ad- she was not adopted, and we were. looks and whatever IS My He considerably older My sister comes into than the last time I saw hiITI. the living room and my Somehow I never imagined Then my brother says, brother says, "You do know we would get old. "I am kind of glad Dad is that if Mom died instead of used to exercise and had a dead. " Dad, he would paint the physique other men would walls black." die for. mit them to anyone. I look at him In shock We all start Mark Even his shiny giggling and try not to laugh blonde hair used to be im- He says, "Because Dad because we worry that Mom peccably styled. was mean and cruel, and if I will catch us being silly at youthful have children someday, I such an inappropriate time. placed with a beer belly and and ask why. physique Now his IS The Kiosk re- 7 • IknowNow He looks solutely livid. My sister and follow him to help Aunt as if he has not slept for days I do not know what to do so Bertha and Uncle Jim with and his unruly hair is dull we sit there . their luggage. hunched posture. and lifeless. But somehow he kept the same bright My brother says, "I'm We are all happy to see one another and we begin to reminisce about okay, I just sneezed." old times . Aunt Bertha and I smile and pleasant demeanor My mom says, "Stop that makes everyone around rattling Dad ' s chair, it makes have him feel happy and carefree. the same sound as when he Mark and Uncle Jim are I remember he used to try to fell back in it during his close because they both like get customers in restaurants heart attack. " She runs into to fish. Uncle Jim and Mark to gawk out the window by the stand together and converse staring out for a long time. brother sits there stulliled. other . room and my always been close . over old times. Finally, the custoiners would All of a sudden I see the Aunt Bertha sits next to realize there was nothing to whole event as hilarious and me and tells nle their Ger- stare at and they would re- run out of the room laugh- man shepherd they had for sume ing. many years finally died. eating their meals My brother and sister I while furtively glancing at follow me and think I mn remember the fun times I my brother. cryIng. Then they see me had with their dog, Spike, mind, I know he is capable laughing and start to laugh when I went to stay with of just about anything, bar- too. them over summer vaca- nng InJunng anyone. laughing at such a thing and tions. we hope Mom will not find run through the meadows vorite brown recliner and us giggling. with him. leans way back. Up pops comes into the living room tears from the closeness and the foot rest and he browses and we carryon as if nothing warmth that radiates from through happened. Aunt Bertha. With this in He sits in my dad ' s fa- a magazine and We all feel guilty for Later, Mom looks as if he could fall asleep. flip flops around in the chair. Dad ' s chair makes a horrible I feel close to Aunt Bertha puts her Then he sneezes about six times in a row and Mark and I used to arms around my shoulders A car pulls up out- and side in the drive- Honey, your dad was really way. My favorite proud of both of you. says, "You know, In rattling noise and starts to aunt, Bertha, and uncle, Jilll, fact, I know everything you squeak as my brother contin- are here. and ues to make a fool of him- and walks towards the fo yer from the time you moved self. Mom comes runnIng to open the door and let out of this house. He wrote into the rOOln and looks ab- them in. Mom, Jane, and I and talked about you all the 8 The Kiosk Mark jUInps up Mark accomplished Kay Goldsmith say, "How can that be? Dad at us and never told us he I'm shocked as I glance used to tell us he 'wished he was proud." over at Mark. He has a look never adopted us whenever of disbelief on his face~ he beat us. He always yelled time. " I Aunt Bertha hugs me as I begin to cry. + The Kio sk 9 The Sax JAN DEHNER Screaming across the darkness, reaching into deep, dark chambers, pulling out arrows and sealing up wounds, courting, consuming, joy, ecstasy. Perplexed, raising its voice and crying out. It enlbraces, lingering a while to breath and to soothe, then melting, long and low, fading away. Complete. 10 The Kiosk FICTION Looking Back I{Ay GOLDSMITH I recall gazing out the upstairs ho- window, bright gold needle-point church stee- tel room window. ples and ivy-covered red brick buildings pro- Rain drops trickle on the people below who trude above the foggy horizon. walk and stand outside on the cobblestone I slowly leave the safety of my hotel room streets. It has been raining for one week with- and descend the long, winding stairwell. I ap- out any break. In fact, sometimes the sun does proach the warm and brightly lit lobby. Big, not shine for months on end. Everyone totes crystal vases filled with red, white, and yellow an umbrella. This cold, rainy, and dismal roses adorn the gray marble countertops and weather is typical for this small town in West windowsills in the lobby. Velvety, red carpet Germany. Nestled against the shoreline of the adds a touch of plushness and elegance. Shiny Nordsee, lies the town of Gromitz. This is my brass umbrella stands are placed near the door birth place, and I am here to find my birth for wet umbrellas. mother. white uniform welcomes visitors with a cup of Certainly, she would be happy and relieved to see me at the ripe age of nineteen? A waiter in a black and coffee. I smell the nutty and bitter aroma of shoppers the coffee on the waiter's silver tray as he ap- down in the streets, coupled with the church proaches me and says, "Guten Tag. Mochten bells ringing across town, create a deep melancholy in. me. People in the streets are busy, Sie Kaffe?" I am grateful to have taken German preoccupied with purchasing flowers and food classes before coming to Gromitz. I welcome from the outdoor market stands. I cannot see his offer of coffee and gratefully reply, "Bitte their faces, but they seem oblivious to the fal ling raindrops and the cold tidal winds. I, on Schon." I yearn to speak more German with him the other hand, feel as if I cannot stop staring because somehow it feels natural for me to at the freshly cut bouquets of red, yellow, and speak. He offers me a cup of the dark brew as pink tulips that are neatly arranged in window I loiter around the lobby door and peer out boxes outside bakeries and shops. From the onto the busy streets. The black umbrella-domed Th e Kiosk 11 --~- Looking Back The door in the hotel lobby revolves as dow now have faces . They look preoccupied people come and go . The noises that were with their shopping. I can smell fresh bread muted from the hotel window now blare out baking in the bakery as I walk past. I glance from all directions. I hear car horns, buses, towards some customers who are seated at a and people yelling. The scene sprawled be- table. They sip their coffee and carryon with fore me looks different than from the safety of conversation. A few people have light, blonde my hotel window. hair and similar facial features. I decide not to A portly gentleman in a gray trench coat walks through the revolving look anymore and stroll on. door and enters the lobby. He looks at me as I My thoughts wander back to my child- stand dumbfounded and apprehensive . He has hood. I used to watch people from my bed- facial features similar to mine. Surely, his room window and try to imagine their life sto- blonde hair, fair skin, blue eyes, high cheek- nes . Sometimes I made up outrageous, ex- bones, and the subtle overbite are purely coin- travagant stories about them. cidental. Could he be my father? The hair on lived in mansions with dozens of servants who my the back of my neck stands on end, and I waited on them. feel hot and clammy as I walk through the neighbors who lived in nearby towns and their door and out into the streets. The air smells offspring became romantically involved. A peculiar smell creates a feeling of dej a Or they had affairs with Suddenly, I notice the rain fall ing heavier musty and fishy . I open my black umbrella and huddle under its protective shell. Perhaps they and go about the task of finding my birth mother. I wonder if she will be upset if I show vu. I recall the smell as a mixture of oats and up on her doorstep without any warning. I wheat. Sometimes I used to smell the aroma cannot fathom how life can go on as usual for in America, especially after my grandma everyone around me. I am on the verge of cooked oatlneal for breakfast. But this aroma . finding my birth mother and ponder the many has a touch of something else. I ponder this questions that remain unanswered. Maybe I phenomenon as I hear church bells chime would have grown up to be someone signifi- twelve o'clock. cant. I suspect there are many Perhaps I could have invented some- churches in this small town because the thing and become famous. chimes resonate and echo from all directions. been different, had my mother kept me. Life would have The church chimes bring more angst and mel- My birth mother gave me up when I was ancholy as I wonder if my mother is sad that about one year old. It is unclear as to why she she gave me up for adoption. did not keep me . My birth certificate and I step cautiously onto the cobblestone adoption papers do not reveal the circum- streets and feel as if my heels will get caught stances around my adoption. I lived in a chil- in between the stones. The black umbrella- dren ' s shelter until I was adopted by an domed shoppers I spied on from the hotel win- An1erican family at the age of two. It is hard 12 Th e Kiosk Kay Goldsmith to imagine what she went through when she tiously walk to the front desk. I ask if they gave me up . I nervously walk to a nearby telephone can help me locate information regarding my birth mother. booth outside a blue and white coffee shop. It I carefully say, "Guten Tag, Ich mochte feels good to get in out of the rain. I pick up meine geburtstag papier." The woman behind the big phone -book and thumb through the the desk stares at me as I ask for my birth records in German. pages for my birth mother' s last name. I am surprised and dismayed to see about twenty phone numbers with the same last name. More bad thoughts enter my mind. She responds, "Es tuit mir leid Wir konnen es nicht tuin." Suddenly, I feel intrusive, like I should Perhaps she has a new family now and did not tell her not be here at all. Maybe she will help me husband about me. She might tell me to go since I speak her language. But she says they away. I cannot bear the thought of ruining her cannot give out any records of adoptions at all. life at this point. Or worse yet, maybe she is I reply, "Danke schon." dead. I quickly close the phone book and I slowly turn around to leave with a mix leave the warmth of the phone booth. The rain of hopelessness and relief. I may never know showers down relentlessly on me as I open my what happened to my birth mother, but then umbrella. again she will not be put in an awkward posi- I bite my lip. I decide to visit the Children's Shelter that is listed on my birth certificate. It is only one block away from here. I can see a tall brick building loom in front of tion of facing a painful past that she would not want to deal with. I decide to leave the quaint town of Gromitz and not pursue my mission. me. I stand at the bottom of the steps as if frozen. A familiar and pungent smell emanates from the front door as it suddenly swings open. A woman in a long, black coat quickly I reflect on that momentous time - In my life, as I watch my youngest daughter leave home. She packs up her belongings walks down the worn cement steps. I nerv- as I gaze at her blonde hair, fair skin, blue ously glance up at the building and struggle to eyes, high cheekbones, and the subtle overbite. keep my knees from shaking. It smells like I hand her my black umbrella as she opens the oatmeal, cream of wheat, and coffee, all mixed front door. It is cold and has been raining for together. Why is this smell familiar? a week. The building is covered with crawling, She hesitantly walks down the ce- ment steps and O~lt into the cold and rain. + green ivy. I walk up the steps, and enter the hallway. My shoes make an echo as I cau- The Kiosk 13 x • • I-IV JESSI PLUEGER I. I must say I like to feel ecstatic. lying in your lap looking up at you you look down at me I'm unable to express how gorgeous, bea'-.!tiful, lovely . you are so I only smile at you I like to feel you and just listen to you talk in the conversqtion of the room as everyone else ' s voice just fades out (I 'm not listening to them) you know I'm thinking of you you thinking of me smile back rub my hand everyone thinks they understand II. kind of how all the people disappeared is how I sometimes worry kind of how visitors stopped (that I never knew) . .. out of the blue. and everyone brings their own atmosphere and everyone knows what I fear let us not talk about what I fear 14 The Kio sk Jessi Plueger III. without inhibitions you can see the real obnoxious me you still don't get to hear all of those things I think yet I talk quite a bit ... attempt to appeal to you to appeal to the room without inhibitions I inhabit a new attitude IV. And out there you want only to close your eyes (but not really) It's such a tranquil quiet that you're not sure you can hear and the light and ground absorb the sound as well as you but you want it to you want to stay there/here forever but on you this world is getting clever you feel that nature has some trick up its sleeve your thoughts are swirling you feel to leave you step through the doorway inside back to normal The Kiosk 15 NONFICTION Bride-Be-Damned MEGAN COOK I received the in- bottom of my stomach as 1 parents vitation in the dropped the card. "1 am al- braska. 1 am awake for two mail weeks be- most twenty-two, and 1 am rings before looking at the fore the event; the words getting married," 1 thought. clock, " hich tells me it is w printed in red raised ink on All the excitement 1 felt much too early. 1 nudge my the linen card: "Bridal Fair thirty had fiance, busy snoring in the 2002." 1 would be going turned to more stress, and 1 most offensive and irritating with my mother, my niece, felt an ulcer burning my way (in the beginning 1 and my sister, ten years my stomach thought it "cute" in the same senIOr. where my heart had hit it. As my fingers ran seconds lining ago precisely In Kearney, N e- manner with which children across the words "Bride and shower guests," my heart raised it- with undying affection). He self awkwardly. 1 imagined B wounded animals ridal Fair Sunday finally rolls onto his side and and 1 awake to the the cacophony ends. 1 con- sound of the tele- sider answering the phone "1 was having an- with a chipper, " It is ten- napkin samples and flipping other one of those night- thirty on Sunday morning. though matted mares where it is the Big This better be important," pages of photographers ' best Day, and the only things but settle on the ever fash- collections, the timeless ex- that are finalized are the ionable, "Hello. " preSSIons and dress and the tuxedo, which My mother ' s VOice re- grooms smiling at us from my fiance and 1 are wearing turns in an especiall y dry among family as we rush around town in a tone, "Are you awake?" members lined up on church frantic and desperate search nod into the phone. steps. My heart, though it for an officiate and the just calling to remind you fl uttered, landed hard in the phone number of his grand- that you and your sister need the four of us roaming from sponsor booth to sponsor booth, feeling the soft cotton 16 the of black brides nameless The Kio sk phone. I "I'm Megan Cook to be here by noon. I want my head. to get this thing done and I' ve never been to a wed- cover of the cake table. The over with. " ding, let alone planned one. next two hours I spent vomiting in the mint-green bath- there, then I hang up and go I am twenty-two, and I am getting married. " It's a man- back to sleep. tra. I assure her that we ' ll be "Twenty-two. champagne beneath the rooms in the church basement, which had been painted the day before. In my head, the smells of alco- W mother ' s e travel to . the con v entIon center in my leased to one wedding: my sister ' s. She hol puke and fresh paint still mingle. Ten years later, my had. told me the day before brother and I, grown and out She is in one of her particu- that she was pregnant, and I of church clothes, were on larly pleasant moods: she wasn't tell our way to Colorado Springs spent the entire morning ar- Mom. I was a junior brides- to rent a Ryder truck and glung God-knows- maid, a position which I move my sister and her three what with the live-in boy- took very seriously as a ten- children home to Iowa and friend, year-old. out of the ghetto-ized base about my Corolla. - A ctually, I've been common-law stepfather, Dick. supposed I to grew three Ann, my inches up and out between housing sister, croaks responses to the final dress fitting and the Force Base, where my soon- my mother' s line of tax re- day I walked down the aisle to-be ex-brother-in-Iaw was turn questions despite an un- beside who a fireman. She was leaving diagnosed case of laryngitis wore a boy's size twelve first, not more than three and the pain relievers she is rented tuxedo. weeks before his thirty-third taking for the three fresh were dusky rose and sea- birthday. Finally, the ro - stitches she has on her right foam green, very appropriate mance had ~nded . index finger. Her daughter, to dress, a help that he was screwing Kristin, prattles on about the brushed satin pink thing with her best friend and lying slumber starched about it. party of four my 1990. brother, My fluffy Her colors sleeves, of Petersen Air It didn 't Unfortunately for eleven-year-old girls she had itched in the June humidity him, the children had eyes last night to the window, to in places I couldn 't reach. I and mouths. the cars passing by, to her- fidgeted throughout the cere- self, but mostly to my transi- mony, was yelled at by my tive, wandering attention. "I mother, who had a raging am twenty-two, and I am hangover, and spent the en- getting married," I repeat in tire reception sipping stolen T he glass doors of the convention center open to a mass of The Kio sk 17 --~,. Bride-Be-Damned hysteric mothers and their ister for all the drawings . the wall opposite the stage, equally hysteric daughters. She beams and dominating the decorations. There is confusion as we hands me my bride-be-made Another banner hangs oppo- scan the crowd for someone tote . I think of some snappy site us, yelling "MARRIED who looks like he or she is "milking tragedy for all it ' s IN THE USA." My mother el- worth" remark, but, consid- comes over the loud speaker, bows me in the ribs, my fa- ering that it would be lost on "Ladies and gentlemen, the vorite of her habits, and her, turn and head back to fashion show is going to be- points in the direction of a my threesome of bored at- gin in twenty minutes . table in front of which are tendants. They look like the order"to be eligible for door formed several -attempts at three stooges of the wedding pnzes, straight lines. "You register world, if the three stooges stamped card must be turned there," she says . stuck to a script formulated in at the registration table Hesitant, I make my by the History Channel; dry, before the beginning of the way through blond curls and yawning, full of war stories. show. Thank you." cell phones to the registra- "Well, this ought to be a tion table, where men in good tilTIe," I think. in charge. a smile your A voice In completed, I hold up the card. Too much white back at us. space looks A fire in my tuxedos and women in alter- We get in line and in- nating red and blue sequined stantly become part of a mother's eyes signals that gowns guard stacks of invi- moving current taking us this no longer a fun family tations and black ball-point past by event, but a tour of duty, a pens. Behind them hangs a beauty consultants, photog- mission assigned to us from banner reading "Bridal Fair raphers, caterers, DJ s, for- some unknown personage 2002: Married in the USA. " mal wear salesmen and lim- behind a curtain. She is I pull the invitation from my ousine drivers, my mother ' s quick with a plan. "Okay back pocket, unfold it, and sharp elbow like an oar con- girls," she says to Ann and hand it to the nearest patriot. stantly in my ribs . "Grab a me, "You go get the rest of "I pre-registered," I explain. pen, grab a pen," she whis- your stamps, and Kristin and She smiles and begins shov- pers. I will get seats. You have ing various brochures into a row hallway deposits us, at plastic bag similar to the its end, into the main room. My sister, limp though ones that Malibu Barbie and Our eyes turn to the massive she is, takes the bride-be- her adn1irers are carrying stage built in the center. made tote, which, as it gets around, telling me to be sure People rush by us, scribbling heavier with more literature that I get a stamp on my card figures into their day plan- from lTIOre sponsors, seems from every sponsor and reg- ners . There is a giant flag on more like a bride-be-damned 18 The Kio sk booths manned The river of the nar- twenty minutes." Megan Cook bag. I fo llow; filling out registration cards In her way in red, white, and blue . der the white satin covering Then they come singly in my mother ' s belly. wake as she scans every white gowns, the trims spar- I could never get her to booth almighty kling as the models walk in talk about her wedding, even We get to time with the music. Under when she was drunk. the end, missing two stamps . the weight of glass bead- has never told me why they My mother appears to tell us work and twenty-pound pet- got married in Fort Dodge, that she has found seats on ticoats, swooshing since my mother was from the . other side of the room, strides add new harmonies. Storm Lake and my father that we only have ten min- The crowd is transfixed . from Glidden. utes, and what did we mean My mother's elbow finds its n1ember if I found the pic- we two way into my side every time ture before or after my father "Y ou know, if a dress comes in which she left. for the Stamp Holder. were stamps? mIssIng these people really wanted to their thinks I will look good. She I don't re- My brother helped him help you out, they'd just pack his bags the day after stamp them all for you." Christmas. He was going to Not willing to admit defeat, she takes the card and heads back into the river, T he only picture I live with my mother's best have seen of my friend, who was less than parent' s wedding is two weeks divorced. pushing upstream to the re g- a Polaroid snapshot of my When my father lost his istration booth in search of mother in a short whi te job and my mother lost all Mary Kay and Younkers . dress standing beside my child support, we couldn't My sister and I struggle to father in a white tuxedo. afford the mortgage in Cali- keep up, but finally catch her They are holding hands be- fornia. at the registration table. She side the wedding cake, a was quick with a check for a stuffs pamphlets about bridal single -tiered Ryder truck, and soon we makeovers and Waterford telling all there is to know found crystal into the bag, and about the turn out at the Iowa. hands the card to a man in a First Presbyterian Church in My father married my tuxedo who smiles, "Just in Fort Dodge, Iowa, on Febru- stepmother sometime after time ladies. ary 8, 1970. My mother is a Ann's wedding and some- young twenty and my father, time before my twelfth birth- a younger twenty-two. You day, when I received a pack- the can't see my sister in the age, the first in three years, models parade picture, though she is mak- with a check signed with her down the run- ing her presence known un- new name. It' s another wed- The fashion show is about to begin." W e watch confection, My grandmother ourselves home in Th e Kio sk 19 Bride-Be-Damned ding we have never talked about. This past Christmas my T he last of the mod- something like that. You els walks off the could stand to lose some stage, and the over- weight, y'know. " She pats father strongly urged me to head lights turn on. My my baby-free tummy and elope, which would save us mother already has her coat half-laughs. (meaning my fiance and me) on, and again we find our- scheduled to be my maid of both money and stress. selves following her as she . honor, says from behind us, had previously told my sister leads us out of the building "We could all stand to lose that he planned to help me quickly, in front of the flood some weight." out, paying for at least half of fellow fair-goers. I carry smiles, pulls in a double- of the wedding. I figured it that bride-be-damned bag lung full of menthol smoke. was some form of remit- under my arm as if it were a tance' deflated raft. like birthdays He and My mother Ann, who is My mom "I am twenty-two, and I am getting married," I say, Christmases past due plus lights a cigarette and pats interest, and like always, he my shoulder. "Did you see fell through. I already knew that one with the long train? hales that I would be walking my- If around my shoulders. + self down the aisle. enough, 20 The Kiosk we could alter that you could wear this time aloud. "Yup." My mom exand puts her arm I Finally Moved to South Dakota RICK RECTOR I finally moved to South Dakota having lived so long across the river. I hate to go to work and leave her this new found love of earth, sky, magic, and rock. In my time, I'll pass on, but South Dakota won't. She will be, just like I want to. Now I know why I can't own land. The Wake Just like I can't own a cat. It agrees to stay. RICK RECTOR Slack breasted WOlnen in black print dresses Bring cold cuts on cracked ceramic saucers. There is bread with no butter Lukewarm lemonade in slick glasses That nearly slip through my fingers. Hot sun pounds through the filmy curtains And the rank smell of the street drifts in With the sound of cars and busses. With a nod I'm up Clomping toward the door Words of sympathy on my lips Handshakes and lowered eyes. He was my friend too. The Kiosk 21 Psychology Man !{nows .ANNIE DILOCKER where are we right now? my literal man, I'm afraid you can not answer that easily. (literature and poetry is borne of life ' s conflicts. the best stuff is a mix of love and war.) so if you were to analyze, Mr. Psychology Man, what you think I'm thinking, would the material fill a poemor a novel? or would you be just as lost as me, not sure where to start in understanding the works of (lover's) words and hurts and the curedand if they can be? and I wonder if you ponder what I'm thinking, or if you think you already know (and if you do) then you' ve gone farther than I can go. 22 The Kiosk FICTION Immersed JENNY NICKLIN F inals were over. Thank God. three blocks to her favorite shop. Wendy had just spent the last A few flakes were floating to the ground three hours filling blue books as the coed opened the door to the Cup 'n with essays on Hemingway, Faulkner, and Page. The cheerful bell jingled as Wendy said Steinbeck. She had worn her number two a prayer that the heavy snow would hold off pencil down to its nub and her poor hands until she left for home. She just needed time to herself before facing the dull highway and were cramped and smudged with graphite. "If I ever get feeling back, it will be a her family at the end of it. Christmas time miracle," Wendy thought. "And my brains are was so busy, and Wendy knew this was her leaking out of my ears. I will never form an- last opportunity for "me time." She was going other complex thought again. to take advantage of this chance. Note to self: send Dr. Thompson a thank you letter." Wendy shucked her heavy winter gar- The novel seminar had, thankfully, been ments and approached the counter. Wendy's last test of the semester, and Christ- owner, mas was just around the cotner. But before The Miriam, greeted her. "Wendy! So how were your finals?" she even thought about driving two hours home, she desperately needed to decompress. The Cup 'n Page was a favorite local hang out of Wendy's. A bookstore and coffee shop, a friendly young woman named "Abysmal. But they are done, and I am happy!" "Aren't you heading home for break?" the Cup 'n Page provided many hours of re- "Yes, but I'm still quite drained from Dr. laxation to the school-stressed young woman. T's final, and I wanted to refresh myself with This was exactly what Wendy desired before a quick mocha and book. Speaking of which, packing up and driving home. So she put on do you have any suggestions?" her coat and scarf and stepped from her dorm Wendy "Drink or book?" "I'll have my usual mocha-berry. But I could smell snow on the air as she walked the need a real light read - something that won't into the frosty Decen1ber afternoon. The Kiosk 23 Immersed make me feel like I have to write an analytical essay. " tered her life. "I think I have just the thing. I just finished this absolutely horrible romance. Not ted to join you in a cup ofjava? smutty of course, but completely outlandish. the most searing emerald eyes she had ever It's called The Grounds of Desire , and it's beheld. Emerald eyes that were set in the face about finding love in a coffee house." of a Greek god-like specimen of man. Emer- Wendy laughed, "Sounds promising." "You' ll love it. I'll grab my copy with your mocha." ald eyes that seemed to pierce to the very Wendy settled into her favorite over- "Excuse me, miss. But might 1 be permitJJ Gwendolyn looked up from her mug into depths of her caffeinated soul. stuffed chair in a corner of the shop. White Wendy continued through the less-thanliterary reading material, an observer to the ri- Christmas lights were strung up between diculous coffee house courtship. shelves that, along with the lightly falling chuckles, however, Wendy couldn't help but snow outside, created the perfect cozy atmos- feel a bit jealous of Gwendolyn. "Why do all phere. Miriam brought over Wendy's bever- the good love stories have to be fictional?" Amid her age and reading material. Wendy took a sip, Currently single, Wendy had had her cursed her continual ability to forget that her share of past relationships. None ever really hot mocha was hot, and looked at the cover of worked out, though. her book. Wendy chuckled at the Fabio look- "friend-to-boyfriend-back-to-friend" pairings. a-like holding a giant gallon-sized coffee mug Then the one "crush-to-date, only to discover to the lips of his chosen ladylove. he was a complete jerk expecting his woman "Hey Miriam," she called across the empty store. "Where is my hunk to pour to wait on him hand and foot" relationship. scorching coffee down my throat?" There were several And, of course, the inevitable blind date disaster. Sure, Ricky was cute and at the top of his Miriam answered from the back room. class in medical school, but Wendy knew he But I'm was wrong for her when he snapped his fin- "Sorry kiddo, he ' s on back-order. supposed to get a shipment in next week." Wendy laughed and opened the front cover. She began to read. gers at the waitress and patted her tush as she walked away. Never once had an honest-toGod gentleman swept Wendy off her feet. The Grounds of Desire was coming to the pleasure in young Gwendolyn's life. The heat inevitable "happily ever after" conclusion. Wendy was relieved at the lack of smuttiness, in a cup was all that could fan the flame that despite the ridiculous plot. She was about to sought to build itself within the beauteous tell Miriam, "If they had consummated their That is, until Sebastian en- relationship on a pile of coffee beans, I would Coffee . .. ah coffee . . . was the only blonde's heart. 24 Th e Kiosk Jenny Nicklin have had to kill you!" But before she could, a Toby's awaiting gaze, and then reached out to deep voice next to her caught her attention. scratch him behind the ears. She glanced up at "Excuse me, miss. Could I join you in a cup of java?" Miriam, whose teasing expression could not be restrained any longer. She burst out laugh- Wendy swallowed hard, turned her head, ing, and Toby looked up at his owner in an- looked into a pair of stunning emerald noyance. Wendy of course recognized this as eyes ... and laughed. the cat ' s usual expression. + The young woman stared deeply into The Kiosk 25 Winter GINNY EBERLY I. Drive; as trees covered with ice go by my window. Frigid leaves. Cold, chipped bark. Solid trunk. Chilled twigs. Roots of rilne, unearthing. II. Hanging, Frozen sap. Like stalactites. 26 The Kiosk Fairy Princess ALLISON LANDERS I once was your Fairy princess Caught amongst your web And you were a venomous spider Clouding up my head . Y 011 disgusting· wretched spider You ruined so many things Take the crown atop my head But do not clip my wings The Kiosk 27 NONFICTION GravityKAy GOLDSMITH I stand before the their cage at night when ance. living room win- they are tired. Suddenly n1y daughters run into the living dow safe world is shaking and room and stare at the win- out over the swimming pool falling dow because it begins to rat- in the courtyard and wonder tremors beneath my feet. I if I should take my three stand still as if frozen in children for a quick swim time. and gaze apart by violent My two frightened tle. I coax my son and My son comes into daughters to follow me to the living room and begins the front hallway for shelter pool to cry. He has a glass of ap- from breaking windows and splashes against the sides ple juice in his hand that he falling objects. But we can- and flips up into the air. does not know what to do not reach the hallway be- Why is this happening when with. He drops the glass cause our television stand no one is in the pool? Our and the apple juice stays in collapses and topples over in two pet parakeets begin to mid-air. Eventually it trick- front of the doorway leading squawk and scurry into their les onto -the floor In slow out -of the living room. cage where they flap their motion as he tries to duck lose my composure as pic- wIngs bars. underneath the coffee table. tures, dishes, clocks, and Their behavior confuses me I atU proud of him for re- books fall all over the floor . since they are hand -trained membering the school earth- The sound of breaking glass, to come outside their cage quake drill. One of the most objects hitting the floor, and on their own. They usually important rules says for us splintering wood replace the perch and play on top of to duck under furniture for train-like sound of the earth- their cage where I built a protection from flying de- quake. jungle gYIU, swings, and lad- bris. He bumps his head on Eluergency sirens begin ders for thelU to play on dur- the edge of the shaking cof- to go off all over Los Gatos, They go into fee table and loses his bal- California, and people in our I watch as before supper. the water against ing the day. 28 In The Kiosk the the I Kay Goldsmith apartment complex begin to run outside in panic. We are not allowed to ground shake. I notice that antennas that protrude The go back into our apartments the tremors stop and I take my due to the constant after- from apartment roof children and our birds down shocks sway back and forth. My the two flights of stairs into shake the apartment build- children the courtyard near the swim- Ings. Luckily, we all have rounded by strangers who ming pool. Here, the other small tents and camping gear are less than three feet from tenants have gathered, hug- that we use in the courtyard us. ging one another and crying. for the night. Our forty-five tightly, as the direction of I look at the swimming pool unit apartment complex is the wind shifts. Suddenly, I with most of its water splat- transforn1ed into a miniature notice it is getting cold. We tered out on the sidewalk campground for four days. watch the neighbors as they and notice a huge crack that My children and I are in an go about their business of runs from the deep to the awkward situation because settling in for the night. "Damn," I we have to spend time in shallow ends. that continue think to myself, "Now we close have to wait for the pool to to neighbors we do not know. be repaired before we can go swimming. " proximity with TV our and I are sur- I hug my children My children and I huddle together as we try to find our center of gravity. + Darkness falls as aftershocks continue to make the The Kiosk 29 Welding Weary JASON WALKER Blue flashes Acetylene Mini stars by masked machines Hammers ringing eardrums screaming no one hears except for n1e Nose stings breathing fire odors fighting for control Smooth steel sharp edges one mistake could kill the pain The Scholar JASON WALKER A yearning soul before the sun He's come undone Lifeless paper shuffles before his eyes Weeks pass in a murky haze And worldly contact slowly dies 30 The Kiosk FICTION Home ·Game JENNY NICKLIN I t was only 5:15 , my alma mater ' s hOlnecom- pened, and the e-mails be- and the gravel ing football game. "You . came less and less frequent, know you should go and until they disappeared completely. I wondered how my even for another hour and catch up with your friends. You'll regret it if you don't." fifteen minutes. I left home At least she gave me her couldn't help but think they early so I wouldn't have to teacher's pass so I wouldn't were great, with great jobs, walk too far. have to pay to get in. great families, great every- parking lot was already full. Kickoff wasn't I drove my best friends were now. I Buick around, searching for But I had to admit, now the elusive open space. The that I was there, I really was back windows of SUV sand hoping to see some of the the ticket taker's window on minivans stared at me, as if old gang. Lizzy, Johnny, my side of the field, I was warning me away with blank and I had been inseparable, completely sure that I could yet reproachful stares. The starting in junior high when renew Iny old friendships occasional rusty Gremlin or my dad was transferred to and things would be like banged up Beetle screamed Offutt Air Force Base. Right they were in high school: school spirit in white paint"Go Papio 1 "Beat Prep 1" " up through graduation, we gossip, eating, and cheering. were every bit the "three It had been six years of our "We're #11" musketeers" cliche. lives. I finally found a spot on But six years ago, I left thing. By the time I arrived at _ Things couldn't change so fast from those influential years. some grass, and began my for college. trek to the stadium. Earlier, stayed and attended the local I had been reluctant to come. university. We had prom- about to start, so I headed But my mother said it'd be towards the bleachers near "good" for me to spend a ised to keep in touch. With e-mail, it couldn't be easier, myoId proverbial hunting Friday night back in town at right? grounds, the band's stands. The other two Well, things hap- The pre-game show was The Kio sk 31 Home Game Lizzy and I always had great more than my class, filed the stand. Their spirited ma- fun between performances, out onto the field and began roon-painted chests already sniffing pixie sticks (only their formations. One song began to peel in the frosty once, after the initial sting), after another, I moved my seeing how and long it Octo ber air. fingers as an air-flutist. would take for our tongues I was still standing in They finished with the the aisle in front of the to stick to our freezing in- traditional "Star-Spangled bleachers, looking up at the struments . We could always Banner," and the audience stands for a familiar face or count on Johnny, our own stood with them. It really empty seat. personal "Flutie Groupie," to was a glorious sight. toss up hot dogs during' the setting pre-winter sun left an woman next to me how our third quarter slump. Lizzy apricot glow on the field and team had been fairing over and I sat at the top of the reflected off of the polished the season. She looked back stands, so we could listen to trumpets and saxophones. at me as if I had asked, The I asked the nearest the dramas going on behind The team prepared to "Where us, under the bleachers, and enter the field while the from? " by the concessions stand. band marched off to "Our "They're 2 and 2." There one Team Will Shine." The tu- "Not bad. break-up per game, but on a bas did their marching spiral good night, we ' d get to hear on the track. a girl ' s hand connect with always made me laugh. the face of her new ex. can't believe these kids still Then, after the game, Liz follow that tradition. arid I would reenact the soap school ' s cheerleaders raced opera scenes for Johnny, onto the field with that same complete with exaggerated paper banner waiting to be swoons and dramatic stage ripped to shreds by the foot- I watched the kickoff, slaps. ball team in the evening ' s and the opponent ' s return, percussion's first display of masculinity. and then scanned the bleach- marching cadence jolted me The padded high school- ers behind me, and the con- back to reality. ers- the players, not the tinuous stream of people beat at the base of my spine, cheerleaders- raced onto walking around me. It was- and my eyes tingled in rec- the grunting. n 't even a playoff game, yet ognition. ba Ba ba Ba ba Ba Those same popular guys, the entire town seemed to Ba. The band, now close to who didn 't play football , have shown up . 200 members, at least 70 grunted back, shirtless, from was no one I really wanted was The 32 at The Kiosk least I felt the green Those guys turf I The does milk come How's the team we're playing?" " Creighton Prep? They ' re undefeated. " "Oh. I know they are a tough team. We had trouble with the- " "Shh. The game ' s starting. " But there Jenny Nicklin to see. Where were my friends? We lived for these whom I shared everything: crushes, frustrations, joys, those great times we spent laughing and making memo- games, cheering on the team and She ries? The three of us. Now, with everyone else, celebrat- scooted closer to the person they were married. I didn't ing a victory or mourning a next to her to make a little even get an invitation. defeat. room for me, and I gave her a hug. My eyes returned to the field as depressed groans es- depression. "So how have you But, it had been six years. That's how long we'd been together in school. I caped the mouths around been?" me. The opposition had scored a -touchdown with - catch up on all I'd missed, didn't force me out. partly -out of interest, and Papillion stayed there, de- two minutes left in the first partly to assuage the guilt I spite my actions. quarter. The crowd shouted still felt at having lost touch at the team as if they actu- in the first place. _ "And IS what they were, and what ally would hear. Johnny around here? I they should remain. I had moved on. It wasn't fair for " me to expect Liz and John "Come How'd on, you guys. let that through?" I was anxious to haven't seen him yet." "Oh, you know . She seemed hesitant about "Lets go team!" "That's not good, guys!" something, but I encouraged her. "What?" "Actually . . ." She I had to JOIn In, "Get 'em now!" "Hey, Val?" looked up, resolution in her hit me in the gut. Memories. And That's just not to. "Val, are you ok?" "Of course ... sure." "I'm sorry." "Please, don't be. Really. I'm happy for you." eyes. "We're married." It felt like a football just I looked back up into chose to leave Papillion; it The "Thanks. " We sat silent as the the stands at the only person crowd cheered around me. crowd roared around us. not staring intently at the We had been best friends, equally important to each other, or so I had thought. missed another big play. "How are you?" "Great. Really great." "Lizzy? Is that you?" Had those six years together And I meant it. "I'm work- I hardly reco gnized her meant nothing? ing for a law firm in Boston. field. A woman was wav- ing. Was that really ... W as I so with a new "mature" shoul- blind in school that I could- der-length haircut, thin wire n't see a relationship build- glasses, ing between them? and 20 fewer pounds. Damn. But this is still the same girl wi th Had I just been a third wheel for six years? What about all of I 10 e it." "That's I wonderful, Val." "And you?" "I'm teaching 3rd grade The Kiosk 33 Home Game at Tara Heights." but I was ready to leave. "Your The game was getting old, school?" elementary She nodded. "That's great." October air. I gave Liz a pat Liz was still squirming In her seat. and I was getting cold in the She kept her eyes down and said, "John's the assistant principal." "Wow. Already? Wonders never cease." "Right. You know how 'home-grown' the Papillion on the back. "I hate to go, The Kiosk "Bye, Liz." scoreboard. "Yes. I'm glad you "Here, let me give you from my purse. "Keep in touch." "Absolutely." we wouldn't. It wouldn't have made much difference. I didn't feel bad. Just indif- came." on an old receipt I fished 34 Valerie. " you again, Liz." "You mean inbred?" I muttered. It wasn't even halftime, "Sure. I will. Goodbye, As I maneuvered around the seated masses, I didn't even bother to look at the my e-mail." I jotted it down "Oh, nothing." Give my but I've got some work to take care of before I leave town. It was great seeing school district is." "What was that?" "Yes, well. love to John." I knew ferent. It was my last home football game. + What's the Fun in That? GINNY EBERLY Adolf, with his "barely hangin' in there," see-through, white t-shirt. Beat red, Crayola green suspenders and faded blue jeans pulled up past his waist. "You play hearts." He says, in Lithuanian slowly so I can understand. "I'll keep score!" I say. He asks, "Why score? Just play." The Kiosk 35 NONFICTION Ding-Dong the Lockridge is Dead KALEEN HIRD M y heart stopped beating. I to school with me, have looked at me as had heard about that kind though I was insane. They said that being a of thing happening now kid was the best time of their lives and going and then, but I had never really put much to that god-forsaken school helped to mold stock in the claims. Then when I was on the them into the individuals they are today. phone with my mother just a few days ago, it don't doubt that for a second, and I will admit happened. The one thing that I have wished that if I had gone to a different school, I would for over the last ten years had happened. I just quite possibly be a completely different per- sat and listened as my mother chattered on son. with the details. She had said the words, but it threshold of my elementary school again. just couldn't be. I even asked her to repeat her I But I never want to set foot over the The building itself isn't normally the type words slowly and carefully just to be sure that of building that would frighten me. I wasn't snoozing away happily. But her centuries old, decorated with cobwebs, and voice echoed in my mind as she said the harboring undead creatures intent upon swal- words again. lowing my soul. It is just a simple two-story It isn't "Lockridge is closing." brick building that was built around the turn of To be perfectly honest, I never want to see the century. The bricks range in color from a the inside of that elementary school ever rusty brown to a bright orange, and the win- again. I think I would rather have my throat dow shades are teal. Way to go for compli- ripped out by wild dogs or maybe even jump mentary colors. It's probably the only color off the tallest cliff (I am terrified of heights). combination that doesn't look like a pastel Some people, especially the people who went monster puked it up. 36 The Kio sk There is a huge play- Kaleen Hird ground sprawled across the area behind the school, which as far as I know could be at They just kind of stand dejectedly For the first year, he was great. He would joke with us and smile, and he never made me run a lap because I was faster than his favorite student. After that first year, however, his mask slipped, and I got to see how he really was. above the rest of the blacktop waiting for He made up this hilarious little name someone to notice that they have been reduced game to make the class laugh. He'd take my to rusty metal circles at the tops of rusty metal last name and twist it just enough so he could poles. The rest of the playground consists of a rhyme it with "turd." He knew I hated it. I few plastic slides, a tire swing, a few metal had told him, asked him not to do it, but he slides, and the biggest empty field that a would wave an impatient hand in my direction bunch of hyperactive kids could ask for. All and find some reason to yell at me after class. in all, the school looks downright friendly . But He would play this little name game for half there is that old saying about never judging a of the class period while we played our daily- book ... designated torture sport. The sport was usu- least one square mile. Part of the playground is a small square of blacktop that is littered with swing sets and four net-less basketball hoops. I got a lot of good hard -earned torture out of that playground. During PE class, the ally the ever-popular kickball game or baseball. But Mr. Rose never singled me out in teacher, Mr. Crew, used to make us run laps. kickball. I have to give him credit for that. If I happened to finish first, he would send me But baseball, now, that was his thing. back to run a second lap with another student The first real problem I had during one of so they could "show me how to run slow." I his baseball games was when I was in the guess that wasn't so bad, but this is the same fourth grade. teacher who singled me out in the middle of a game again, and I was a little upset. To add to kickball game to make fun of me because I it all, he had been making some not so nice had never played it before and didn't know the comments about the girls in my class, and in rules. I swear he had invented some of those general, he was acting worse than the guys rules in his spare tilne. A couple of years were. They liked to make fun of us, but for later, he retired to start a new job working in a god 's sake, they were fourth graders, and he funeral home. was the teacher! I think the comment that fi- A new and even more rigor- He had been doing the name ous- when it came to the art of torment- nally sent me over the edge was, "Maybe I teacher showed up to teach us how to hate should help the girls out in this round, eh class. His name was Mr. Rose, and he was guys? After all, girls just aren 't very good at young and funny and didn't look like a wheez- this kind of thing." I just stood in the outfield ing skeleton. I actually thought that school and stared at him for a second. What was he was going to get just a little more bearable. saying? I had been under the impression that The Kiosk 37 Ding-Dong the Lockridge is Dead we. were playing a simple game of baseball, actually it was probably wiffleball, and I assumed that he was a teacher. It was hard enough to hear that "boys are better" crap slumped in my seat. My hands started to shake as I realized what I had done. Somehow I managed to open my desk and find my book, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. I had to from the boys my own age, but it was impossi- force myself to concentrate. ble to take it from someone who was supposed thing never went unpunished, and I knew to know better. When I finally snapped out of sooner or later it would come in the form of my state of shock, I turned to my best friend Just. Leave. My heart had raced in my chest, It would come from the person who terrified me the most out of everyone I had ever encountered in that school. And sure enough, an hour later, he showed up at the classroom with his permanent frown on his mouth and his beady eyes glaring. It was the principal, but for the first time, when I probably actually deserved to be yelled at, he let me off with a warning. His name was Mr. Carr, and he hated me. I was certain of that and I still am, even after ten years. He was a tall man, easily over six feet tall, and very skinny. He always wore a brown suit, dark brown, like trees or chocolate. In kindergarten when I first saw him, he reminded me of Abraham Lincoln. He even seemed to smile like pictures of good ole Abe, but then again, most · of the teachers smiled like that at kindergarteners, a soft smile, kind and gentle. When their parents were around, that is. He had to crouch low just to shake my and I was having trouble seeing. hand. and asked her if she had heard that. She nodded as we waited for the next pitch. "Can you believe that?" I had asked, "Can you believe what he just said?" Granted, I probably shouldn't have said anything. I should probably just have waited until class was over and then asked him about it. I realized it as soon as I said it, because he swiveled around from his position on the pitcher's mound to look at me. His eyes were narrowed and a scowl was firmly in place on his lips. Did I mention that he was six feet tall and not what I would consider a scrawny weakling? Anyway, he turned and shouted at me the last thing I expected to hear. "I'm sick of you standing back there and bitching about my class," he shouted, "If you don't like this class, you can just leave." If you don't like my class. You. Can. But the That kind of my true source of torment. words echoed inside my skull. You can just It wasn't until the third grade when I leave. Everyone was staring at me, snicker- started to have issues with him. It started on ing. You can leave. And so I did. I left. I the bus. took off across the playground and raced up who would start it. the stairs to my classroom. I had been numb around me and pull at my shirt and call me all over, and my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. names like inbred, bitch, ho, idiot, and any- Mattson didn't even look up at me as I thing they could think of. They'd make fun of 38 The Kiosk There were two boys in particular They'd sit in the seats Kale en Hird my face, my hair, my family, but mostly they would just make fun of me. Everything I did, everything I said, they would find a way to Mr. Carr would call me into his office and yell at me about what I had done wrong. make it one big stupid joke. If they were feel - I asked him how I was supposed to act, but he took it as insubordination. He took it as ing brave, they'd take a swipe at my arm and a mouthy little brat questioning his authority. try to leave a bruise. One of the boys even He told me that I knew how I needed to act lmocked out my front tooth and bloodied my and if I would just be like the rest of my class- lip. Once they started, their buddies would mates we wouldn't have to have these little join them, and soon half of the bus would be "talks." I will wholeheartedly admit that there laughing at me. I don't know exactly why were times when I deserved to get yelled at. they singled me out. It could have been be- There were times when I am sure I was a little cause nly clothes came from Goodwill, or that monster, but most of the time, I was going I was smaller than the rest of them. It could along with the class. I was behaving the way have been because I was one of those kids they behaved and making the wise-assed jokes It that they made . Those were the times when I could even have been because I had dark hair accepted whatever punishment they gave me. It could I lmew when I was wrong; I had been raised to have been any or all of those things, but all I lmow what was right and what was wrong. lmow is that they made bus rides like a jour- My mother was a Sunday school teacher- ney into hell for me. enough said. That could have been why it was who was always at the top of the class. while most of them were blonde. My mother used to call Mr. Carr and talk so hard to sit in Mr. Carr's office while he was to him about them, but it never did any good. scremning at me about behavior. He would tell her I provoked them, that I had even blamed me for a petition that my best done something wrong, and he was going to friend had started. It asked that something be speak to me about my behavior. I never lmew done about the behavior of the kids on the bus what he Ineant by that. As far as I knew, I and the bus driver being oblivious to it all. hadn't done anything but get on the damn bus. She admitted right in front of nle and to Mr. How is that provoking? Why was it my fault? Carr that she had started it, but he didn't even I distinctly remember him saying things like listen to her. As far as he was concerned, I that, because I used to pick up the phone when had done it. Justice didn't matter, because he Mom called him. I'd listen and hope he would knew how it all was. He just lmew that I was understand and maybe get them to leave me "up to something," and it would "not be toler- alone. He never did, and always, always, al- ated." It didn't even matter that almost every- ways after one of Mom's phone calls to him, one on the bus had signed the petition or that the teasing and the name-calling would get the title was written in my best friend's hand- worse. And always after Mom's phone calls, writing. Once he The Kiosk 39 Ding-Dong the Lockridge is Dead I guess that was why it had been such a middle school. From what I have heard from shock when Mr. Carr didn 't kill me for leav- my nieces and nephews who are still trapped ing Mr. Rose's class. He was almost apologetic about the incident. For the first and only time in iny history at Lockridge Elementary in that school, it is still a hellhole. Mr. Rose is long gone, but Mr. Carr is still there and still singling out people who share my last name. School, I walked out of Mr. Carr's office un- One of my nieces had to leave the school be- punished. I think it may have had something cause of the way she was treated. to do with the fact that Mr. Rose admitted to makes me sad to think about it, which is why saying I could leave and to saying that stupid the minute I got off the phone with my crack about girls. In all honesty, I went out of mother, I ran out into the hallway and did a my way to avoid an argument with him for the next few weeks because he hadn't lied. I ex- little dance . Lockridge will close, and while Mr. Carr will still have a job as principal of pected it, but he had surprised me. another elementary school just a few miles It just I don't want to leave you with the impres- away, he lost half of his salary. The school sion that life at Lockridge got better for me. It itself might be torn down, and if that happens, stayed pretty much the same until I left for I want to be there. To light the match. + 40 The Kiosk Untitled RICK RECTOR you can't wash madness off in the sink or in the shower or even in Lake Michigan I swam in Lake Michigan in 1978 Afterwards, I was still crazy my wife told me so my father told me so my brother told me so The Day They Buried Grandpa RICK RECTOR the day they buried Grandpa my brother told my dad "He looks like you when you ' re pissed." I thought about his jaw bone turning gray like a chicken bone does Grandma called my name from the Alzheimer's chair she sat in and I hugged her frailness very gently. later, at the lake I skinny dipped with Michele and we made love with the curtains open The Kiosk 41 Sparkling Splinters JESSI PLUEGER splinters sparkling even in the evening in the darkening sky sailing overhead splinters caught by the glimpse of passersby lured in irresistible sparkle not far to go caught up in the beak shot up in retreat feathers floating splinters sparkling 42 The Kiosk Contributor and Staff Notes MEGAN COOK is a Kiosk ANNIE DILOCKER is a senior MI CHELLE veteran- she was a poetry from Missouri Valley, Iowa. J OLOUD is a senior from editor in 1999, Co-Editor-in- She is majoring in English Sioux City. Chief in 2000, and Editor-in- Writing with a minor in Mu- majoring in English Writing Chief in 2002. A senior, SIC. Annie edited fiction for and Religious Studies. Megan is majoring in Eng- the 2002 Kiosk and was addition to editing both po- lish Writing with a minor in Honorable Mention in the etry and creative nonfiction Mass Communications. Her Creative Writing Awards the this year, Michelle was pub- hometowns are Sioux City, sanle year. lished in the 2000 and 2002 Storm Lake, Iowa, She is double In Kiosks , and edited poetry in and Denair, California. HAND SAKER- GINNY EBERLY IS a JunIor 200l. majoring in Philosophy with DUSTIN COOPER is a senIor a minor in English Writing. KALEEN HIRD is from Brigh- from Sioux City. He is an From Sioux City, this is her ton, Iowa. rnaJ or first contribution to The Ki- more majoring in English osk. Writing with a minor in Stu- English Education with a minor in Mass Communications. This is Dus- She is a sopho- dio Art. tin's first contribution to The KA Y GOLDSMITH is a senior Kiosk. from Sioux City. She is a ALLISON Sociology major with a mi- freshman J AN DEHNER is an English nor in English Writing. Kay Wisconsin. She is majoring Writing finished 2 nd place in the in Art with a double minor 2002 Excellence in Writing in writes for The Weekender in Awards. and Business. Sioux City and wrote a nonfiction, this is Kay's first chapter for KUNI Public Ra- appearance on Kiosk staff, JENNY NICKLIN is a senIor dio's murder mystery book and her first publishing in English Literature major and by Iowa authors. the magazine. Religious major originally from Hinton, Iowa. 44 The Kio sk Jan Editing creative Mass LANDERS from IS a Hudson, Communications Studies mInor Contributor and Staff Notes from Papillion, Nebraska. In this year, this is Jessi's sec- ing with a minor in Philoso- addition to editing poetry ond publishing in The Kiosk. phy. and fiction this year, she was In addition to being this year's Editor-In-Chief, also a poetry and fiction edi- RICK RECTOR is a JunIor Cathie was published in the tor for the 2002 Kiosk. from Sloan, Iowa, maJonng 2002 Kiosk, and also placed in English W ri ting. In addi- 2nd in the Creative Writing a tion to this year's pieces, he Awards and 1st in the Excel- In was published in the 1986 lence in Writing Awards the Mass Communications Elec- Kiosk and has received an same year. tronic Media with a minor in Honorable Mention in a na- Photography. tional poetry contest for his JASON WALKER IS a 2001 poem "The Wake." graduate SHEILA PARTRIDGE sophomore IS maJ onng From Law- rence, Kansas, Sheila is a former features reporter and of Morningside College with a double major photographer for The Mir - CRISTA RUSTWICK is a jun- in International Affairs and ror, a branch of the Law- ior from Sioux City. She is Contemporary History with As an English Education maj or a minor in Spanish. Cover Art Director, this is with a minor in Psychology. currently Sheila's first appearance on Editing this year's creative AmeriCorps VISTA as the Kiosk staff. nonfiction, this is Crista's Service Learning Coordina- first appearance on Kiosk tor for Morningside. This is staff. Jason's second publishing in rence Journal World. JESSI PLUEGER is a sopho- working He is for the Kiosk, and he placed 3 rd more from Sioux City majoring in English Writing CATHIE STANGL is a sopho- in the 1998 Excellence In with a minor in Psychology. more from Des Moines. She Writing Awards. In addition to editing poetry is majoring in English Writ- Th e Kiosk 45  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Kiosk: Volume 65 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Subject The topic of the resource Student Publications Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cooper, Dustin: Author Plueger, Jessi: Author Goldsmith, Kay: Author Dehner, Jan: Author Cook, Megan: Author Rector, Rick: Author Dilocker, Annie: Author Nicklin, Jenny: Author Eberly, Ginny: Author Lander, Allison: Author Walker, Jason: Author Hird, Kaleen: Author Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2005 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-7 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Stangl, Cathie: Editor-in-Chief; Layout and Design Godsmith, Kay: Editor, Nonfiction Handsaker-Joloud, Michelle: Editor, Nonfiction, Poetry Nicklin, Jenny: Editor, Fiction, Poetry Rustwick, Crista: Editor, Fiction Plueger, Jessi: Editor, Poetry PArtridge, Sheila: Director, Cover Art Coyne, Stephen: Faculty Advisor Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical 60 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Description An account of the resource The Kiosk contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Kiosk Manuscript Perspectives student publications http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/ccaa4fa673be8a4a44f6bb0e0567fa73.pdf 1ca0c71910bf2058bb11b62ddf51a209 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Kiosk: Volume 68 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Perspectives Manuscript Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource This PDF file of the Kiosk contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ponder, Marcie Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2013-01-13 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-11-02 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-11-02 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF 7.8 MB 56 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Kiosk-Vol68_KDC_2006_01-01_01.pdf Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. McKinley, Aly: Cataloger PDF Text Text kiosk THE LIT ERARY MAGA Z IN E OF MORNIN GS IDE COLLEGE 2006 ��kiosk VOLUM E 68 2006 THE LI TERARY MAGAZ IN E OF MORNIN GS IDE COLLEGE KIOSK06 3 �STAFF Editor in Chief Cliff Thompson Assistant Editors PROSE Lacey Bensink Jess Horsely Emily Kesten Marcie Ponder POETRY Rachel Castillo Crystal Quibell Angela Phillips Mallory Trudell ART Cathleen Ann Matthew Ellis Andrea Gleiser Brenda Lussier Graphic Design Team Brianna Blake Nikki Kent Dan Widrowicz Megan Wunsch Copy Editors Emily Kesten Cassandra Peck Faculty Advisors Stephen Coyne John Kolbo Terri McGaffin 4 KIOSK06 - �LETTER FROM THE EDITOR CUFF THOMPSON The new millenium has been kind to the Kiosk and its readers. While not taking away from the quality of writing or editing in the long tradition of the magazine, I think Volume 68 has taken a bold and wonderful step which will begin new traditions to carry the magazine into the next millenium. I'd settle for a century or two. This year's edition demonstrates a great collaboration of people from all across Morningside's campus. The familiar writers and editors of the magazine's literary past coupled with new faculty members, artists, photographers, and graphic designers to bring this book together, and the result is more than satisfying. Whether contributing works or helping layout the magazine, these people have been a sincere joy to work with. Of course I would be remiss if I did not recognize the people who made it possible to have the success we've enjoyed. President John Reynders is the largest thank you on the list, without his foresight (money) and blesSing (more money), this magazine could never have become exactly what it is: EDITOR'S CHOICE This year's Kiosk cover, "Lakota November" by Meredith French was chosen to grace the front of the magazine. The artist received $50 for the contribution. The writing Editor's Choice winner was "Going Picasso" by Randy Uhl. a true compilation of Morningside's artistic and literary ability put together in a visual package that does the artists justice. The second large thank you goes out to Dr. Stephen Coyne, my professor, advisor, and friend. In four years at Morningside I've learned about creative writing from him, but also a lot about life Sitting in his office having conversations both lighthearted and serious. His importance to this magazine every year is as the lookout on a ship, calling back guidance from the bow to an editor sailing in unsure waters. The third large thank you goes out to The Kiosk .' -. \ T kiosk H E H ~'~ John Kolbo and Terri McGaffin. We went from first actual meeting to working associates in a few short months. It was certainly my pleasure. They put in hours above and beyond their already busy lives to indulge my whims. Without John, there would be no volume 68. I am grateful. A final thank you to all the people up and down the line who made this possible, from Marcie Ponder the English Department secretary to the design team to the artists themselves. I 0 S H TH E KIOSK EVOLUTION from left to right 2003,2004,2005, 2006 Now go and enjoy Kiosk reader. Whether you want to learn to do a flying elbow drop or just enjoy the finest art and writing MorningSide can produce, you are only a few pages away. Thanks for reading. KlOSK06 5 �CONTENTS WRITING 9 Catanalysis STEPHEN COYNE The Quarter Past Five RANDY UHL 10 By the Light STACY K. B ALDUS 11 In This Room L UKE DREIER 17 Battlefield Mathematician JESS H ORSLEY 18 ~lof~ 2006 Cherry CRYSTAL Q UIBELL 19 Confession T AVIA K NUDSEN 22 My Scene STACY K. B ALDUS 30 Going Picasso RANDy UHL 31 's . '" ~t'~ ~ 2006 Alydar Goes Round Again E MILY KESTEN 32 ,,0"1<V w' '" ~ n Oft 2006 Big Bang Emersion Theory R ICK RECTOR 42 Under Her Skin RANDY UHL 44 ~ p~ ~41~ 2006 48 Hypocrisy RACHEL CASTILLO Personal Genocide STACY Make Me JESSI PLUEGER 51 Page from the Past M OHR , R USSELL 53 K. B ALDUS 50 ABOUT OUR JUDGES: Ann Struthers is a visiting professor and writer-in-residence at Coe College in Cedar Rapids, IA. She has had numerous works published in literary journals and anthologies. She is the author of four collections of poetry and was recognized in 2005 as Morningside's Alumni Educator of the Year. She received her Bachelor's in English at Morningside in 1958. Kevin Kjeldseth is the owner/proprietor of Kjeldseth Design in Sioux City. He earned his Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from the University of South Dakota, with a focus in photography and design. He has volunteered his talent and time to the arts community, designing posters for Saturday in the Park and Artsplash for many years. All entries are considered objectively by the judges with no artist name or speCial consideration for any piece. Staff members are eligible for contest placement but not prize money. 6 KIO SK06 �ART Lakota November MEREDITH FRENCH 1 ~tf~ .. ~ ", 2006 Gate STACY Peacock Feathers KIMBERLY JESSE N 11 Floyd Monument CATHLEEN ANN 13 Dappled STACY K. 14 Momma's Boy MICHAEL CODY DRURY 16 Love at First Sight VALERIE FLANAGAN 16 How to do a Flying Elbow Drop DAN WIDROWICZ 20 The Alley KIMBERLY JESSEN 21 Snow Fence KIMBERLY JESSEN 21 Bare Essentials MEREDITH FRENCH 22 Backyard at Dawn CATHLEEN ANN 24 Open Mind Open Doors KIMBERLY JESSEN 26 Prayer STACY K. 27 6 Easy Steps HEMLATA G UPTA K. BALDUS BALDUS BALDUS 8 28 $1~'~ 0 ~ ?.r ~ ~ 2006 Still Ones VALERIE FLANAGAN 28 Heaven and Hell DAN THORN 29 The Outfit KIMBERLY JESSEN 32 Tree STACY K. 34 Little Cowgirl MATTHEW ELLIS 35 Idle STACY K. 37 Classical Music KIMBERLY JESSEN 38 Foot CATHLEEN ANN 40 Bubble Gum MICHAEL CODY DRURY 41 Takin It Easy MEREDITH FRENCH 41 Wooden Stump MEGAN WALDING 45 Maydune KIMBERLY JESSEN 46 Transformation MEREDITH FRENCH 52 Temperance Falls STACY ~1~'~ ~~~ 2006 K. BALDUS BALDUS BALDUS 52 KIOSK06 7 .. �GATE by Stacy KBaldus . block and white photograph 8 KIOSK06 �CATANALYSIS Momma? Dead. Siblings? Dead. No one to love her during those early weeks- Cat was weaned in the bath and learned to love spigot and tub and whatever porcelain she could snuggle up to- shower, sink, stool, especially stool, which became the ark of kitty mysteries, center of Cat's cosmos. When I flush , kitty bounds to the rim and then steps down into the bowl, down to the water's edge to wonder at what has just left. I say "No, kitty, Pssst! Get out of the toilet!" But Cat barely glances my way as if to say, "sorry (though not very), my business here is more important than yours." Where must the swirling water, with its little growl there at the end, go? You can tell, Cat wants to know. Certainly that water will come back again. This is the physics of hope. So with a brutal sort of mercy I take the lid off the tank and show Cat the mechanism, flush it several times. She is amazed and instructed. But once the lid's back on, Cat's wonder is as great as it ever was . So I take Cat into the basement and have one of the kids flush. I let Cat hear the pipes, the water leaving. But nothing diminishes Cat's amazement, her aching forward at the toilet swirl. Every flush brings her banging through the door to peer again into the unknown- The swirl, like a prayer, deepens with each repetition her reverence, her rapt attention to the experiment repeated from every Single angle of pure mystery and hope, the exact shape and sound and meaning of one long gone, but still going, Momma. STEPHEN C OYNE KIOSK06 9 J �THE QUARTER PAST FIVE When Katie Wept she wailed like a woman scorned. She shattered trees with her fists While her tempest tantrums were all the rage . Sun and song went on holiday and the world, punch-drunk and dizzy-headed, shuffled her feet. Skeptics placed bets after she stormed out doubting that the raw would heal. So tell me , if jazz can return to the quarter and honey-drip again on Beale ... why can't I get you to come home to me? RANDY UHL 10 KI OSK06 �By THE LIGHT BY STACY T K. BALDUS he lights of the combine went out and dark quickly covered the field . The impression of the light remained on Fred's retinas, like the ghost image of fireworks . This used to be his favorite part of the night. When the machines were quiet, the lights went off, the field harvested. He would sit on the dirt, his back leaning against the mammoth tires of the combine, and look up. The stars stretched on forever above him, laid out like a shimmering dust sprinkled on black cloth. Sometimes, he would sit there for over ten minutes, letting his eyes adjust to the night, the echoes of the combine's roar fading away in his ears. The lights of the combine went out. He didn't look up. Checking to make sure his pocket knife was still clipped to his belt, he made his way towards the pickup . Carol had given the knife to him not long after they were married. The dry corn stalks crunched under his boots as he walked. Shorn stalks rose crookedly from the soil, skeletal fingers which broke beneath his Red Wings. He didn't look up tonight. He was sore. His back ached, his eyes were dry, and his ears were ringing. Maybe he was getting too old for this. Carol and he were not as young as they once were. He'd been farming for close to forty years. Carol - she'd been working as a teaching assistant at the local school for 22 years. Fred blinked, trying to rewet his eyes. He climbed into the dusty pickup, throwing his cooler to the passenger side and slamming the door shut behind him. The latch on the old door wouldn't hold unless the door was slammed. Dust floated up at the motion, clogging the air before settling down only to be shaken up again when the diesel engine sputtered to life. Carol had always refused to ride in his pickup. It was too dirty He pulled out onto the gravel road, the headlights bouncing with the potholes. From his peripherals he could see how the light just brushed the passing corn fields . Most of them were harvested now, empty graveyards awaiting winter. The green light of the digital clock caught his eye. 1:37. Carol would be in bed. They hadn't talked today They hadn't talked since driving back from the house tour in town. That was Monday It was Thursday Their oldest daughter had set up the meeting with the real estate agent. She'd even come to tour the house with them. She had seemed excited. He and Carol hadn't said anything. The town house was small, but nice, not far from the grocery store. It was just him and Carol now. It would mean less house work for Carol. The lawn wouldn't take seven hours to mow. It was practical. Fred didn't think Carol's garden would fit in the backyard. His daughter thought it was an exciting option. It wasn't like they'd need the grain bins or machine sheds anymore. He parked the pickup in front of the grain dryer and walked towards the house. No lights were on, just the yard light tinting the tan siding of the house orange. His own shadow preceded him to the door, seeming somehow diminished. The outline seemed frail and slumped. It was like the shadow of an old man. He opened the door and went down the cement steps to the basement to take off his boots and shower. He didn't hear Carol come down the PEACOCK FEATHERS b Kimberly Jessen y relief linoleum cut KIOSK06 II - ��The upper part of the house was Carol's domain, with soft white carpet, large windows, and her potted plants. During the day, the spacious layout glowed with light. Everything from orchids, African violets, ivies, and even a pineapple grew in various pots lining the windows. Fred wasn't in the house much during the day At night, he rarely turned the lights on, letting the shadowy orange which crept in the windows from the yard light gUide his step. The brilliant orchid blooms and the various greens of the plants all faded to blacks and grays occasionally highlighted by a sliver of orange. He dropped the dirty clothes off at the laundry room and headed straight for the kitchen to get a glass of water. The kitchen was different. There the florescent lights flickered on and the kitchen was a glowing wash of white. White linoleum, white walls, white countertops. And dishes. Fred stiffened. There were dishes - dirty dishes - piled in the sink. And on the counter. In their 40 years of marriage, Fred could count on one hand the number of times Carol had left the dirty dishes laying out. The pans reflected the light glaringly into his eyes. He looked away A glossy red paper on the counter caught his eye. Edina Realty It was the pamphlet from the open house they toured on Monday The top right hand corner of the paper was crumpled, like a fist had squeezed it too tightly Fred reached out, touching the paper lightly, as if it would burn him. They hadn't said much to each other after the tour. But it had started before that , with the letters. The letters printed neatly on nice stationary politely informing him the land he had worked for over 35 years was no longer his to farm. They'd become more frequent over the last five years. Anderson's , where he'd put in all new tile lines. The Old's, where he put in a new waterway Hanson's, the work in progress acreage where he'd cleaned out the bushes, small trees, and large boulders. One by one, they went to a higher bidder, a corporate farmer. At first, it just meant tightening things up . Letting his full time hired-hand go , not buying the new tractor he needed. Last winter, he received four letters. 1600 acres gone in a flash, and that was it. The landowners in the city had done what was right for them. Someone else could offer them more. After this year, he just wouldn't have enough land to make farming work. He and Carol would leave the home place and move into town. Carol would work a few more years at the school before retiring. And he ... he didn't know what he'd do. Fred pressed his hand down, flattening the paper and stopping his hands from shaking. He smoothed the paper out, pressing firmly to keep it from curling. Crease lines still marred the glossy advertisement. Hastily, he picked it up and put it in the color coordinated folder, slicing his finger on the edge of the paper. It didn't bleed. He pushed the red folder to the edge of the counter. The dishes. It had to have been nearly a week's worth of dishes sitting out. He hadn't noticed before tonight. He'd never looked. The dishes clanged together as he gathered them up. He rinsed them, scrubbing furiously at the congealed food. The ones that didn't fit into the dishwasher, he hand washed. Scalding water and soap stung his various cuts and softened the calloused hands. He wiped down the countertops, then scrubbed them with bleach. Carol had said it was the only thing which got the stains out, made the counter tops FLOYD MONUMENT byCathleen Ann 35 millimeter film KIO SK06 13 �white. He put everything away. Except the red folder. It had no place. The folder, his watch and his pocket knife all still sat on the corner of the white counter top . DAPPLED byStocy KBoldu . s blockond white photogroph 14 He walked over and picked up the case which held his knife. The worn and cracked leather was soft and familiar. One snapped button and the knife slid out. The wooden handle was smooth, worn to a dull, soft texture by years of use with his own hands. He carefully pried the knife open, revealing the blade. It was nothing fancy, just a well made, functional knife . He'd taken care of it , keeping the blade sharp and free of rust. The metal no longer gleamed like it had when new. He often used the knife out in the fields, everything from opening seed bags to envelopes. The dishes were washed, the countertops clean, and the red folder sat there. The watch said it was now after 3:00. There was nothing more he could do . Frost coated the landscape the next morning. The shorn stalks in the field and Carol's dead flowers in her outdoor pots rested in their own casings of frozen dew. Fred woke to find her side of the bed already empty. He'd slept too late. The bed springs groaned as he slowly got up, his joints stiff and uncooperative. While dressing, he'd stopped and looked at the frost. November. It would be snow soon. He finished dreSSing, clipped his knife to his belt, and headed to the kitchen for some cold cereal. The smell alerted him first. Rich coffee and bacon fried up in a pan, not zapped in a microwave. Fred turned the corner and stopped. On the table was a small crockery vase with a few clippings of dusky red mums. The delicate green leaves curled over the rim of the vase, resting lightly on the grey ceramic. The sturdy stems were still green and held up a full head of petals, still slightly damp from the melted frost. Carol was over at the stove, flipping over the bacon, her wispy hair loosely pulled back into a bun. Two glasses of orange juice sat side by side at the table. The red folder was no longer on the counter. "Sit down. I'll bring you a plate ." Carol KI OSK06 I J �--------------_._- motioned with her hands , one waving a spatula. Smile lines crinkled on her face . "Don't you have to work today?" "Teacher's workshop. They didn't need me today." Fred nodded and sat down, one hand picking at his mustache. Turned away from Carol, he could still hear the fat in the bacon pop . She briefly flitted into view, setting a cup of coffee down next to his juice. "The bacon will be just a minute. " Fred just nodded again, continuing to pick at his mustache. This was new. They never had breakfast together. It didn't work with their schedules, espeCially in the fall . Normally, he'd stumble around the kitchen, not quite awake yet and methodically pour himself a bowl of cereal. "Here. Careful, the coffee's hot. " She set a plate of eggs, bacon, and burnt toast down in front of him, then made a place for herself next to him. Carol sat down, newspaper and pencil in hand. The paper rustled as she carefully and neatly folded it back, revealing the crossword puzzle. Fred watched as she picked up her fork, spearing the slightly watery scrambled eggs, all while focusing on No.1 Across. He turned back to his own plate. The toast was slightly burnt, but the sunny-side up eggs looked good. The bacon was hot and crisped to perfection. Carol put her hand on his knee and he turned to look over at her suddenly serious face . "Thanks for taking care of the dishes." He nodded, placing his own, rough hand over hers and squeezing it for a moment. She smiled briefly, and turned back to the crossword, filling in 3 Across. Fred reached for the apple butter to spread over his toast. "I see your mums made it through another frost. " "Yeah, but no doubt the next one will get them." He nodded, chewing on the toast. The apple butter did a decent job of covering the burnt taste. "What's under a steering wheel and all over Greece?" She was chewing the end of her pencil. "Columns," Fred said. The pencil made a scratching noise as she filled in 7 Down. He took another bite of his toast . He didn't mind his toast a little burnt. Fred looked out the window at the sky. It was still the pale blue of morning and Carol's mums had survived the frost. KIO SK06 15 - �MOMMA'S BOY by Michael Cody Drury oil pointing on canvas lOVE AT FIRST SIGHT by Valerie Flanagan acrylic and oil painting 16 K10SK06 - �IN THIS ROOM BY L UKE DREIER S tanding in the doorway of this stinking pit gives me the chance to think about a lot of things. Literally I am here to push the weight of all this metal. I look at the rust on my hands I've collected from the bar on the bench press. No air flows here in the summer. It's hot, and it's humid. Just the way I like it. I have it firmly placed in my mind that this heat, this weight, is all here to try and break me , to conquer me. It stinks in here , like sweat, like rust , like my two week old puke in the blue trash can by the door. Nothing but the metal I have blasting out of the piece of crap stereo can be heard. I have no place to wipe the sweat off my face, my shirt is soaked in it. I am half way through breaking myself to build myself up . This place truly is a dark dungeon, perfect. Each morning I wake up at exactly 9 AM to come here . I am angry right away I choke down 3 egg whites and some toast , fill my dirty water jug up and make the drive up to this place. I stretch, put on the perfect music to get even more pissed off. I am pissed because I have lost so much time in the past and I need to fix it. I load the bar up with 2 forty five pound plates on each side, swing my arms just before I sit down on the edge of the bench slab. The same thing every time. I am waiting for the perfect part of the song to make my adrenalin spike up and my anger to hit its peak. I crack my back and lay down underneath the weight, I think about how my girlfriend of two years cheated on me with three of my friends, think about my friend that died last year, the little niece that I will never get to see until I am buried someday, I think about my friend that took his life after Christmas. I am pissed at the world, and the last thing now that is trying to stop me is that weight on the bar. I wrap my fingers around it and lift it up. I lower it down towards my chest, I know everyone is better than me, I alone have the power to change this . I repeat the movement of the bar towards my chest which burns now, along with my triceps in the back part of my upper arms. I scream out, hoping someone hears the beast inside of me needing to get out. The burning feels like fire to match that inside my soul. The rest of this workout is a blur. Nothing is gained if I don't make myself sick. I am punishing my triceps and my chest, punishing myself because of my weaknesses. It is hot as hell. This pain is good , I love this pain. I am standing in the doorway now, this place gives me plenty of time to think about myself, and my life. I alone have the ability to beat all the weakness out of me, the ability to overcome a life that has seen better days. This room is where it starts. KIOSK06 1 7 �BATTLEFIELD MATHEMATICIAN Add U.N. inspectors, U.S. government support. Subtract truth, add {pseudo} public support and {a parody oD patriotism. Add a deadline. Minus a deadline. Add war. Add the media and me , a U.S. Marine , subtracting months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, and seconds left "in country." Add stress, U.S. casualties. Divide rounds fired by enemy KIA; subtract life , youth, innocence. Add a lonely spouse at home , mail. Subtract birthdays, Christmas, a first child's birth. Multiply by 140,000 troops. Divide Iraq, add more troops and accidental Iraqi civilian dead. Add a bit of truth and subtract Iraqi support. Add a little more , subtract U.S. public support. Minus Saddam, add more conservative media and imitation patriotism. Add more troops, body-armor, longer deployments, more U.S. casualties. Multiply grief, pain, tears. Add dead sons, brothers, husbands , fathers, daughters, sisters, wives, mothers. Multiply grief, pain, tears again. J ESS H ORSLEY 18 KIOSK06 J �CHERRY A plump, rose tinted dream of sweet succulence hangs in front of his face . He rolls his fingers over the slippery skin and squeezes ever so gently. A bit of juice seeps out and runs down his hand. He closes his eyes and licks the tart liquid from his fingers. CRYSTAL QUIBELL KIOSK06 19 �How TO DO A FLYING ELBOW DROP by Dan Widrawicz digital illustration 20 KIOSK06 - �THE AllEY by Kimberly Jessen blo(k and white photograph SNOW fENCE by Kimberly Jessen blo(k and white photograph KIOSK06 21 �CONFESSION By TAVIA KNUDSEN I BARE ESSENTIALS by Meredith French postels on poper 22 KIOSK06 guess I've just always liked blood. I was never into girly things like dolls, dresses , or playing house, so when I was about five my dad taught me how to ride his StingRay. At the time I didn't appreciate how old it was, I just liked that it was bright red and I didn't have to use training wheels anymore . I remember pedaling fast down the sidewalk by our neighbor's house . She was a nice lady, but her house always creeped me out. Her front porch was enclosed and shadowy and it always made me feel like something was watching. Passing her house, I pedaled as fast and as hard as I could, trying to escape the watchers from her house . One afternoon I got too close to the three feet high concrete wall that separated her yard from the sidewalk. My right side scraped against the wall and I fell down. My dad rushed over, scared, hoping I was okay. I was in a bit of a daze. Once I was on my feet I noticed my pinky was throbbing. I put it up to my face for inspection and saw that it was bleeding and the scraped skin was peeled back. My knee , too, hadn't gone unscathed.I remember thinking how odd it was that the blood on my finger was bright red while the blood on my knee was darker, almost maroon. Fascinating. Over the next few days I had decided that the scab on my knee was the coolest thing I'd ever seen. If I picked it off, it grew back. I guess this cause and effect was really interesting to me because I constantly picked at it. When it bled, I licked the blood off of my finger. Maybe that's when I realized that I liked the taste of blood. Don't get me wrong, I'm not like a vampire or anything. Those things aren't real. I suppose if they were, though, I wouldn't mind being one. I couldn't drink a vat of blood or anything, maybe just a sip or a lick of it. I just love how blood smells and tastes metallic. It's like the smell of your hands after you get done crossing the monkey bars on a playground. Very much like iron. As I got older I needed bigger and better things to amuse me. Skinned knees and scabs didn't trip my trigger anymore . I always liked the way squirrels died with their eyes open after they'd been hit by a car. Their round, black, marble eyes just staring off into space. But I was only ten when I'd realized this so I couldn't drive. I think that killing a squirrel by car is a little too impersonal anyway. It took me a while to get the hang of it. You have to be very patient when killing a squirrel. They're too alert to not notice a person near them. Quick, too, little bastards. On the day of my first successful squirrel hunt I brought a bag of sunflower seeds with me. I scattered them around the base of a tall elm that I knew was heavily populated with the little critters. Then I sat and waited with a large stone in my hand. About twenty minutes later my efforts were rewarded. A lard-ass of a squirrel crept over to the seeds and started breaking them open, searching for the tasty treat inside. All the while his tail twitched in a Morse code-like fashion and his eyes stayed fixed on some object in front of him. I slowly raised my right arm and threw the rock with a quick, hard jerk. Stupid animal, never knew what hit him. I threw a few more , aiming for his head. I wanted to �make sure he was dead before I examined him. One reason was because my mom had always told me squirrels were filthy little creatures and I was afraid I'd be bitten. The other reason is because I can't stand suffering. It's just not right. When I was positive he was dead I unzipped my backpack and took out a pair of yellow cleaning gloves (my mom always kept those around the house) and a small utility knife I'd taken from the garage. I armed myself with these tools and knelt down by the pudgy ball of fur. I don't remember being nervous or queasy, just curious. I parted the red-brown fur of the deceased and made an incision in its skin. Then I pulled open the hole I had created and put my gloved hands inside, squishing the blood between my fingers. It felt like I was scooping the guts out of a pumpkin. I couldn't believe how warm an animal's body was even after it wasn't alive. This made me want to experiment. I thought of how in the winter you can see your breath. Warm air hits cold air and it looks like smoke. I wanted to know if the warmth inside a body could do this when it wasn't being protected by skin. I waited patiently until it was cold enough. I bided my time with birds and more squirrels. It's not that I hate animals, I have a cat that I love very much. The world's overpopulated enough as it is so it doesn't matter if one or two creatures have to go. Their time is limited anyway. Winter came with its snow and subzero temperatures. The dog across the street was always yapping all night long. We couldn't get him to stop . My mom hated that dumb thing. He was getting old. I wouldn't have hurt a puppy, they don't know any better. The dog's name was Bunny. His owners didn't give a crap about him. He stayed out all night but they probably didn't realize it because they were always gone. My mom said they liked the bars. Thanks to them, Bunny was an easy target. I did it after school one day. Bunny was rummaging through our trash. Of course he never had a collar on. I brought him some cold turkey left over from Thanksgiving. I needed a lure and he needed a decent last meal. I made him follow me to the wooded area behind my house. He probably didn't think twice about the bat in my right hand, why would he? Idiot. It only took about four slugs to the head to kill the useless beast. By that time I had upgraded from my backpack to a medium-sized gym bag. I liked that it had two handles. I felt like a doctor carrying around surgical tools. Poor old Bunny, he looked even mangier dead than alive. You couldn't see his eyes anymore because they had been smashed further back into his skull. His dirty blonde coat was matted around the neck from the blood. Some of it had spattered onto his back. This made me realize that I needed to start wearing something disposable over my clothes so they didn't get ruined during my escapades. Garbage bags or cheap plastic ponchos were my chosen garb after this kill. My allowance money helped pay for them. The knife I used on Bunny had a longer and stronger blade than the knife I had used in my previous experiments. It used to belong in the kitchen but then became a device my dad used to pry the lids from stubborn paint cans. I put on my gloves and held the knife firmly in my hand. I think I stabbed a bit harder than I was supposed to because I wasn't used to cutting into something that large. I thought I had needed to use more force. Oops. Don't worry, though, I figured it out when I hit KIOSK06 23 �the frozen ground underneath him. I sliced him wide open and forced my hands inside to separate the skin. My cheeks hurt from the big stupid grin I had when the steam formed from the cold air hitting his insides. Unfortunately it didn't last long. I hadn't quite figured out that a good thing can't last. After the steaming stopped I mashed my hands around inside of him. Although he wasn't steaming he was still a BACKYARD AT DAWN byCathleen A nn 35 m illimeter film 24 KIOSK06 bit warm. I was having a lot of fun, but I was kind of nervous that someone would catch me. This made me throw up on the dog's mutilated head. Bunny went out with our trash that night. Noone needed to see that. His owners just figured he ran away and my parents thought running away was the best thing that could have ever happened to him. Stupid old Bunny When I was 14, I had moved on a bit from killing birds, squirrels, and the usual stray cat or dog. Now I had friends and something way cooler- my period. Like I said, blood's fascinating. I wasn't one of those ninnies that thought I was dying when I got it. Middle school Sex Ed. classes prepared me for the big day I still can't believe how much blood is lost in the course of a week. My gynecologist told me that I lose more blood than an average woman because fibroid tumors run in the family Sometimes they detach themselves from the walls of my uterus during my period and it looks like I've just had a miscarriage. It's pretty funny Oh, but don't worry The tumors are benign so I'm in no danger of dying anytime soon. In high school I was dating some guy You kriow, you go out with them just because they asked you to the formal. Well, maybe you don't know. Whatever. Anyway, we'd been dating for about six or seven months and he kept bugging me. He thought he'd waited long enough to get some "real" action. What a moron. I told him he'd have to wait until my period was over for that month, and he totally bought it. He knew I had lied though when we finally did have sex because he hadn't met a single virgin who bled like I did. He deserved it. Always pawing at me and acting like a lovesick donkey What a riot it was to see all the blood on him down there . I still laugh every time I think about that. We broke up shortly after that. When I got to be a senior in high school, I decided to do some charity work. I knew it would look good on my college applications. I wasn't hanging out with my friends much anymore because all they wanted to do was drink and have sex while all I wanted to do was get into a decent school. I started out serving meals at a soup �kitchen. I felt horrible for those poor people. Like I said, I hate suffering. They were all grimy and wore hand-me-downs that smelled of moth-balls and filth . Working there I met a woman who worked for a homeless shelter, and I decided to do some work with her. Just a few hours a week. I really liked it. I sat in on interviews that she held with domestic violence victims and their children. She held these quite often because there were so many cases. The interviews helped determine whether the victims needed housing assistance and decided what other aid was available to them. It was depressing. I also helped the lady with the annual headcount of the homeless. That's not what it's really called, I just think it sounds better. It wasn't a huge shock that most of the people living on the streets were men since the majority of the shelters are geared for women with children. Through this I was able to learn where most of the homeless in the area camped out during the winter. It's where you'd usually think they stayed- under bridges and in abandoned buildings. Because it was February and freezing, I thought it was the perfect time for me to go above and beyond my work at the shelter. I knew it would take time, though. As the saying goes, "Rome wasn't built in a day. " I knew that I was capable of ending at least a few of the lost souls' suffering. Besides, I had neglected my hobby far too long. It was only natural that I'd need to get better equipment for my task. I figured that the more I could look as though I fit in with these people the better. I bought myself a large, brown, nylon duffel bag and placed it on a dirt road where I rolled over it with my car several times. Occasionally I got out and repositioned it so that it would be battered from every angle . You may think this sounds a little drastic but I put a lot of thought into it. You can't do a half-assed job with a hobby like this . I also picked up a musty, holey old trench coat from a second-hand shop and wore some old clothes and shoes I'd used for painting underneath. Tools. That was the hard thing. I wasn't exactly sure what I was going to need or whether or not I planned on properly disposing of the body. Would there be a huge investigation into the killing of a homeless man? I didn't really intend to find out, so I bought a hacksaw and a short-handled ax, just in case. Several knives of different lengths, too, were packed into my bag along with plastic drop clothes, garbage bags, and cold turkey and ham sandwiches- as with Bunny, everyones gotta have a decent last meal. By the time I was ready to set out I was so nervous with excitement that I threw up in the toilet before I left. Butterflies were having a party in my stomach and blood was rushing through my veins, making my temples throb- it sounded like there was a waterfall crashing through my head. I also made sure to pee before I took off because I always have to pee when I'm excited. I love that feeling. I think I'm gonna miss it. That first time back in the game didn't go off as smoothly as I had hoped. This was to be expected though. Absence tends to do this. I decided to start under one of the bridges because I thought an abandoned building might have too many homeless people living in it. I would've hated to have someone interrupt my project. I parked my car about a mile down the road from the site. This part was easy because I chose an old bridge by the railroad tracks that didn't see much action by way of traffic . You're probably wondering how I didn't freeze to KIOSK06 25 - �death on the walk there but if you know anything about adrenaline you'd know I was plenty warm and ready to go . I'll admit I was a bit disappointed when I came upon the scene. Movies always show bunches of homeless people around a fire with bottles of booze in hand. No fire, no booze. Only we do . I approached him and said, 'Hey, you lookin' for a bite to eat?' I think that community colleges ought to offer a Hobo Lingo course because, let me tell you, it was awkward. Eventually I convinced him that I was cool and we sat down to eat. He smelled really bad and his teeth were brown so when I took a bite and started chewing I had to turn my head 'cuz I was gagging. We didn't talk much but I did manage to learn his name. I figured that with a project like this I needed to get personal. It wasn't like I was sending a nickel a day to help some poor starving kid in Africa that I would never meet, I was doing something good for someone with a face and a name. I ended up waiting until he was asleep to actually do my work. I rolled him gently onto his back and waited to ensure that he was truly out. Then I reached into my back and pulled out a large knife with a newly sharpened blade and eyed his neck. I wanted to make it quick and clean. As with Bunny I wasn't sure how much force to use so I estimated high. That part was okay, but what I hadn't really counted on was the eruption of the jugular. What a mess. You'd think I would have learned from all the movies I'd watched. What a dummy! I made a mental note to poison the food to kill them before I started cutting so that I could roll them onto a drop cloth first. OPEN MINDS. OPEN DOORS by Kimberly Jessen black and w photograph hite 26 KIOSK06 one guy, too, so that cheered me up. I approached him, trying to look as vagrant-like as possible. Maybe he didn't notice that my fingernails were clean and that my hair was a bit shinier than it should have been. Oh well. We learn from these things and it only makes us better at what Next I pulled out the plastic drop cloth and spread it across the ground. I tugged an arm and a leg to slide him onto it. He wasn't heavy at all due to malnourishment. That reinforced my good feelings about the project. I stifled a few giggles when his head kept bounCing back and the neck wound gushed and sputtered. It reminded me of how sock puppets' mouths are so wide, this one was puking crimson though. �Once he was settled on the plastic I rest of February and into mid-March. I figgrabbed my saw. I thought working on deured that when the weather got warmer taching the rest of the head would be my there was no need for me to help the homebest move to start with. I knelt down and less as much. After the first one it was so braced one hand on his chest. With my easy. I learned to bring alcohol along with right hand I positioned my saw and started me because if they drank enough it made cutting back and forth. The saw was a bad them pass out sooner than the poison in choice. All it served to do was chew up the the food killed them. Disposal became less soft flesh and then the pieces of skin that of a hassle, too . I still used the same techgot caught between the teeth needed to be niques but I just got faster at it. There were cleared away too often. Thank goodness I'd only seven people who received my aid brought that ax along. It made nice even that year. No one's ever noticed the missing cuts. For the rest of the body all I had to do transients, but our area's homeless popuwas use short, quick, hacking motions and lation has decreased in the past five years I had soon removed the arms and legs from . that I've volunteered at the shelter. his torso. The separate parts of his body I'm done with school now and I've been were then all bagged individually and I deoffered a position a few hundred miles from posited them all in different areas, tossing here. My boyfriend, too , we've been dating them far out into the river. I was so happy for three years now. He's asked me to marry when I returned to my car. him! I'm so excited. I can't wait to start a I became better at this throughout the family. I think we'll be wonderful parents. PRAYER byStO(y KBaldus . blo(k and w hite photograph KIO SK06 27 �STill ONES by Valerie Flanagan acrylic painnng 28 KIOSK06 �SIX EASY STEPS by Hemlata Gupta digital iIIustraHon HEAVEN AND HEll by Dan Thorn acrylic painHng on canvas KIOSK06 29 �My SCENE This is my scene. newspaper mulch chicken wire fence octagonals twisted with no Latin name. No person company only dirt and seeds. Written word worthless, merely hands kneading soil moist and seeping through my plain blue jean poems. Just my wandering mind while I spade soil, lay rows and grow my vegetables. There is no canon here nearest voice echo miles away. Linger here small purpose in shade of grain bin smell of soybeans, and pretend that this is my only scene. STACY B ALDUS 30 KIOSK06 �GOING PICASSO Cooling you said "1 can't see you anymore" But still 1 sparked So 1 changed rearranged my nda my very marrow to keep us lit Devouring Kafka 1 chased monarchs on the backs of ticking crocs Anything to nickel and dime the lost boy whom you left, frozen Puzzled 1 tore myself apart and blindly back together hand to eyes heart to sleeve blood to knees 1 went Picasso all for you . Squinting you said "1 can't see you anymore" RANDY U HL KIOSK06 31 �ALYDAR GOES ROUND AGAIN BY E MILY KESTEN 8~IDJ>& n ... , '" ~ 2006 . T he woman was in tears. Danny had seen it before. She had the same look they all had, the same pleading, scrunched-up , wretched face of all ttrose on stand-by. Her hair was properly flying about like a descendent of Einstein, and her purse slipped off her shoulder down to her elbow like a toddler struggling to break free . Danny saw her and all this before she even reached E18. He slouched in his hard plastic chair and thumbed his boarding pass. A cloudy spot hovered just above his flight number. He wiped his lenses with the hem of his tatty, green sweater, slipped the glasses up his nose again, and nodded satisfactorily at the clarity of his ticket. "Please, sir- " She had the staggered, stumbling shuffle down pat. Danny opened his dog-eared paper- THE OUTFIT by Kimberly Jessen black and white photograph 32 KIOSK06 back, the stand-by woman's Midwest accent echoing all the stand-by speeches before. He glimpsed the middle-aged couple across from him rolling their eyes in annoyance and then leaning into one another, muttering as their eyes pointed: Look, look! There's a wretch of the world, look! ''I'm sorry, ma'am, but we are full- " "No, no , you don't understand- " "Something may open up, but it's unlikely ... " Why did the airlines always say such things? Give hope and then snatch it away? "We will begin boarding shortly. Maybe someone checked-in but didn't make it. I can't guarantee anything. This is an international flight , ma'am. " In other words: You have no hope , ma'am. �Danny rubbed the worn top corner of his book. A cheap , insignificant airport novel. Four dollars at a concourse C shop in Denver. He doubted the name printed on the spine in sky blue lettering actually belonged on the author's birth certificate. He doubted the author would claim it. Still, he'd read it and marked it , and now opened it again in Atlanta. The inside flap read Property of Alydar in blue ink. Alydar. Not the name on his ticket. He supposed he was a bit like the cheap novel's author. But wasn't he supposed to be like its hero? "Ma'am, if you could just wait over there ... " Hannah would've thought so. "Don't go over there! Hannah!" Danny ignored the breathless shout and hunkered down a little further against the mossy stonewall as he turned page 115 in his book. Everyone was screaming and giggling. The other kids liked being outof-doors. "Hannaaaah! " Squinting, he read: Hornblower swallowed the realisation that it was possible for a man not to be able to conti"Haaannaaah! " "Oh, shut it! " - to continue from that point"HA- " ''I'm just havin' a look!" He couldn't ignore the girl's bellow. The words on the page were a bit blurry, anyway. Peeking over his library book, Danny saw a girl turn away from her shouting brother and head toward him. Bugger, he thought, trying to hunch further into his navy school blazer. Try to be as invisible as possible. Maybe she wouldn't see him. Maybe no one would notice. The last thing he needed was for the Miss on break duty to catch him reading. Ignore her, she'll go away. Danny stared at the page, squinting until the words cleared. - to be able to continue"Wot choo doin'?" Danny said nothing. Maybe she'd go away. SometimeS' the others bothered him for a few ml n tes, but they all tired of it / eventually. "I said- ' He didn't look up. "Well, ooobviously!" Then she giggled. And didn't go away. Hannah was new. She hadn't learnt like the others. Danny rested the book against his knees and looked up . Slouched, muddy stockings and dirty knees- she'd get four demerits from the headmistress for those. Her plaid skirt was just as rumpled, but Danny doubted she cared. Hannah Allen stood in front of him, hands on her hips, leaning forward a bit as if studying some little rodent in a hole. "Why you readin'?" "I like to. " Danny peeked around her. The Miss was too busy yelling at Mike Barleyton for kicking the ball onto the caretaker's shed roof. Good. "Me as well," said Hannah. She gave a little twirl and then slid down the wall beside him. "But I like ball. Don't you like bam" Danny shook his head and tried to scoot a little away without her noticing. She leaned over, peering at the book. He leaned away. Hannah looked at him and "Readin~." KIOSK06 33 �is odd. Even odder than her brother, they went on, and he isn't even from here . The Allen twins weren't twins. They weren't even related. Tony was from India. "I doubt Tony's his real name!" Charlotte had declared. "Wot's your name?" He watched her muddy heels disappear deeper and deeper into the trenches. "Danny" "No!" Hannah giggled, then whispered, "No. Your real name ." TREE by Stocy K. Boldus block ond white photogroph grinned, her blue eyes disappearing under a gingery fringe. "Why don't you read on the steps?" "The Miss will see me." Hannah tossed her head, boy-cut hair flopping out of her eyes. "So?" "Ten-year-old boys are supposed to play ball," he said, quoting the Miss. Almost everyone had stopped playing and were watching Mr. Wikers, the caretaker, climb onto his shed for the ball. He was redfaced and probably swearing to Jesus' entire family "That's silly" Hannah gave her head another toss and dug her heels into the grass. Two black, soggy furrows, like trenches on a green plain. "She lets the girls read, if they want. She tells me I shouldn't play ball. I have to . Who else will kick to Tony?" Danny stopped leaning away from her. Everyone said that new girl, Hannah Allen, 34 KIOSK06 "What are you on about?" She was leaning into him again, a sharp elbow in his arm. Pinning him. Cheers went up across the yard. Mr. Wikers had chucked the ball at Mike Barleyton and the Miss was giving him an earful. "Mine's Felipe," said Hannah, unmindful of the ruckus. She pronounced it Fuhleap. Like the final breath before leaping off a cliff. "Felipe?" God, everyone was right. She really was barking mad. "But that's a boy's name." Hannah crossed her eyes and dug deeper with her feet. "Like I don't know that." Two mounds of black mud sat at the end of her trenches. The toes of her black shoes barely came to the top. "But that's my name ." She stopped her digging and whipped her head around, looking very grave. "Don't tell anyone, all right?" "That your name is Felipe?" "Yes." Hannah ran a finger over her lips. He could see dirt under her nail and purple marker smudges. "It's a secret. " "Why?" "You need a name." Hannah tapped her bottom lip and scrunched her nose up. "A real name. One no one else knows ." �"Why?" That seemed rather pointless, didn't it? Wasn't the point of names was so everyone knew what to call you? Danny wished he could get back to his book before Miss blew the whistle. Hannah sighed and slid her heels until her skinny, scraped-up legs stuck straight out. "Such a question." For a long moment, she didn't say anything, and Danny lifted the book again. Hornblower swallowed the realisation that it was possible for a man not be able to continue from that point with"Such a question," muttered Hannah. The Miss's whistle pierced through the screams and shouts. It bounced off the school's stone walls, the ivy doing little to muffle it. Why didn't ivy work like hedges? Danny wondered. He sighed and started to get up . Hannah snatched his arm. "Get a name! A real name." She looked a little ill, Danny noticed. Feverish, how bright her eyes were, her cheeks too red to be normal. "Hurry along!" the Miss shouted. ''The slow coach gets a demerit!" Danny walked forward, but Hannah kept on him like a pup. "A real name is the best thing," she said, fast and low. "You can do anything with it! Be anyone . Just like the books." "You're mad," he said. His thumb kept him in his closed book as he walked toward the Miss. She was frowning at him, whistle in hand, even though Mike Barleyton and his friends were still kicking the ball around instead of queuing up. "That's right ," Hannah grinned. She gave her head another toss. "1 am mad. Felipe is off her nut!" The Miss blew her whistle again. Han- nah twirled away, then sprinted to her form's queue. Danny watched her go, then shuffled up behind his classmates, and opened the book. - to continue from that point with a single leap of his imagination. "We will now begin boarding for flight number 547 at gate E16, non-stop to Frankfurt . . ." Two waves of grumbling excitement washed through the terminal. The Frankfurt-bound rose as if in a stadium, bending and twisting for coats and carry-ons, muttered excuse mes and frantic where's my passes blurring over the row announcements. Only the business suits cut a swath through the confusion, needless of common affairs such as row announcements. They were too sharp for the back world of crying children, haggard parents, and confused tourists. At EIS, the second wave rumbled and shifted enviously as wrists twisted to check the time and an anxious few doublechecked their tickets and passports. The stand-by woman watched it all with lips tucked between her teeth, her large, brown purse bobbing over the floor as she fidgeted . A bottom button had popped open on her faded blue blouse, revealing a white undershirt stretched over her rolled belly. She watched the Frankfurt flight board, as llTIlE COWGIRL byMatthew Ellis black and w photograph hite KIOSK06 35 �if spotting empty seats to Germany Danny glanced around, slipping his boarding pass into the book. Don't you do it, he could hear his mother chiding. She puffed up like a dragon, the roar of a jumbo jet giving the tarmac one last kiss filling her lungs. Don't you do it again, Daniel Evans! He stared down at the blue ink. Property of Alydar. The boarding pass said Daniel Evans. The woman began making little whimpering noises as the gate attendant reached for his microphone. Boarding would begin. Would anyone care to give-up their seat to this wretched woman and wait another day to cross the ocean? Would anyone like to put life on hold because the airline doublebooked? Anyone? Anyone at all? The payphone settled with a plastic-tometal click-thunk just as another burst of thunder rolled over the Texaco. His mum's tirade echoing from overseas. Danny stared at the orgy of smudged thumbprints covering the black, cracked phone. He felt sweat gathering around the thin plastic between his thumb and forefinger. To his left a toilet flushed and a stolid, bearded man in a stained cowboy hat came out of the 100, zipping his jeans. Danny quickly looked away and pushed his glasses up. He must look daft, standing here , staring at the phone. Slipping the now useless calling card into his pocket, he went to the large, tinted windows overlooking the vast truck-stop lot. The next set of heavy blue and green clouds were marching in from the west. They flattened the already stretched Iowa landscape. Weary straggler clouds still dawdled behind the 36 first thunderstorm continuing east. Danny hitched up the backpack on his shoulder. It was August. He'd been traveling for four months. That's what the calendar claimed, anyway "A-lee-dar .. ." He startled and turned at the girl's voice. Callie Woods grinned up at him , her blonde, messy ponytail and worn overalls still wet from the rain. "That sounds familiar, " she said. "What's it from? Get your mom called? We're done walking the horses. You need anything to drink or eat? I've got lots of snacks." She held sunburned arms up like a cradle. A young mother of Cherry Coke, Pepsi, and assorted candy bars and Cheetos. Danny blinked, feeling like a distant news correspondent with delayed feedback. "Er ... yes, I've called Mum. No , I'm fine , ta." "I love how you talk so funny," said Callie. "Always wondered if the English really talked like that. So, they really do? Oh- we better hurry up or Tommy's gonna come in after us. Sure you don't want anything?" He shook his head no and opened the door for her. Instantly hot, damp air hit his skin, filled his lungs. Thunder drummed from the west . An enormous, rumbling truck pulled out, its own roar closer than the incoming storm. "That sure was a whopper," said Callie , shaking her head. "Tommy wants to get ahead of this one. The radio said tornadoes. Do they have tornadoes in England?" "Not really " Danny dodged a puddle as he followed Callie toward the trailers and oversized trucks on the other side of the filling station. Mrs. Carson, the motel manager in Jordan Creek, had found him a ride with Tommy and Callie to southern KIOSK06 - �Illinois. They'd barely been on the road fifteen minutes before a furious wall of August storm literally slammed into their pick-up and trailer. "Did you tell your mom about tornadoes?" "No. " "Do the English really drink tea?" "Yes." There wasn't enough tea in the world to soothe Mum if she heard about tornadoes being the norm here. "That's so funny," said Callie, and then she jogged a few steps around a great red Kenworth. "Hey, Tommy!" Danny came around to see Tommy leading the chestnut into the trailer. The other two horses, merely silhouettes inside, snorted and stamped. Callie clucked her tongue and a pink, spotted muzzle poked out through the top gap. She stood on tiptoe to kiss it. Tommy shut the trailer with a loud, echoing clang. "Come on, Cal!" He rolled his eyes at Danny. "Little sisters." "You're just mad I won more than you ," said Callie. Danny opened the passenger door for her and she hopped into the cab, nearly spilling all her snacks. 'Tommy, what does Alydar mean?" Up until now, Danny hadn't minded Callie all that much. She talked enough, to be sure, but that meant he didn't worry about talking back. He slowly shut the door, wondering if he should splurge on a taxi to Illinois. "Alydar ... " Tommy wiped his sweaty brow, then started the truck. "Alydar . . . isn't he a racehorse?" "Oh yeah! " Callie dropped the candy bars on the dashboard. "Why you got a racehorse's name on your bag? Is he your favorite?" IDLE byStocy K. Boldus block ond w photogroph hite "Er- no . I just like the name ." The cab felt stuffy. Danny fidgeted with the backpack on his lap. In capital letters on the right strap, he'd written the name in black marker. It was a little smeared now, bleeding into the dark green fabric. He ran his thumb over the letters, seeing strange Hannah Allen leaving her mark in the grass. She'd moved again a month later, but not before declaring she would see all the world . "How long you've been here?" Tommy KIOSK06 37 �asked. He turned onto the road, sending the candy bars sliding around like toy cars. CLASSICAL MUSIC by K imberly Jessen block ond w photogroph hite "Four months." Danny let go of the strap and looked in front at the grey, tarveined road. "You just decide one day to go all over the place?" "Not one day. " Ten years of deciding. "Was it your someday dream?" Callie asked. He could feel her staring avidly at him. "Yes, something like that. " Danny looked at her and Tommy, the cab seeming a little less stuffy. She was thirteen, Tommy nineteen. Brother and sister finishing up rodeos together. They both smelled like sweat, dirt, and leather. 'That's crazy," said Tommy and flashed him a grin so white in a sun-beaten face. "But I like it. When are ya going back?" "In two weeks." Two weeks. He had a ticket out of Atlanta. Mum wanted him back, to register for classes and go back to college. Why should he spend more time wandering aimlessly around some wild country, wasting away his father's inheritance? Why did it feel as if he'd missed the adventure somewhere? Danny gazed out the window at cornfields parched despite their recent drenching. He could see his bag reflected in the window, angling upward, with Callie's legs arching over it like a jean rainbow. Alydar stared back, transparent as green-turning-gold fields blurred through him. "Why do you need to do this?" Mum had asked. "You were never a foolish boy." ''I'm going see the world!" said Hannah, splashing in a puddle. "A bit of it every day. " "You don't say much, do you?" Callie sighed and put her feet up on the dashboard. Don't you do it again , Daniel! Danny closed the book, slipped his ticket out, tapped it against the cover, and 38 KI OSK06 �then stood. The woman spotted him instantly, pointing like a pudgy hunting dog. "All right?" he said, offering a smile he knew she'd return out of desperation. "No , no, I'm not all right- " She in flat. ed as if to release a gale upon him, but the gate attendant spoke up . 'This lady is on stand-by, sir," he said. Not from Atlanta, this one. His stiff cut matched his humorless , pale face. Danny had to wonder if this contradiction of a Southerner had been stranded here and just never boarded another plane. "She can have my seat," said Danny. Carl, as his tag read, gave him an obligatory look of surprise. "Fine, sir. You do realize this is the only flight to Manchester tonight? The next flight is not until tomorrow evening." "Yes." "Oh, thank you , son! Thank you, thank you! " The woman moved to tackle him with gushing, burdened arms. Danny stepped a little to the side and nodded to Carl as he passed his ticket and passport over the counter. "You're such a sweetie, um- " "Danny." Alydar. "Oh, I have a nephew named Danny! " Danny nodded and watched Carl, who seemed bent on ignoring both of them as he switched the tickets. The suits were slicing through the crowded seating area, dark and smooth like eels. His row- well , not his row anymore- had at least ten minutes before being called. "Do you have any checked baggage?" Carl asked . "No." Danny shifted the backpack on his shoulders. Alydar traveled light. "This is really sweet of you , Danny. I was just telling this man about my terrible luck these days. You see, my husband and kids are- " "Here you are ," said Carl. "Mrs. Henderson- you're seat 23G. Mr. Evans? You are booked for the same flight tomorrow. Window okay?" Danny nodded. "Good. " So that was that . Danny tucked his passport away. Mum would be upset, but what did it matter? Just one more night in an airport. It would make little difference. Not like he was going anywhere , anyway. Just home after tramping around the States. He would not miss anything for one night. Mrs. Henderson clutched his arm briefly before dashing for the motley queue of coach passengers. Danny turned to leave E18 and wander down the long terminal ' when he saw Mrs. Henderson tap the shoulder of the tall young woman in front of her. "What's your seat, honey?" she said. The dark blonde turned , looking slightly baffled though her face was just short of goddess. "Oh. Um, 23F You?" "23G! Right beside me! " Danny sighed inwardly as the young woman smiled in a polite, tolerant sort of way at Mrs. Henderson. "You know something, honey?" she said. "That young man right there- just leaving, see?" Danny knew he should ignore and move on, but he hesitated. "That nice young man gave up his seat for me!" The blonde looked at him- right at him- and flashed him one of those shampoo advertisement smiles. Miss 23F He was Mr. 23G. Almost nine hours over the Atlantic Ocean. Maybe her headset would be broken, forCing her to talk to him . Nine hours . He could say something in nine hours. KIOSK06 39 �The queue moved up and she turned around. Danny blinked. He was not Mr. 23G. Nor would he ever be. He glanced down at the strap around his right shoulder. Another flight announcement, garbled somewhere down the terminal. A roar felt more than heard as a plane made the impossible leap from ground to sky. Other people on other adventures. Alydar did not envy them. His flight tonight would've been the end. An end without a single great leap of imagination. Smiling to himself, Danny straightened his shoulders and returned to E18. FOOT by Cathleen Ann 35 millimeter film 40 KIOSK06 "Sir?" Carl raised his eyebrows. "Sorry," said Alydar, "but can I change my ticket to a voucher?" Indefinite standby, was that an official term? Carl opened his mouth, perhaps to deny him, then shrugged and clicked around on his computer. Danny watched the last few passengers of Flight 745 board. He would not pass through that gate with them. Not today. Or even tomorrow. "Here you are, sir." "Cheers, mate ," Danny smiled. Then he turned and shuffled up terminal E to find something to eat. �BUBBLE GUM by Michael Cody Drury oil pointing on canvas lAKIN'1T EASY by Meredith French pastels on paper KIOSK06 41 �FROM BIG BANG EMERSION THEORY, SECTION B, VOL. 27, PAGES 123-133, 1984-1989: THE BIG PICTURE Random, thoughts go in, thoughts go out. Pay Attention. Stop Thinking. All day, these thoughts came to me. When I sat down, they fled. Left town. Some were really profound. Some were magic. Magik Like black magic. Like voodoo. Magic is manipulation. Flippity flam. Abracadabra Alakzam Alakazula Evaporation happens with energy same as magic since they are the same thing. watch -listen -learnI told the witchdoctor I was in love with you. She said I think I'll mix it up right here in the sink. Ifthiswasanactualemergencyyouwouldhavebeeninstructedwheretobuycheapcigatettes 42 KIOSK06 • �Stolen lines. stolen minutes Stolen guitars Masters of Bates Masters of Johnsons I came I saw Thank you Michael I think I thought I saw you try. and all the ships at see orange blue striated sunset clouded bitten moon full so soon can't get it out of my head, wont leave "watusi" is a word I like it rolls off the tongue like jagged glass, fresh chewed How's my stride? Have I hit it yet? it's way to late for a safety net the time of epic poems has passed like so much gas that dissipated years ago, the only trace is a chemical trace, stuck in the cracks on the floor mixed up with the dust bunnies and cookie crumbs, bread crumbs, love crumbs cosmic cockroaches skittering for cover when I stomp my foot the foot that is in the other world(dadadum I live in because I've lived my lifeNow this is the good part, this is the real part now- the truth about it. I've lived my life with a foot in two worlds, with one in each. Sometimes, I stand on one and sometimes the other. When i paint When i write When i drum I don't stand in either my feet forget the ground R ICK RECTOR KI OS K06 43 �UNDER HER SKIN BY RANDY UHL , P£:1 11~ 2006 S ummer was dying gracefully, and August heard its swan song in the late-blooming fireworks as she sat crossed-legged on the front step. It was cooling off early for late July, but warm enough still for Capri's and sangria. August hoped the slight breeze would blow away all thoughts from the phone call she received earlier, but it only brought her sadness and the sour smell of sulfur. Keeping company with cabernet, she waited for Danny, her husband , and prayed the fruity wine would do what the wind could not. Danny, much like the reports from the leftover Black Cats and Ladyfingers, was late. August assumed his meeting ran long or that the traffic from the city was congested. Whatever the reason, she didn't mind. As much as she loved him and still desired him after thirteen years , she liked the idea of having a few extra minutes to herself to straighten the twisted yarn in her head. It was only when Danny's car pulled into the driveway that August whispered to herself, "I thought I made friends with this ." The dust the wheels kick up traveled little in the near-still air. When the motor died and the car door opened, she was puzzled at first to see the Doc Martens and Levi's . Then, like a flash of light behind her eyes, she remembered what day it was. At first, Danny had remarked to her that casual Fridays were the ruination of professionalism, but as he walked about the office he realized the change in demeanor amongst the other workers . Men who were constantly checking the crease in their pants were now unafraid of sitting on the corner of desks and eating lunch from their laps. The women were spending one less day removing the rail-spike shoes and massaging their feet and calves. In short, Danny had grown to like the idea of casual Fridays. He 44 KIOSK06 liked them so much, he told her he wished more days could be casual. "Hey babe," Danny said as he walked up to her and took the drink from her hand . August grimaced as the last sliver of ice slid into his mouth. Pulverizing it with his teeth and talking with his mouth half full he added, "Sorry I'm late. Accounting lost some file and there was a bit of panic right at five o'clock. All kinds of chaos, but we got it fixed . How was your day?" He swallowed the last of her wine and threw a lime wedge onto the dusty driveway Her afternoon buzz became suddenly lonely "It was fine, " she said, revealing little expression. He took her by the hand and pulled her up from the step and into him. She smelled end-of-the-day cologne on his neck as his arms encircled her. "Are you sure?" he asked, looking down at her face and into her eyes. He had a way of making his bottom lip stick out as if he was pouting and pleading at the same time. That usually made her confess, but there was something about her particular afternoon that he couldn't put his finger on. It was as if she had been unwound, and he needed only to see her for a moment to notice . Pulling back she continued, "I just worked around the house a little ... housewife things." A smile spread across her face that he couldn't quite trust as she told him everything that was ordinary "I washed the windows and the sheets. Oh, and I started refinishing that picnic table outback. " "Is that how you got this?" Danny gently seized her by the wrist and held her hand in the air. She looked confused as she stared down at the white tissue paper cinched around her index finger with silver duct tape . Only then did she remember the bee-sting sliver the picnic table had given �her, and how she searched the house for Band-Aids. Unable to find them, she onehandedly ravaged the junk drawer and made do. She blinked twice at the paper ghost sitting on her finger and then blamed her forgetfulness on the wine. Danny peeled off the tissue paper delicately, like petals. "It's fine," August injected, pulling back as if she had just touched something hot. "It's just a little splinter from the table. It will work itself out." right back. I have to get the tweezers and a needle. Stay put. " He smiled and pointed at her and added, "I mean it." Danny then disappeared into the kitchen. As August waited she stared out the window. She could still hear the fireworks but saw no signs of them. She leaned closer to the glass, her forehead almost touching, but even in her peripheral vision, she saw no sparks. Exhaling, she breathed warm air WOODEN STUMP by Megon Wolding grophite ond chorcool drowing Danny grabbed her hand again, with more force this time, and brought her finger closer to his eyes. "Looks pretty deep to me," Danny said. "I don't even think tweezers will get to it. I'll have to use a needle," he added, catching her attention. "Let's go inside and take care of this." "Right now?" she whined and then hated herself for doing so. "Better to deal with it now," he said, "than to let it fester later. I promise you won't feel a thing." With Danny leading her into the house, August shuffled her feet. What if she wanted more time to prepare herself for the pain this little exorcism could bring? Or what if she wanted to keep this wooden souvenir as proof of her hard work? Danny always questioned what she did all day, and now she could show him. Her mind spun around for more excuses, but while August didn't like the thought of someone digging under her skin, she knew she was being ridiculous holding onto something that shouldn't be there in the first place. Reluctantly she conceded and followed Danny into the living room. "Sit here on the couch," Danny spoke in gentle tones. "The light is better in here." He opened the shades and the late afternoon sun bled into the room. "I'll be onto the glass but was surprised to see no condensation. For a moment she thought maybe she was the ghost. "I'll get it!" shouted Danny splitting the silence. Startled, August snapped her head KIOSK06 45 �QUARR E L & STRUGGLE byCassandra Spence linoleum print back. "What?" "1 said, 'I'll get it' , hon .. . the phone. I'll get the phone!" "Oh . .. okay" Dizzy in her search for her own breath, August did not hear the telephone ring. She shook her head to free herself of the wine that haunted her, but the haze did not lift. From far away she felt an ache almost as if it was outside herself. At first she could not find the source. Then she paused, concentrated, and felt the throbbing at the tip of her right hand. Looking down she saw the small crimson freckle. Thinking it was blood she tried to 46 KIOSK06 wipe it clean but found it was the splinter itself. August stared at the tiny speck just below the surface. What a small thing, she thought, to cause such bother. She tipped her head back, closed her eyes, and tried to time the explosions in her finger with the ones outside. "1 didn't lose you, did 17" Danny's voice was cold water to her face. "No," she said, her eyes opening sharply "Just closing my eyes and listening to the fireworks." Sprawled on the coffee table were tweezers, a needle, a ball of cotton, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. She hadn't heard him layout his tools. "Good," Danny said. "With all the questions surrounding the disappearance of my first wife I'm not sure how 1 would explain it." He laughed as he said this and ran his palm down the front of her face , first over her forehead, then her nose, and down past her chin as if he was closing the eyes of the one who just died. This is something he did when he wanted to say he loved her without talking. She managed a crescentmoon smile. August could faintly smell the alcohol as Danny pressed the cotton to the mouth of the bottle. Saturating it, he carefully took her hand as she stuck out her finger. Without resistance , he pulled it closer to him and with small circles cleaned the tip. "That was Piggy on the phone," Danny said, not looking up from his task at her hand. Piggy was one of August's oldest friends . Piggy wasn't her real name , but since junior high that was what everyone called her. August was Auggie and Peggy was Piggy After high school, August threw off that name as fast as she could. One too many times were they referred to as Doggie and Piggy Piggy was the only one who kept the nicknames alive. "1 told her you'd �call her back later. " Danny then took the needle and passed it through the cotton ball as if he was stringing popcorn. Setting the cotton aside and keeping the needle poised between his right thumb and forefinger, he took her right hand again in his left. As he rested the needle against her skin he said, "She wanted to know if you heard the news." She jerked backwards as if she'd been bitten. "Whoa! Hold still babe. I wasn't even close to it. " He eased her hand back in his direction to begin again. After a moment he continued. "She said some classmate of yours from high school died. I forget his name. An accident I think. " She stared at him , fixing on his eyes. "Did she say anything else?" "She said you two were close . .. that you used to date ." Not pulling away, but instead leaving herself in his hands, she said slowly and softly, "I can't talk about that right now. " "Okay hon," he replied, sensing her sorrow. "It's all right. It's okay. " His gaze lowered to the finger she had now forgotten about. After a decade of silence she said, "I should have . .. " She stopped. ''I'm ... '' For a moment she considered her words, not necessarily the right words , but her words . "I just needed it to be mine ." "Did you love him?" Danny asked. She knew she was the only girl he had ever slept with and the only one he ever would . "He loved me ," she said, but heard the words as if someone else had spoken them. "His name was Cylas." She paused. "He moved into town the winter before I was to start college. For months he didn't know I was alive, but I knew him. Then we met one night at a party, and I don't think there was a sentence I said that June didn't start with 'Cy and 1'. Cyanide," she whispered the last word , smiling at a joke only she understood. "It was July fourth and I had to work. I was waiting tables and saving tips for school. He showed up and just stood outside. I saw him out the window, and I had never wanted anything so badly. I dropped my apron and walked out. We drove up the coast on his bike and didn't get back to my parents' house till dusk. He walked me to my door, and, out of nowhere , he asked me not to go away to school. I thought he was joking," she laughed ever so slightly, she could feel her bottom lip trembling, "but then he said if I loved him, I wouldn't go ." As her words flooded the room, she stared off at the wall painted freckled apricot that Danny had chosen for her. "I was so angry. I told him I never wanted to see him again, and I ran inside and up to my room." It was her eyes flooding now and she snapped them back at her husband with brutal divulgence. "I didn't mean it! " she wailed. "... And he just stood outside calling my name. Who does that? .. . Nobody does that! " She shook her head in fear her words would not convince him. "I fell asleep that night to the sound of fireworks and his voice. When I woke in the morning . .. he was gone." August pulled her hand away, to cover her mouth and near silent sobs. Unaware that the sliver was gone , she slid down next to her husband; her back again his chest and his arms around her. They did not speak again that night, but rather listened to the rhythm of each other's breathing punctuated by lateJuly bottle rockets. KIO SK06 47 �HYPOCRISY I. Forty-six days ago my thirty-one year old brother moved back home for the eighth time this year and it was only April. My crank addicted brother hasn't been clean for more than an hour and I tried to sleep soundly while he trembled for a fix in the next room. My mother's mascara smeared as she wondered what she had done wrong. So she went out with blackened eyes to buy groceries and hoped that when she returned her jewelry would still be in its box. II . A week ago my brother got out, released after thirty days of good behavior and sent back to disrupt our happy home . He rode in on his black horse , unopened bible in hand, scoffed at our closed arms and lectured sin. He promised to stay only a day or five but that was four too many for his second-hand smoke began to seep into our healthy lungs. 48 KIOSK06 �111. Last night my brother yelled at my mother and I couldn't take it anymore. His guilt trips oozed out of him like tar and stuck to everything he touched, leaked in under shut doors and dripped down from ceilings; blackening our quiet home. He told me to stay out of it, keep my big mouth shut, but I didn't back down and for an instant I wondered if he would hit me, part of me hoped he would, so the sirens could come and he could go back to hell. RACHEL CASTILLO KIOSK06 49 �PERSONAL GENOCIDE weeds they were white well, mostly anyway white and limp with tips turning green pale corpses, dirt still clinging to limp bodies just weeds not important but my hands laid them in a row like that nice and organized, row of bodies which won't be buried rather ripped torn from soil we always dump them in the ditch after every single one has been torn from the beds unwanted STACY 50 KIOSK06 K. BALDU S �MAKE ME bruises rising to the surface after nights of drunken disillusion I don't know the story but it's gory enough to forget or misremember I might like lacking gender and jealousy and mockery and the lines of sugar running through my veins I'm a girl sweet but vain I'm a girl emotions verging on insane take my hysterics and my baby-maker and say I will make her I will make her more . . . or less JESSI PWEGER KIOSK06 51 �TRANSFORMATION by Meredith french acrylic poin~ng TEMPE RANCE FAllS by Stacy K Baldus . color photograph 52 KIOSK06 �PAGE FROM THE PAST OTHER WOMAN I wish for you , Cats and canariesA clock's loud ticking, Your empty stair-case Creaking in the night, And for the rest of your days Never a man in your house . ELEANOR M OHR, 1949 UNTITLED once i was a cow and in a barbedwiresurrouned pasture grazed i and chewed my cud and was content anopen gate .. .hesitate ... labitoffearl and boldly travel through above them and then and flew I was a bird soared and I and knew a cow I could be nevermore (for I had tasted the sky) BILL R USSELL, 1968 KI OSK06 53 �CONTRIBUTORS NOTES WRITING _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __ ART_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __ Stacy K. Baldus is a junior from Grand Meadow, MN majoring Cathleen Ann is a senior from Fort Hancock, Texas majoring in in Photography and Creative Writing. Photography, Rachel Castillo Stacy K. Baldus is a junior from Grand Meadow, MN majoring in Photography and Creative Writing. Her work has also been disp layed at the Minnesot a State Fair Fine Arts Exhibit, the Mower County Fair Fine Arts exhibit, and the Trave[ing Minnesota 4-H exhibit. IS a junior from Sioux City, [A majoring in Eng[i sh Education. This is her first contribution to the Kiosk. Stephen Coyne is a Professor of Eng[ish at Morningside Co[lege. He has served as faculty advisor to the Kiosk since [989. His short stories and poems have been published in numerous literary journals. Luke Dreier is a freshman from Aure[ia, [A majoring in Secondary Education/History, Jess Horsley is a senior from Em metsburg, [A majoring in Eng[ish Ed ucation and Creative Writing.T his is his first publication in the Kiosk. Emily Kesten is a junior from Oakland, [A majoring in Eng[ish. Last year her short story "The End of Nothing" won [st place. She is now in her second year as an assistant editor for the Kiosk. Tavia Knudsen is a junior from Sioux City, [A majoring in Creative Writing. Her story "Confession" is the first she's written since elementary school. This is her first time in the Kiosk. Jessi Plueger graduated from Morningside College in 2005 with a major in Creative Writing. She is from Sioux City, [A. She served as the ed itor in chief for the Kiosk in 2005 and w as assistant ed itor in 2004 and 2003. Crystal Quibell is a seni or from B[ue Springs, MO majoring in Creative Writ ing and Mass Communications. This is her first time as a contributor and assistant ed itor for the Kiosk. Rick Rector graduated from Morningside College in 2005 with a major in Stud io Art and a minor in Creative Writing. He currently resides in Fairbanks, A[aska. Rick has been published in four previous Kiosks: [986,2003,2004, and 2005. He received 3rd place in 2005, and [st place in 2003. He is a former assistant edit or for the magazine. Randy Uhl graduated from Morningside in [990 with a BA in Eng[i sh Ed ucation. He currently resides in Lawton, [A. Uhf has been a contributor and champion to the Kiosk for over [6 years, receiving honorable mention in [986, first prize in [995, and honorab[e mention again in [996. He recently had his work "Rare Birds" named internet poem of 2005 by Poetry.com and received $[0,000. Michael Drury is a senior from Sioux City, [A majoring in Studio Art. His work has been displayed at the Sioux City Art Center in multiple exhibitions, H ickman Johnson Fu rrow Library, and T he Iowa Biennia[ Col legiate Exhibition in Mason City, [A. Matthew Ellis is a juni or from Meadow Grove, NE majoring in Photography. His work has also been published in Food magazine in NewYonk City, Val Flanagan is a junior from New Yonk City majoring in Art Education. She has been previously published in the independent magazine ''Twist.'' Meredith French is a senior from Lemars, [A majoring in Bio[ ogy and Med ica[ Techno[ogy. Her work appears online at www. deviantart.com, www.e[fWood.com, and www.epi[ogue.com. Hemlata Gupta is a part time student from Surat, India majoring in Graphic Design. Kimberly Jessen is a junior from Ever[y, [A majoring in Studio Art and Photography. Cassandra Spence is a Sophomore from Des Moines Iowa majoring in S tudio Art. Dan Thorn is a sophomore from G[ idden, [A majoring in Studio Art. Megan Walding is a sophomore from Sioux City, [A majoring in Bio[ogy. Her work has also been displayed at the Sioux City Art Center Dan Widrowicz is a junior from Sioux City, [A majoring in Graphic Design Copyright 2006 The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication all rights revert to the authors and artists. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be suitable for children. 54 KIOSK06 ��M MORNINGSIDE LEG E COL 150 I MORNINGSIDE AVE. 06 SIOUX CITY, IOWA 5 11 The Momingside College experience cuttivates a passion for life-long learning and a dedication to ethical leadership and civic responsibility. - � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College. Through its several titles—Manuscript, Perspectives, and Kiosk—the magazine has a long history of celebrating creative writing and art on campus. It began publication in 1938 under the title of Manuscript before changing its name to Perspectives in 1953. Then in 1971 it took another name that it is known by currently: Kiosk. It is still published annually by the Morningside College English Department. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1938- Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Morningside College Library Morningside College English Department Ponder, Marcie: Digital Creator Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical PDF Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Title A name given to the resource Kiosk Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource "The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children," (The Kiosk, 2003). Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. kiosk THE LIT ERARY MAGA Z IN E OF MORNIN GS IDE COLLEGE 2006 kiosk VOLUM E 68 2006 THE LI TERARY MAGAZ IN E OF MORNIN GS IDE COLLEGE KIOSK06 3 STAFF Editor in Chief Cliff Thompson Assistant Editors PROSE Lacey Bensink Jess Horsely Emily Kesten Marcie Ponder POETRY Rachel Castillo Crystal Quibell Angela Phillips Mallory Trudell ART Cathleen Ann Matthew Ellis Andrea Gleiser Brenda Lussier Graphic Design Team Brianna Blake Nikki Kent Dan Widrowicz Megan Wunsch Copy Editors Emily Kesten Cassandra Peck Faculty Advisors Stephen Coyne John Kolbo Terri McGaffin 4 KIOSK06 - LETTER FROM THE EDITOR CUFF THOMPSON The new millenium has been kind to the Kiosk and its readers. While not taking away from the quality of writing or editing in the long tradition of the magazine, I think Volume 68 has taken a bold and wonderful step which will begin new traditions to carry the magazine into the next millenium. I'd settle for a century or two. This year's edition demonstrates a great collaboration of people from all across Morningside's campus. The familiar writers and editors of the magazine's literary past coupled with new faculty members, artists, photographers, and graphic designers to bring this book together, and the result is more than satisfying. Whether contributing works or helping layout the magazine, these people have been a sincere joy to work with. Of course I would be remiss if I did not recognize the people who made it possible to have the success we've enjoyed. President John Reynders is the largest thank you on the list, without his foresight (money) and blesSing (more money), this magazine could never have become exactly what it is: EDITOR'S CHOICE This year's Kiosk cover, "Lakota November" by Meredith French was chosen to grace the front of the magazine. The artist received $50 for the contribution. The writing Editor's Choice winner was "Going Picasso" by Randy Uhl. a true compilation of Morningside's artistic and literary ability put together in a visual package that does the artists justice. The second large thank you goes out to Dr. Stephen Coyne, my professor, advisor, and friend. In four years at Morningside I've learned about creative writing from him, but also a lot about life Sitting in his office having conversations both lighthearted and serious. His importance to this magazine every year is as the lookout on a ship, calling back guidance from the bow to an editor sailing in unsure waters. The third large thank you goes out to The Kiosk .' -. \ T kiosk H E H ~'~ John Kolbo and Terri McGaffin. We went from first actual meeting to working associates in a few short months. It was certainly my pleasure. They put in hours above and beyond their already busy lives to indulge my whims. Without John, there would be no volume 68. I am grateful. A final thank you to all the people up and down the line who made this possible, from Marcie Ponder the English Department secretary to the design team to the artists themselves. I 0 S H TH E KIOSK EVOLUTION from left to right 2003,2004,2005, 2006 Now go and enjoy Kiosk reader. Whether you want to learn to do a flying elbow drop or just enjoy the finest art and writing MorningSide can produce, you are only a few pages away. Thanks for reading. KlOSK06 5 CONTENTS WRITING 9 Catanalysis STEPHEN COYNE The Quarter Past Five RANDY UHL 10 By the Light STACY K. B ALDUS 11 In This Room L UKE DREIER 17 Battlefield Mathematician JESS H ORSLEY 18 ~lof~ 2006 Cherry CRYSTAL Q UIBELL 19 Confession T AVIA K NUDSEN 22 My Scene STACY K. B ALDUS 30 Going Picasso RANDy UHL 31 's . '" ~t'~ ~ 2006 Alydar Goes Round Again E MILY KESTEN 32 ,,0"1<V w' '" ~ n Oft 2006 Big Bang Emersion Theory R ICK RECTOR 42 Under Her Skin RANDY UHL 44 ~ p~ ~41~ 2006 48 Hypocrisy RACHEL CASTILLO Personal Genocide STACY Make Me JESSI PLUEGER 51 Page from the Past M OHR , R USSELL 53 K. B ALDUS 50 ABOUT OUR JUDGES: Ann Struthers is a visiting professor and writer-in-residence at Coe College in Cedar Rapids, IA. She has had numerous works published in literary journals and anthologies. She is the author of four collections of poetry and was recognized in 2005 as Morningside's Alumni Educator of the Year. She received her Bachelor's in English at Morningside in 1958. Kevin Kjeldseth is the owner/proprietor of Kjeldseth Design in Sioux City. He earned his Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from the University of South Dakota, with a focus in photography and design. He has volunteered his talent and time to the arts community, designing posters for Saturday in the Park and Artsplash for many years. All entries are considered objectively by the judges with no artist name or speCial consideration for any piece. Staff members are eligible for contest placement but not prize money. 6 KIO SK06 ART Lakota November MEREDITH FRENCH 1 ~tf~ .. ~ ", 2006 Gate STACY Peacock Feathers KIMBERLY JESSE N 11 Floyd Monument CATHLEEN ANN 13 Dappled STACY K. 14 Momma's Boy MICHAEL CODY DRURY 16 Love at First Sight VALERIE FLANAGAN 16 How to do a Flying Elbow Drop DAN WIDROWICZ 20 The Alley KIMBERLY JESSEN 21 Snow Fence KIMBERLY JESSEN 21 Bare Essentials MEREDITH FRENCH 22 Backyard at Dawn CATHLEEN ANN 24 Open Mind Open Doors KIMBERLY JESSEN 26 Prayer STACY K. 27 6 Easy Steps HEMLATA G UPTA K. BALDUS BALDUS BALDUS 8 28 $1~'~ 0 ~ ?.r ~ ~ 2006 Still Ones VALERIE FLANAGAN 28 Heaven and Hell DAN THORN 29 The Outfit KIMBERLY JESSEN 32 Tree STACY K. 34 Little Cowgirl MATTHEW ELLIS 35 Idle STACY K. 37 Classical Music KIMBERLY JESSEN 38 Foot CATHLEEN ANN 40 Bubble Gum MICHAEL CODY DRURY 41 Takin It Easy MEREDITH FRENCH 41 Wooden Stump MEGAN WALDING 45 Maydune KIMBERLY JESSEN 46 Transformation MEREDITH FRENCH 52 Temperance Falls STACY ~1~'~ ~~~ 2006 K. BALDUS BALDUS BALDUS 52 KIOSK06 7 .. GATE by Stacy KBaldus . block and white photograph 8 KIOSK06 CATANALYSIS Momma? Dead. Siblings? Dead. No one to love her during those early weeks- Cat was weaned in the bath and learned to love spigot and tub and whatever porcelain she could snuggle up to- shower, sink, stool, especially stool, which became the ark of kitty mysteries, center of Cat's cosmos. When I flush , kitty bounds to the rim and then steps down into the bowl, down to the water's edge to wonder at what has just left. I say "No, kitty, Pssst! Get out of the toilet!" But Cat barely glances my way as if to say, "sorry (though not very), my business here is more important than yours." Where must the swirling water, with its little growl there at the end, go? You can tell, Cat wants to know. Certainly that water will come back again. This is the physics of hope. So with a brutal sort of mercy I take the lid off the tank and show Cat the mechanism, flush it several times. She is amazed and instructed. But once the lid's back on, Cat's wonder is as great as it ever was . So I take Cat into the basement and have one of the kids flush. I let Cat hear the pipes, the water leaving. But nothing diminishes Cat's amazement, her aching forward at the toilet swirl. Every flush brings her banging through the door to peer again into the unknown- The swirl, like a prayer, deepens with each repetition her reverence, her rapt attention to the experiment repeated from every Single angle of pure mystery and hope, the exact shape and sound and meaning of one long gone, but still going, Momma. STEPHEN C OYNE KIOSK06 9 J THE QUARTER PAST FIVE When Katie Wept she wailed like a woman scorned. She shattered trees with her fists While her tempest tantrums were all the rage . Sun and song went on holiday and the world, punch-drunk and dizzy-headed, shuffled her feet. Skeptics placed bets after she stormed out doubting that the raw would heal. So tell me , if jazz can return to the quarter and honey-drip again on Beale ... why can't I get you to come home to me? RANDY UHL 10 KI OSK06 By THE LIGHT BY STACY T K. BALDUS he lights of the combine went out and dark quickly covered the field . The impression of the light remained on Fred's retinas, like the ghost image of fireworks . This used to be his favorite part of the night. When the machines were quiet, the lights went off, the field harvested. He would sit on the dirt, his back leaning against the mammoth tires of the combine, and look up. The stars stretched on forever above him, laid out like a shimmering dust sprinkled on black cloth. Sometimes, he would sit there for over ten minutes, letting his eyes adjust to the night, the echoes of the combine's roar fading away in his ears. The lights of the combine went out. He didn't look up. Checking to make sure his pocket knife was still clipped to his belt, he made his way towards the pickup . Carol had given the knife to him not long after they were married. The dry corn stalks crunched under his boots as he walked. Shorn stalks rose crookedly from the soil, skeletal fingers which broke beneath his Red Wings. He didn't look up tonight. He was sore. His back ached, his eyes were dry, and his ears were ringing. Maybe he was getting too old for this. Carol and he were not as young as they once were. He'd been farming for close to forty years. Carol - she'd been working as a teaching assistant at the local school for 22 years. Fred blinked, trying to rewet his eyes. He climbed into the dusty pickup, throwing his cooler to the passenger side and slamming the door shut behind him. The latch on the old door wouldn't hold unless the door was slammed. Dust floated up at the motion, clogging the air before settling down only to be shaken up again when the diesel engine sputtered to life. Carol had always refused to ride in his pickup. It was too dirty He pulled out onto the gravel road, the headlights bouncing with the potholes. From his peripherals he could see how the light just brushed the passing corn fields . Most of them were harvested now, empty graveyards awaiting winter. The green light of the digital clock caught his eye. 1:37. Carol would be in bed. They hadn't talked today They hadn't talked since driving back from the house tour in town. That was Monday It was Thursday Their oldest daughter had set up the meeting with the real estate agent. She'd even come to tour the house with them. She had seemed excited. He and Carol hadn't said anything. The town house was small, but nice, not far from the grocery store. It was just him and Carol now. It would mean less house work for Carol. The lawn wouldn't take seven hours to mow. It was practical. Fred didn't think Carol's garden would fit in the backyard. His daughter thought it was an exciting option. It wasn't like they'd need the grain bins or machine sheds anymore. He parked the pickup in front of the grain dryer and walked towards the house. No lights were on, just the yard light tinting the tan siding of the house orange. His own shadow preceded him to the door, seeming somehow diminished. The outline seemed frail and slumped. It was like the shadow of an old man. He opened the door and went down the cement steps to the basement to take off his boots and shower. He didn't hear Carol come down the PEACOCK FEATHERS b Kimberly Jessen y relief linoleum cut KIOSK06 II - The upper part of the house was Carol's domain, with soft white carpet, large windows, and her potted plants. During the day, the spacious layout glowed with light. Everything from orchids, African violets, ivies, and even a pineapple grew in various pots lining the windows. Fred wasn't in the house much during the day At night, he rarely turned the lights on, letting the shadowy orange which crept in the windows from the yard light gUide his step. The brilliant orchid blooms and the various greens of the plants all faded to blacks and grays occasionally highlighted by a sliver of orange. He dropped the dirty clothes off at the laundry room and headed straight for the kitchen to get a glass of water. The kitchen was different. There the florescent lights flickered on and the kitchen was a glowing wash of white. White linoleum, white walls, white countertops. And dishes. Fred stiffened. There were dishes - dirty dishes - piled in the sink. And on the counter. In their 40 years of marriage, Fred could count on one hand the number of times Carol had left the dirty dishes laying out. The pans reflected the light glaringly into his eyes. He looked away A glossy red paper on the counter caught his eye. Edina Realty It was the pamphlet from the open house they toured on Monday The top right hand corner of the paper was crumpled, like a fist had squeezed it too tightly Fred reached out, touching the paper lightly, as if it would burn him. They hadn't said much to each other after the tour. But it had started before that , with the letters. The letters printed neatly on nice stationary politely informing him the land he had worked for over 35 years was no longer his to farm. They'd become more frequent over the last five years. Anderson's , where he'd put in all new tile lines. The Old's, where he put in a new waterway Hanson's, the work in progress acreage where he'd cleaned out the bushes, small trees, and large boulders. One by one, they went to a higher bidder, a corporate farmer. At first, it just meant tightening things up . Letting his full time hired-hand go , not buying the new tractor he needed. Last winter, he received four letters. 1600 acres gone in a flash, and that was it. The landowners in the city had done what was right for them. Someone else could offer them more. After this year, he just wouldn't have enough land to make farming work. He and Carol would leave the home place and move into town. Carol would work a few more years at the school before retiring. And he ... he didn't know what he'd do. Fred pressed his hand down, flattening the paper and stopping his hands from shaking. He smoothed the paper out, pressing firmly to keep it from curling. Crease lines still marred the glossy advertisement. Hastily, he picked it up and put it in the color coordinated folder, slicing his finger on the edge of the paper. It didn't bleed. He pushed the red folder to the edge of the counter. The dishes. It had to have been nearly a week's worth of dishes sitting out. He hadn't noticed before tonight. He'd never looked. The dishes clanged together as he gathered them up. He rinsed them, scrubbing furiously at the congealed food. The ones that didn't fit into the dishwasher, he hand washed. Scalding water and soap stung his various cuts and softened the calloused hands. He wiped down the countertops, then scrubbed them with bleach. Carol had said it was the only thing which got the stains out, made the counter tops FLOYD MONUMENT byCathleen Ann 35 millimeter film KIO SK06 13 white. He put everything away. Except the red folder. It had no place. The folder, his watch and his pocket knife all still sat on the corner of the white counter top . DAPPLED byStocy KBoldu . s blockond white photogroph 14 He walked over and picked up the case which held his knife. The worn and cracked leather was soft and familiar. One snapped button and the knife slid out. The wooden handle was smooth, worn to a dull, soft texture by years of use with his own hands. He carefully pried the knife open, revealing the blade. It was nothing fancy, just a well made, functional knife . He'd taken care of it , keeping the blade sharp and free of rust. The metal no longer gleamed like it had when new. He often used the knife out in the fields, everything from opening seed bags to envelopes. The dishes were washed, the countertops clean, and the red folder sat there. The watch said it was now after 3:00. There was nothing more he could do . Frost coated the landscape the next morning. The shorn stalks in the field and Carol's dead flowers in her outdoor pots rested in their own casings of frozen dew. Fred woke to find her side of the bed already empty. He'd slept too late. The bed springs groaned as he slowly got up, his joints stiff and uncooperative. While dressing, he'd stopped and looked at the frost. November. It would be snow soon. He finished dreSSing, clipped his knife to his belt, and headed to the kitchen for some cold cereal. The smell alerted him first. Rich coffee and bacon fried up in a pan, not zapped in a microwave. Fred turned the corner and stopped. On the table was a small crockery vase with a few clippings of dusky red mums. The delicate green leaves curled over the rim of the vase, resting lightly on the grey ceramic. The sturdy stems were still green and held up a full head of petals, still slightly damp from the melted frost. Carol was over at the stove, flipping over the bacon, her wispy hair loosely pulled back into a bun. Two glasses of orange juice sat side by side at the table. The red folder was no longer on the counter. "Sit down. I'll bring you a plate ." Carol KI OSK06 I J --------------_._- motioned with her hands , one waving a spatula. Smile lines crinkled on her face . "Don't you have to work today?" "Teacher's workshop. They didn't need me today." Fred nodded and sat down, one hand picking at his mustache. Turned away from Carol, he could still hear the fat in the bacon pop . She briefly flitted into view, setting a cup of coffee down next to his juice. "The bacon will be just a minute. " Fred just nodded again, continuing to pick at his mustache. This was new. They never had breakfast together. It didn't work with their schedules, espeCially in the fall . Normally, he'd stumble around the kitchen, not quite awake yet and methodically pour himself a bowl of cereal. "Here. Careful, the coffee's hot. " She set a plate of eggs, bacon, and burnt toast down in front of him, then made a place for herself next to him. Carol sat down, newspaper and pencil in hand. The paper rustled as she carefully and neatly folded it back, revealing the crossword puzzle. Fred watched as she picked up her fork, spearing the slightly watery scrambled eggs, all while focusing on No.1 Across. He turned back to his own plate. The toast was slightly burnt, but the sunny-side up eggs looked good. The bacon was hot and crisped to perfection. Carol put her hand on his knee and he turned to look over at her suddenly serious face . "Thanks for taking care of the dishes." He nodded, placing his own, rough hand over hers and squeezing it for a moment. She smiled briefly, and turned back to the crossword, filling in 3 Across. Fred reached for the apple butter to spread over his toast. "I see your mums made it through another frost. " "Yeah, but no doubt the next one will get them." He nodded, chewing on the toast. The apple butter did a decent job of covering the burnt taste. "What's under a steering wheel and all over Greece?" She was chewing the end of her pencil. "Columns," Fred said. The pencil made a scratching noise as she filled in 7 Down. He took another bite of his toast . He didn't mind his toast a little burnt. Fred looked out the window at the sky. It was still the pale blue of morning and Carol's mums had survived the frost. KIO SK06 15 - MOMMA'S BOY by Michael Cody Drury oil pointing on canvas lOVE AT FIRST SIGHT by Valerie Flanagan acrylic and oil painting 16 K10SK06 - IN THIS ROOM BY L UKE DREIER S tanding in the doorway of this stinking pit gives me the chance to think about a lot of things. Literally I am here to push the weight of all this metal. I look at the rust on my hands I've collected from the bar on the bench press. No air flows here in the summer. It's hot, and it's humid. Just the way I like it. I have it firmly placed in my mind that this heat, this weight, is all here to try and break me , to conquer me. It stinks in here , like sweat, like rust , like my two week old puke in the blue trash can by the door. Nothing but the metal I have blasting out of the piece of crap stereo can be heard. I have no place to wipe the sweat off my face, my shirt is soaked in it. I am half way through breaking myself to build myself up . This place truly is a dark dungeon, perfect. Each morning I wake up at exactly 9 AM to come here . I am angry right away I choke down 3 egg whites and some toast , fill my dirty water jug up and make the drive up to this place. I stretch, put on the perfect music to get even more pissed off. I am pissed because I have lost so much time in the past and I need to fix it. I load the bar up with 2 forty five pound plates on each side, swing my arms just before I sit down on the edge of the bench slab. The same thing every time. I am waiting for the perfect part of the song to make my adrenalin spike up and my anger to hit its peak. I crack my back and lay down underneath the weight, I think about how my girlfriend of two years cheated on me with three of my friends, think about my friend that died last year, the little niece that I will never get to see until I am buried someday, I think about my friend that took his life after Christmas. I am pissed at the world, and the last thing now that is trying to stop me is that weight on the bar. I wrap my fingers around it and lift it up. I lower it down towards my chest, I know everyone is better than me, I alone have the power to change this . I repeat the movement of the bar towards my chest which burns now, along with my triceps in the back part of my upper arms. I scream out, hoping someone hears the beast inside of me needing to get out. The burning feels like fire to match that inside my soul. The rest of this workout is a blur. Nothing is gained if I don't make myself sick. I am punishing my triceps and my chest, punishing myself because of my weaknesses. It is hot as hell. This pain is good , I love this pain. I am standing in the doorway now, this place gives me plenty of time to think about myself, and my life. I alone have the ability to beat all the weakness out of me, the ability to overcome a life that has seen better days. This room is where it starts. KIOSK06 1 7 BATTLEFIELD MATHEMATICIAN Add U.N. inspectors, U.S. government support. Subtract truth, add {pseudo} public support and {a parody oD patriotism. Add a deadline. Minus a deadline. Add war. Add the media and me , a U.S. Marine , subtracting months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, and seconds left "in country." Add stress, U.S. casualties. Divide rounds fired by enemy KIA; subtract life , youth, innocence. Add a lonely spouse at home , mail. Subtract birthdays, Christmas, a first child's birth. Multiply by 140,000 troops. Divide Iraq, add more troops and accidental Iraqi civilian dead. Add a bit of truth and subtract Iraqi support. Add a little more , subtract U.S. public support. Minus Saddam, add more conservative media and imitation patriotism. Add more troops, body-armor, longer deployments, more U.S. casualties. Multiply grief, pain, tears. Add dead sons, brothers, husbands , fathers, daughters, sisters, wives, mothers. Multiply grief, pain, tears again. J ESS H ORSLEY 18 KIOSK06 J CHERRY A plump, rose tinted dream of sweet succulence hangs in front of his face . He rolls his fingers over the slippery skin and squeezes ever so gently. A bit of juice seeps out and runs down his hand. He closes his eyes and licks the tart liquid from his fingers. CRYSTAL QUIBELL KIOSK06 19 How TO DO A FLYING ELBOW DROP by Dan Widrawicz digital illustration 20 KIOSK06 - THE AllEY by Kimberly Jessen blo(k and white photograph SNOW fENCE by Kimberly Jessen blo(k and white photograph KIOSK06 21 CONFESSION By TAVIA KNUDSEN I BARE ESSENTIALS by Meredith French postels on poper 22 KIOSK06 guess I've just always liked blood. I was never into girly things like dolls, dresses , or playing house, so when I was about five my dad taught me how to ride his StingRay. At the time I didn't appreciate how old it was, I just liked that it was bright red and I didn't have to use training wheels anymore . I remember pedaling fast down the sidewalk by our neighbor's house . She was a nice lady, but her house always creeped me out. Her front porch was enclosed and shadowy and it always made me feel like something was watching. Passing her house, I pedaled as fast and as hard as I could, trying to escape the watchers from her house . One afternoon I got too close to the three feet high concrete wall that separated her yard from the sidewalk. My right side scraped against the wall and I fell down. My dad rushed over, scared, hoping I was okay. I was in a bit of a daze. Once I was on my feet I noticed my pinky was throbbing. I put it up to my face for inspection and saw that it was bleeding and the scraped skin was peeled back. My knee , too, hadn't gone unscathed.I remember thinking how odd it was that the blood on my finger was bright red while the blood on my knee was darker, almost maroon. Fascinating. Over the next few days I had decided that the scab on my knee was the coolest thing I'd ever seen. If I picked it off, it grew back. I guess this cause and effect was really interesting to me because I constantly picked at it. When it bled, I licked the blood off of my finger. Maybe that's when I realized that I liked the taste of blood. Don't get me wrong, I'm not like a vampire or anything. Those things aren't real. I suppose if they were, though, I wouldn't mind being one. I couldn't drink a vat of blood or anything, maybe just a sip or a lick of it. I just love how blood smells and tastes metallic. It's like the smell of your hands after you get done crossing the monkey bars on a playground. Very much like iron. As I got older I needed bigger and better things to amuse me. Skinned knees and scabs didn't trip my trigger anymore . I always liked the way squirrels died with their eyes open after they'd been hit by a car. Their round, black, marble eyes just staring off into space. But I was only ten when I'd realized this so I couldn't drive. I think that killing a squirrel by car is a little too impersonal anyway. It took me a while to get the hang of it. You have to be very patient when killing a squirrel. They're too alert to not notice a person near them. Quick, too, little bastards. On the day of my first successful squirrel hunt I brought a bag of sunflower seeds with me. I scattered them around the base of a tall elm that I knew was heavily populated with the little critters. Then I sat and waited with a large stone in my hand. About twenty minutes later my efforts were rewarded. A lard-ass of a squirrel crept over to the seeds and started breaking them open, searching for the tasty treat inside. All the while his tail twitched in a Morse code-like fashion and his eyes stayed fixed on some object in front of him. I slowly raised my right arm and threw the rock with a quick, hard jerk. Stupid animal, never knew what hit him. I threw a few more , aiming for his head. I wanted to make sure he was dead before I examined him. One reason was because my mom had always told me squirrels were filthy little creatures and I was afraid I'd be bitten. The other reason is because I can't stand suffering. It's just not right. When I was positive he was dead I unzipped my backpack and took out a pair of yellow cleaning gloves (my mom always kept those around the house) and a small utility knife I'd taken from the garage. I armed myself with these tools and knelt down by the pudgy ball of fur. I don't remember being nervous or queasy, just curious. I parted the red-brown fur of the deceased and made an incision in its skin. Then I pulled open the hole I had created and put my gloved hands inside, squishing the blood between my fingers. It felt like I was scooping the guts out of a pumpkin. I couldn't believe how warm an animal's body was even after it wasn't alive. This made me want to experiment. I thought of how in the winter you can see your breath. Warm air hits cold air and it looks like smoke. I wanted to know if the warmth inside a body could do this when it wasn't being protected by skin. I waited patiently until it was cold enough. I bided my time with birds and more squirrels. It's not that I hate animals, I have a cat that I love very much. The world's overpopulated enough as it is so it doesn't matter if one or two creatures have to go. Their time is limited anyway. Winter came with its snow and subzero temperatures. The dog across the street was always yapping all night long. We couldn't get him to stop . My mom hated that dumb thing. He was getting old. I wouldn't have hurt a puppy, they don't know any better. The dog's name was Bunny. His owners didn't give a crap about him. He stayed out all night but they probably didn't realize it because they were always gone. My mom said they liked the bars. Thanks to them, Bunny was an easy target. I did it after school one day. Bunny was rummaging through our trash. Of course he never had a collar on. I brought him some cold turkey left over from Thanksgiving. I needed a lure and he needed a decent last meal. I made him follow me to the wooded area behind my house. He probably didn't think twice about the bat in my right hand, why would he? Idiot. It only took about four slugs to the head to kill the useless beast. By that time I had upgraded from my backpack to a medium-sized gym bag. I liked that it had two handles. I felt like a doctor carrying around surgical tools. Poor old Bunny, he looked even mangier dead than alive. You couldn't see his eyes anymore because they had been smashed further back into his skull. His dirty blonde coat was matted around the neck from the blood. Some of it had spattered onto his back. This made me realize that I needed to start wearing something disposable over my clothes so they didn't get ruined during my escapades. Garbage bags or cheap plastic ponchos were my chosen garb after this kill. My allowance money helped pay for them. The knife I used on Bunny had a longer and stronger blade than the knife I had used in my previous experiments. It used to belong in the kitchen but then became a device my dad used to pry the lids from stubborn paint cans. I put on my gloves and held the knife firmly in my hand. I think I stabbed a bit harder than I was supposed to because I wasn't used to cutting into something that large. I thought I had needed to use more force. Oops. Don't worry, though, I figured it out when I hit KIOSK06 23 the frozen ground underneath him. I sliced him wide open and forced my hands inside to separate the skin. My cheeks hurt from the big stupid grin I had when the steam formed from the cold air hitting his insides. Unfortunately it didn't last long. I hadn't quite figured out that a good thing can't last. After the steaming stopped I mashed my hands around inside of him. Although he wasn't steaming he was still a BACKYARD AT DAWN byCathleen A nn 35 m illimeter film 24 KIOSK06 bit warm. I was having a lot of fun, but I was kind of nervous that someone would catch me. This made me throw up on the dog's mutilated head. Bunny went out with our trash that night. Noone needed to see that. His owners just figured he ran away and my parents thought running away was the best thing that could have ever happened to him. Stupid old Bunny When I was 14, I had moved on a bit from killing birds, squirrels, and the usual stray cat or dog. Now I had friends and something way cooler- my period. Like I said, blood's fascinating. I wasn't one of those ninnies that thought I was dying when I got it. Middle school Sex Ed. classes prepared me for the big day I still can't believe how much blood is lost in the course of a week. My gynecologist told me that I lose more blood than an average woman because fibroid tumors run in the family Sometimes they detach themselves from the walls of my uterus during my period and it looks like I've just had a miscarriage. It's pretty funny Oh, but don't worry The tumors are benign so I'm in no danger of dying anytime soon. In high school I was dating some guy You kriow, you go out with them just because they asked you to the formal. Well, maybe you don't know. Whatever. Anyway, we'd been dating for about six or seven months and he kept bugging me. He thought he'd waited long enough to get some "real" action. What a moron. I told him he'd have to wait until my period was over for that month, and he totally bought it. He knew I had lied though when we finally did have sex because he hadn't met a single virgin who bled like I did. He deserved it. Always pawing at me and acting like a lovesick donkey What a riot it was to see all the blood on him down there . I still laugh every time I think about that. We broke up shortly after that. When I got to be a senior in high school, I decided to do some charity work. I knew it would look good on my college applications. I wasn't hanging out with my friends much anymore because all they wanted to do was drink and have sex while all I wanted to do was get into a decent school. I started out serving meals at a soup kitchen. I felt horrible for those poor people. Like I said, I hate suffering. They were all grimy and wore hand-me-downs that smelled of moth-balls and filth . Working there I met a woman who worked for a homeless shelter, and I decided to do some work with her. Just a few hours a week. I really liked it. I sat in on interviews that she held with domestic violence victims and their children. She held these quite often because there were so many cases. The interviews helped determine whether the victims needed housing assistance and decided what other aid was available to them. It was depressing. I also helped the lady with the annual headcount of the homeless. That's not what it's really called, I just think it sounds better. It wasn't a huge shock that most of the people living on the streets were men since the majority of the shelters are geared for women with children. Through this I was able to learn where most of the homeless in the area camped out during the winter. It's where you'd usually think they stayed- under bridges and in abandoned buildings. Because it was February and freezing, I thought it was the perfect time for me to go above and beyond my work at the shelter. I knew it would take time, though. As the saying goes, "Rome wasn't built in a day. " I knew that I was capable of ending at least a few of the lost souls' suffering. Besides, I had neglected my hobby far too long. It was only natural that I'd need to get better equipment for my task. I figured that the more I could look as though I fit in with these people the better. I bought myself a large, brown, nylon duffel bag and placed it on a dirt road where I rolled over it with my car several times. Occasionally I got out and repositioned it so that it would be battered from every angle . You may think this sounds a little drastic but I put a lot of thought into it. You can't do a half-assed job with a hobby like this . I also picked up a musty, holey old trench coat from a second-hand shop and wore some old clothes and shoes I'd used for painting underneath. Tools. That was the hard thing. I wasn't exactly sure what I was going to need or whether or not I planned on properly disposing of the body. Would there be a huge investigation into the killing of a homeless man? I didn't really intend to find out, so I bought a hacksaw and a short-handled ax, just in case. Several knives of different lengths, too, were packed into my bag along with plastic drop clothes, garbage bags, and cold turkey and ham sandwiches- as with Bunny, everyones gotta have a decent last meal. By the time I was ready to set out I was so nervous with excitement that I threw up in the toilet before I left. Butterflies were having a party in my stomach and blood was rushing through my veins, making my temples throb- it sounded like there was a waterfall crashing through my head. I also made sure to pee before I took off because I always have to pee when I'm excited. I love that feeling. I think I'm gonna miss it. That first time back in the game didn't go off as smoothly as I had hoped. This was to be expected though. Absence tends to do this. I decided to start under one of the bridges because I thought an abandoned building might have too many homeless people living in it. I would've hated to have someone interrupt my project. I parked my car about a mile down the road from the site. This part was easy because I chose an old bridge by the railroad tracks that didn't see much action by way of traffic . You're probably wondering how I didn't freeze to KIOSK06 25 - death on the walk there but if you know anything about adrenaline you'd know I was plenty warm and ready to go . I'll admit I was a bit disappointed when I came upon the scene. Movies always show bunches of homeless people around a fire with bottles of booze in hand. No fire, no booze. Only we do . I approached him and said, 'Hey, you lookin' for a bite to eat?' I think that community colleges ought to offer a Hobo Lingo course because, let me tell you, it was awkward. Eventually I convinced him that I was cool and we sat down to eat. He smelled really bad and his teeth were brown so when I took a bite and started chewing I had to turn my head 'cuz I was gagging. We didn't talk much but I did manage to learn his name. I figured that with a project like this I needed to get personal. It wasn't like I was sending a nickel a day to help some poor starving kid in Africa that I would never meet, I was doing something good for someone with a face and a name. I ended up waiting until he was asleep to actually do my work. I rolled him gently onto his back and waited to ensure that he was truly out. Then I reached into my back and pulled out a large knife with a newly sharpened blade and eyed his neck. I wanted to make it quick and clean. As with Bunny I wasn't sure how much force to use so I estimated high. That part was okay, but what I hadn't really counted on was the eruption of the jugular. What a mess. You'd think I would have learned from all the movies I'd watched. What a dummy! I made a mental note to poison the food to kill them before I started cutting so that I could roll them onto a drop cloth first. OPEN MINDS. OPEN DOORS by Kimberly Jessen black and w photograph hite 26 KIOSK06 one guy, too, so that cheered me up. I approached him, trying to look as vagrant-like as possible. Maybe he didn't notice that my fingernails were clean and that my hair was a bit shinier than it should have been. Oh well. We learn from these things and it only makes us better at what Next I pulled out the plastic drop cloth and spread it across the ground. I tugged an arm and a leg to slide him onto it. He wasn't heavy at all due to malnourishment. That reinforced my good feelings about the project. I stifled a few giggles when his head kept bounCing back and the neck wound gushed and sputtered. It reminded me of how sock puppets' mouths are so wide, this one was puking crimson though. Once he was settled on the plastic I rest of February and into mid-March. I figgrabbed my saw. I thought working on deured that when the weather got warmer taching the rest of the head would be my there was no need for me to help the homebest move to start with. I knelt down and less as much. After the first one it was so braced one hand on his chest. With my easy. I learned to bring alcohol along with right hand I positioned my saw and started me because if they drank enough it made cutting back and forth. The saw was a bad them pass out sooner than the poison in choice. All it served to do was chew up the the food killed them. Disposal became less soft flesh and then the pieces of skin that of a hassle, too . I still used the same techgot caught between the teeth needed to be niques but I just got faster at it. There were cleared away too often. Thank goodness I'd only seven people who received my aid brought that ax along. It made nice even that year. No one's ever noticed the missing cuts. For the rest of the body all I had to do transients, but our area's homeless popuwas use short, quick, hacking motions and lation has decreased in the past five years I had soon removed the arms and legs from . that I've volunteered at the shelter. his torso. The separate parts of his body I'm done with school now and I've been were then all bagged individually and I deoffered a position a few hundred miles from posited them all in different areas, tossing here. My boyfriend, too , we've been dating them far out into the river. I was so happy for three years now. He's asked me to marry when I returned to my car. him! I'm so excited. I can't wait to start a I became better at this throughout the family. I think we'll be wonderful parents. PRAYER byStO(y KBaldus . blo(k and w hite photograph KIO SK06 27 STill ONES by Valerie Flanagan acrylic painnng 28 KIOSK06 SIX EASY STEPS by Hemlata Gupta digital iIIustraHon HEAVEN AND HEll by Dan Thorn acrylic painHng on canvas KIOSK06 29 My SCENE This is my scene. newspaper mulch chicken wire fence octagonals twisted with no Latin name. No person company only dirt and seeds. Written word worthless, merely hands kneading soil moist and seeping through my plain blue jean poems. Just my wandering mind while I spade soil, lay rows and grow my vegetables. There is no canon here nearest voice echo miles away. Linger here small purpose in shade of grain bin smell of soybeans, and pretend that this is my only scene. STACY B ALDUS 30 KIOSK06 GOING PICASSO Cooling you said "1 can't see you anymore" But still 1 sparked So 1 changed rearranged my nda my very marrow to keep us lit Devouring Kafka 1 chased monarchs on the backs of ticking crocs Anything to nickel and dime the lost boy whom you left, frozen Puzzled 1 tore myself apart and blindly back together hand to eyes heart to sleeve blood to knees 1 went Picasso all for you . Squinting you said "1 can't see you anymore" RANDY U HL KIOSK06 31 ALYDAR GOES ROUND AGAIN BY E MILY KESTEN 8~IDJ>& n ... , '" ~ 2006 . T he woman was in tears. Danny had seen it before. She had the same look they all had, the same pleading, scrunched-up , wretched face of all ttrose on stand-by. Her hair was properly flying about like a descendent of Einstein, and her purse slipped off her shoulder down to her elbow like a toddler struggling to break free . Danny saw her and all this before she even reached E18. He slouched in his hard plastic chair and thumbed his boarding pass. A cloudy spot hovered just above his flight number. He wiped his lenses with the hem of his tatty, green sweater, slipped the glasses up his nose again, and nodded satisfactorily at the clarity of his ticket. "Please, sir- " She had the staggered, stumbling shuffle down pat. Danny opened his dog-eared paper- THE OUTFIT by Kimberly Jessen black and white photograph 32 KIOSK06 back, the stand-by woman's Midwest accent echoing all the stand-by speeches before. He glimpsed the middle-aged couple across from him rolling their eyes in annoyance and then leaning into one another, muttering as their eyes pointed: Look, look! There's a wretch of the world, look! ''I'm sorry, ma'am, but we are full- " "No, no , you don't understand- " "Something may open up, but it's unlikely ... " Why did the airlines always say such things? Give hope and then snatch it away? "We will begin boarding shortly. Maybe someone checked-in but didn't make it. I can't guarantee anything. This is an international flight , ma'am. " In other words: You have no hope , ma'am. Danny rubbed the worn top corner of his book. A cheap , insignificant airport novel. Four dollars at a concourse C shop in Denver. He doubted the name printed on the spine in sky blue lettering actually belonged on the author's birth certificate. He doubted the author would claim it. Still, he'd read it and marked it , and now opened it again in Atlanta. The inside flap read Property of Alydar in blue ink. Alydar. Not the name on his ticket. He supposed he was a bit like the cheap novel's author. But wasn't he supposed to be like its hero? "Ma'am, if you could just wait over there ... " Hannah would've thought so. "Don't go over there! Hannah!" Danny ignored the breathless shout and hunkered down a little further against the mossy stonewall as he turned page 115 in his book. Everyone was screaming and giggling. The other kids liked being outof-doors. "Hannaaaah! " Squinting, he read: Hornblower swallowed the realisation that it was possible for a man not to be able to conti"Haaannaaah! " "Oh, shut it! " - to continue from that point"HA- " ''I'm just havin' a look!" He couldn't ignore the girl's bellow. The words on the page were a bit blurry, anyway. Peeking over his library book, Danny saw a girl turn away from her shouting brother and head toward him. Bugger, he thought, trying to hunch further into his navy school blazer. Try to be as invisible as possible. Maybe she wouldn't see him. Maybe no one would notice. The last thing he needed was for the Miss on break duty to catch him reading. Ignore her, she'll go away. Danny stared at the page, squinting until the words cleared. - to be able to continue"Wot choo doin'?" Danny said nothing. Maybe she'd go away. SometimeS' the others bothered him for a few ml n tes, but they all tired of it / eventually. "I said- ' He didn't look up. "Well, ooobviously!" Then she giggled. And didn't go away. Hannah was new. She hadn't learnt like the others. Danny rested the book against his knees and looked up . Slouched, muddy stockings and dirty knees- she'd get four demerits from the headmistress for those. Her plaid skirt was just as rumpled, but Danny doubted she cared. Hannah Allen stood in front of him, hands on her hips, leaning forward a bit as if studying some little rodent in a hole. "Why you readin'?" "I like to. " Danny peeked around her. The Miss was too busy yelling at Mike Barleyton for kicking the ball onto the caretaker's shed roof. Good. "Me as well," said Hannah. She gave a little twirl and then slid down the wall beside him. "But I like ball. Don't you like bam" Danny shook his head and tried to scoot a little away without her noticing. She leaned over, peering at the book. He leaned away. Hannah looked at him and "Readin~." KIOSK06 33 is odd. Even odder than her brother, they went on, and he isn't even from here . The Allen twins weren't twins. They weren't even related. Tony was from India. "I doubt Tony's his real name!" Charlotte had declared. "Wot's your name?" He watched her muddy heels disappear deeper and deeper into the trenches. "Danny" "No!" Hannah giggled, then whispered, "No. Your real name ." TREE by Stocy K. Boldus block ond white photogroph grinned, her blue eyes disappearing under a gingery fringe. "Why don't you read on the steps?" "The Miss will see me." Hannah tossed her head, boy-cut hair flopping out of her eyes. "So?" "Ten-year-old boys are supposed to play ball," he said, quoting the Miss. Almost everyone had stopped playing and were watching Mr. Wikers, the caretaker, climb onto his shed for the ball. He was redfaced and probably swearing to Jesus' entire family "That's silly" Hannah gave her head another toss and dug her heels into the grass. Two black, soggy furrows, like trenches on a green plain. "She lets the girls read, if they want. She tells me I shouldn't play ball. I have to . Who else will kick to Tony?" Danny stopped leaning away from her. Everyone said that new girl, Hannah Allen, 34 KIOSK06 "What are you on about?" She was leaning into him again, a sharp elbow in his arm. Pinning him. Cheers went up across the yard. Mr. Wikers had chucked the ball at Mike Barleyton and the Miss was giving him an earful. "Mine's Felipe," said Hannah, unmindful of the ruckus. She pronounced it Fuhleap. Like the final breath before leaping off a cliff. "Felipe?" God, everyone was right. She really was barking mad. "But that's a boy's name." Hannah crossed her eyes and dug deeper with her feet. "Like I don't know that." Two mounds of black mud sat at the end of her trenches. The toes of her black shoes barely came to the top. "But that's my name ." She stopped her digging and whipped her head around, looking very grave. "Don't tell anyone, all right?" "That your name is Felipe?" "Yes." Hannah ran a finger over her lips. He could see dirt under her nail and purple marker smudges. "It's a secret. " "Why?" "You need a name." Hannah tapped her bottom lip and scrunched her nose up. "A real name. One no one else knows ." "Why?" That seemed rather pointless, didn't it? Wasn't the point of names was so everyone knew what to call you? Danny wished he could get back to his book before Miss blew the whistle. Hannah sighed and slid her heels until her skinny, scraped-up legs stuck straight out. "Such a question." For a long moment, she didn't say anything, and Danny lifted the book again. Hornblower swallowed the realisation that it was possible for a man not be able to continue from that point with"Such a question," muttered Hannah. The Miss's whistle pierced through the screams and shouts. It bounced off the school's stone walls, the ivy doing little to muffle it. Why didn't ivy work like hedges? Danny wondered. He sighed and started to get up . Hannah snatched his arm. "Get a name! A real name." She looked a little ill, Danny noticed. Feverish, how bright her eyes were, her cheeks too red to be normal. "Hurry along!" the Miss shouted. ''The slow coach gets a demerit!" Danny walked forward, but Hannah kept on him like a pup. "A real name is the best thing," she said, fast and low. "You can do anything with it! Be anyone . Just like the books." "You're mad," he said. His thumb kept him in his closed book as he walked toward the Miss. She was frowning at him, whistle in hand, even though Mike Barleyton and his friends were still kicking the ball around instead of queuing up. "That's right ," Hannah grinned. She gave her head another toss. "1 am mad. Felipe is off her nut!" The Miss blew her whistle again. Han- nah twirled away, then sprinted to her form's queue. Danny watched her go, then shuffled up behind his classmates, and opened the book. - to continue from that point with a single leap of his imagination. "We will now begin boarding for flight number 547 at gate E16, non-stop to Frankfurt . . ." Two waves of grumbling excitement washed through the terminal. The Frankfurt-bound rose as if in a stadium, bending and twisting for coats and carry-ons, muttered excuse mes and frantic where's my passes blurring over the row announcements. Only the business suits cut a swath through the confusion, needless of common affairs such as row announcements. They were too sharp for the back world of crying children, haggard parents, and confused tourists. At EIS, the second wave rumbled and shifted enviously as wrists twisted to check the time and an anxious few doublechecked their tickets and passports. The stand-by woman watched it all with lips tucked between her teeth, her large, brown purse bobbing over the floor as she fidgeted . A bottom button had popped open on her faded blue blouse, revealing a white undershirt stretched over her rolled belly. She watched the Frankfurt flight board, as llTIlE COWGIRL byMatthew Ellis black and w photograph hite KIOSK06 35 if spotting empty seats to Germany Danny glanced around, slipping his boarding pass into the book. Don't you do it, he could hear his mother chiding. She puffed up like a dragon, the roar of a jumbo jet giving the tarmac one last kiss filling her lungs. Don't you do it again, Daniel Evans! He stared down at the blue ink. Property of Alydar. The boarding pass said Daniel Evans. The woman began making little whimpering noises as the gate attendant reached for his microphone. Boarding would begin. Would anyone care to give-up their seat to this wretched woman and wait another day to cross the ocean? Would anyone like to put life on hold because the airline doublebooked? Anyone? Anyone at all? The payphone settled with a plastic-tometal click-thunk just as another burst of thunder rolled over the Texaco. His mum's tirade echoing from overseas. Danny stared at the orgy of smudged thumbprints covering the black, cracked phone. He felt sweat gathering around the thin plastic between his thumb and forefinger. To his left a toilet flushed and a stolid, bearded man in a stained cowboy hat came out of the 100, zipping his jeans. Danny quickly looked away and pushed his glasses up. He must look daft, standing here , staring at the phone. Slipping the now useless calling card into his pocket, he went to the large, tinted windows overlooking the vast truck-stop lot. The next set of heavy blue and green clouds were marching in from the west. They flattened the already stretched Iowa landscape. Weary straggler clouds still dawdled behind the 36 first thunderstorm continuing east. Danny hitched up the backpack on his shoulder. It was August. He'd been traveling for four months. That's what the calendar claimed, anyway "A-lee-dar .. ." He startled and turned at the girl's voice. Callie Woods grinned up at him , her blonde, messy ponytail and worn overalls still wet from the rain. "That sounds familiar, " she said. "What's it from? Get your mom called? We're done walking the horses. You need anything to drink or eat? I've got lots of snacks." She held sunburned arms up like a cradle. A young mother of Cherry Coke, Pepsi, and assorted candy bars and Cheetos. Danny blinked, feeling like a distant news correspondent with delayed feedback. "Er ... yes, I've called Mum. No , I'm fine , ta." "I love how you talk so funny," said Callie. "Always wondered if the English really talked like that. So, they really do? Oh- we better hurry up or Tommy's gonna come in after us. Sure you don't want anything?" He shook his head no and opened the door for her. Instantly hot, damp air hit his skin, filled his lungs. Thunder drummed from the west . An enormous, rumbling truck pulled out, its own roar closer than the incoming storm. "That sure was a whopper," said Callie , shaking her head. "Tommy wants to get ahead of this one. The radio said tornadoes. Do they have tornadoes in England?" "Not really " Danny dodged a puddle as he followed Callie toward the trailers and oversized trucks on the other side of the filling station. Mrs. Carson, the motel manager in Jordan Creek, had found him a ride with Tommy and Callie to southern KIOSK06 - Illinois. They'd barely been on the road fifteen minutes before a furious wall of August storm literally slammed into their pick-up and trailer. "Did you tell your mom about tornadoes?" "No. " "Do the English really drink tea?" "Yes." There wasn't enough tea in the world to soothe Mum if she heard about tornadoes being the norm here. "That's so funny," said Callie, and then she jogged a few steps around a great red Kenworth. "Hey, Tommy!" Danny came around to see Tommy leading the chestnut into the trailer. The other two horses, merely silhouettes inside, snorted and stamped. Callie clucked her tongue and a pink, spotted muzzle poked out through the top gap. She stood on tiptoe to kiss it. Tommy shut the trailer with a loud, echoing clang. "Come on, Cal!" He rolled his eyes at Danny. "Little sisters." "You're just mad I won more than you ," said Callie. Danny opened the passenger door for her and she hopped into the cab, nearly spilling all her snacks. 'Tommy, what does Alydar mean?" Up until now, Danny hadn't minded Callie all that much. She talked enough, to be sure, but that meant he didn't worry about talking back. He slowly shut the door, wondering if he should splurge on a taxi to Illinois. "Alydar ... " Tommy wiped his sweaty brow, then started the truck. "Alydar . . . isn't he a racehorse?" "Oh yeah! " Callie dropped the candy bars on the dashboard. "Why you got a racehorse's name on your bag? Is he your favorite?" IDLE byStocy K. Boldus block ond w photogroph hite "Er- no . I just like the name ." The cab felt stuffy. Danny fidgeted with the backpack on his lap. In capital letters on the right strap, he'd written the name in black marker. It was a little smeared now, bleeding into the dark green fabric. He ran his thumb over the letters, seeing strange Hannah Allen leaving her mark in the grass. She'd moved again a month later, but not before declaring she would see all the world . "How long you've been here?" Tommy KIOSK06 37 asked. He turned onto the road, sending the candy bars sliding around like toy cars. CLASSICAL MUSIC by K imberly Jessen block ond w photogroph hite "Four months." Danny let go of the strap and looked in front at the grey, tarveined road. "You just decide one day to go all over the place?" "Not one day. " Ten years of deciding. "Was it your someday dream?" Callie asked. He could feel her staring avidly at him. "Yes, something like that. " Danny looked at her and Tommy, the cab seeming a little less stuffy. She was thirteen, Tommy nineteen. Brother and sister finishing up rodeos together. They both smelled like sweat, dirt, and leather. 'That's crazy," said Tommy and flashed him a grin so white in a sun-beaten face. "But I like it. When are ya going back?" "In two weeks." Two weeks. He had a ticket out of Atlanta. Mum wanted him back, to register for classes and go back to college. Why should he spend more time wandering aimlessly around some wild country, wasting away his father's inheritance? Why did it feel as if he'd missed the adventure somewhere? Danny gazed out the window at cornfields parched despite their recent drenching. He could see his bag reflected in the window, angling upward, with Callie's legs arching over it like a jean rainbow. Alydar stared back, transparent as green-turning-gold fields blurred through him. "Why do you need to do this?" Mum had asked. "You were never a foolish boy." ''I'm going see the world!" said Hannah, splashing in a puddle. "A bit of it every day. " "You don't say much, do you?" Callie sighed and put her feet up on the dashboard. Don't you do it again , Daniel! Danny closed the book, slipped his ticket out, tapped it against the cover, and 38 KI OSK06 then stood. The woman spotted him instantly, pointing like a pudgy hunting dog. "All right?" he said, offering a smile he knew she'd return out of desperation. "No , no, I'm not all right- " She in flat. ed as if to release a gale upon him, but the gate attendant spoke up . 'This lady is on stand-by, sir," he said. Not from Atlanta, this one. His stiff cut matched his humorless , pale face. Danny had to wonder if this contradiction of a Southerner had been stranded here and just never boarded another plane. "She can have my seat," said Danny. Carl, as his tag read, gave him an obligatory look of surprise. "Fine, sir. You do realize this is the only flight to Manchester tonight? The next flight is not until tomorrow evening." "Yes." "Oh, thank you , son! Thank you, thank you! " The woman moved to tackle him with gushing, burdened arms. Danny stepped a little to the side and nodded to Carl as he passed his ticket and passport over the counter. "You're such a sweetie, um- " "Danny." Alydar. "Oh, I have a nephew named Danny! " Danny nodded and watched Carl, who seemed bent on ignoring both of them as he switched the tickets. The suits were slicing through the crowded seating area, dark and smooth like eels. His row- well , not his row anymore- had at least ten minutes before being called. "Do you have any checked baggage?" Carl asked . "No." Danny shifted the backpack on his shoulders. Alydar traveled light. "This is really sweet of you , Danny. I was just telling this man about my terrible luck these days. You see, my husband and kids are- " "Here you are ," said Carl. "Mrs. Henderson- you're seat 23G. Mr. Evans? You are booked for the same flight tomorrow. Window okay?" Danny nodded. "Good. " So that was that . Danny tucked his passport away. Mum would be upset, but what did it matter? Just one more night in an airport. It would make little difference. Not like he was going anywhere , anyway. Just home after tramping around the States. He would not miss anything for one night. Mrs. Henderson clutched his arm briefly before dashing for the motley queue of coach passengers. Danny turned to leave E18 and wander down the long terminal ' when he saw Mrs. Henderson tap the shoulder of the tall young woman in front of her. "What's your seat, honey?" she said. The dark blonde turned , looking slightly baffled though her face was just short of goddess. "Oh. Um, 23F You?" "23G! Right beside me! " Danny sighed inwardly as the young woman smiled in a polite, tolerant sort of way at Mrs. Henderson. "You know something, honey?" she said. "That young man right there- just leaving, see?" Danny knew he should ignore and move on, but he hesitated. "That nice young man gave up his seat for me!" The blonde looked at him- right at him- and flashed him one of those shampoo advertisement smiles. Miss 23F He was Mr. 23G. Almost nine hours over the Atlantic Ocean. Maybe her headset would be broken, forCing her to talk to him . Nine hours . He could say something in nine hours. KIOSK06 39 The queue moved up and she turned around. Danny blinked. He was not Mr. 23G. Nor would he ever be. He glanced down at the strap around his right shoulder. Another flight announcement, garbled somewhere down the terminal. A roar felt more than heard as a plane made the impossible leap from ground to sky. Other people on other adventures. Alydar did not envy them. His flight tonight would've been the end. An end without a single great leap of imagination. Smiling to himself, Danny straightened his shoulders and returned to E18. FOOT by Cathleen Ann 35 millimeter film 40 KIOSK06 "Sir?" Carl raised his eyebrows. "Sorry," said Alydar, "but can I change my ticket to a voucher?" Indefinite standby, was that an official term? Carl opened his mouth, perhaps to deny him, then shrugged and clicked around on his computer. Danny watched the last few passengers of Flight 745 board. He would not pass through that gate with them. Not today. Or even tomorrow. "Here you are, sir." "Cheers, mate ," Danny smiled. Then he turned and shuffled up terminal E to find something to eat. BUBBLE GUM by Michael Cody Drury oil pointing on canvas lAKIN'1T EASY by Meredith French pastels on paper KIOSK06 41 FROM BIG BANG EMERSION THEORY, SECTION B, VOL. 27, PAGES 123-133, 1984-1989: THE BIG PICTURE Random, thoughts go in, thoughts go out. Pay Attention. Stop Thinking. All day, these thoughts came to me. When I sat down, they fled. Left town. Some were really profound. Some were magic. Magik Like black magic. Like voodoo. Magic is manipulation. Flippity flam. Abracadabra Alakzam Alakazula Evaporation happens with energy same as magic since they are the same thing. watch -listen -learnI told the witchdoctor I was in love with you. She said I think I'll mix it up right here in the sink. Ifthiswasanactualemergencyyouwouldhavebeeninstructedwheretobuycheapcigatettes 42 KIOSK06 • Stolen lines. stolen minutes Stolen guitars Masters of Bates Masters of Johnsons I came I saw Thank you Michael I think I thought I saw you try. and all the ships at see orange blue striated sunset clouded bitten moon full so soon can't get it out of my head, wont leave "watusi" is a word I like it rolls off the tongue like jagged glass, fresh chewed How's my stride? Have I hit it yet? it's way to late for a safety net the time of epic poems has passed like so much gas that dissipated years ago, the only trace is a chemical trace, stuck in the cracks on the floor mixed up with the dust bunnies and cookie crumbs, bread crumbs, love crumbs cosmic cockroaches skittering for cover when I stomp my foot the foot that is in the other world(dadadum I live in because I've lived my lifeNow this is the good part, this is the real part now- the truth about it. I've lived my life with a foot in two worlds, with one in each. Sometimes, I stand on one and sometimes the other. When i paint When i write When i drum I don't stand in either my feet forget the ground R ICK RECTOR KI OS K06 43 UNDER HER SKIN BY RANDY UHL , P£:1 11~ 2006 S ummer was dying gracefully, and August heard its swan song in the late-blooming fireworks as she sat crossed-legged on the front step. It was cooling off early for late July, but warm enough still for Capri's and sangria. August hoped the slight breeze would blow away all thoughts from the phone call she received earlier, but it only brought her sadness and the sour smell of sulfur. Keeping company with cabernet, she waited for Danny, her husband , and prayed the fruity wine would do what the wind could not. Danny, much like the reports from the leftover Black Cats and Ladyfingers, was late. August assumed his meeting ran long or that the traffic from the city was congested. Whatever the reason, she didn't mind. As much as she loved him and still desired him after thirteen years , she liked the idea of having a few extra minutes to herself to straighten the twisted yarn in her head. It was only when Danny's car pulled into the driveway that August whispered to herself, "I thought I made friends with this ." The dust the wheels kick up traveled little in the near-still air. When the motor died and the car door opened, she was puzzled at first to see the Doc Martens and Levi's . Then, like a flash of light behind her eyes, she remembered what day it was. At first, Danny had remarked to her that casual Fridays were the ruination of professionalism, but as he walked about the office he realized the change in demeanor amongst the other workers . Men who were constantly checking the crease in their pants were now unafraid of sitting on the corner of desks and eating lunch from their laps. The women were spending one less day removing the rail-spike shoes and massaging their feet and calves. In short, Danny had grown to like the idea of casual Fridays. He 44 KIOSK06 liked them so much, he told her he wished more days could be casual. "Hey babe," Danny said as he walked up to her and took the drink from her hand . August grimaced as the last sliver of ice slid into his mouth. Pulverizing it with his teeth and talking with his mouth half full he added, "Sorry I'm late. Accounting lost some file and there was a bit of panic right at five o'clock. All kinds of chaos, but we got it fixed . How was your day?" He swallowed the last of her wine and threw a lime wedge onto the dusty driveway Her afternoon buzz became suddenly lonely "It was fine, " she said, revealing little expression. He took her by the hand and pulled her up from the step and into him. She smelled end-of-the-day cologne on his neck as his arms encircled her. "Are you sure?" he asked, looking down at her face and into her eyes. He had a way of making his bottom lip stick out as if he was pouting and pleading at the same time. That usually made her confess, but there was something about her particular afternoon that he couldn't put his finger on. It was as if she had been unwound, and he needed only to see her for a moment to notice . Pulling back she continued, "I just worked around the house a little ... housewife things." A smile spread across her face that he couldn't quite trust as she told him everything that was ordinary "I washed the windows and the sheets. Oh, and I started refinishing that picnic table outback. " "Is that how you got this?" Danny gently seized her by the wrist and held her hand in the air. She looked confused as she stared down at the white tissue paper cinched around her index finger with silver duct tape . Only then did she remember the bee-sting sliver the picnic table had given her, and how she searched the house for Band-Aids. Unable to find them, she onehandedly ravaged the junk drawer and made do. She blinked twice at the paper ghost sitting on her finger and then blamed her forgetfulness on the wine. Danny peeled off the tissue paper delicately, like petals. "It's fine," August injected, pulling back as if she had just touched something hot. "It's just a little splinter from the table. It will work itself out." right back. I have to get the tweezers and a needle. Stay put. " He smiled and pointed at her and added, "I mean it." Danny then disappeared into the kitchen. As August waited she stared out the window. She could still hear the fireworks but saw no signs of them. She leaned closer to the glass, her forehead almost touching, but even in her peripheral vision, she saw no sparks. Exhaling, she breathed warm air WOODEN STUMP by Megon Wolding grophite ond chorcool drowing Danny grabbed her hand again, with more force this time, and brought her finger closer to his eyes. "Looks pretty deep to me," Danny said. "I don't even think tweezers will get to it. I'll have to use a needle," he added, catching her attention. "Let's go inside and take care of this." "Right now?" she whined and then hated herself for doing so. "Better to deal with it now," he said, "than to let it fester later. I promise you won't feel a thing." With Danny leading her into the house, August shuffled her feet. What if she wanted more time to prepare herself for the pain this little exorcism could bring? Or what if she wanted to keep this wooden souvenir as proof of her hard work? Danny always questioned what she did all day, and now she could show him. Her mind spun around for more excuses, but while August didn't like the thought of someone digging under her skin, she knew she was being ridiculous holding onto something that shouldn't be there in the first place. Reluctantly she conceded and followed Danny into the living room. "Sit here on the couch," Danny spoke in gentle tones. "The light is better in here." He opened the shades and the late afternoon sun bled into the room. "I'll be onto the glass but was surprised to see no condensation. For a moment she thought maybe she was the ghost. "I'll get it!" shouted Danny splitting the silence. Startled, August snapped her head KIOSK06 45 QUARR E L & STRUGGLE byCassandra Spence linoleum print back. "What?" "1 said, 'I'll get it' , hon .. . the phone. I'll get the phone!" "Oh . .. okay" Dizzy in her search for her own breath, August did not hear the telephone ring. She shook her head to free herself of the wine that haunted her, but the haze did not lift. From far away she felt an ache almost as if it was outside herself. At first she could not find the source. Then she paused, concentrated, and felt the throbbing at the tip of her right hand. Looking down she saw the small crimson freckle. Thinking it was blood she tried to 46 KIOSK06 wipe it clean but found it was the splinter itself. August stared at the tiny speck just below the surface. What a small thing, she thought, to cause such bother. She tipped her head back, closed her eyes, and tried to time the explosions in her finger with the ones outside. "1 didn't lose you, did 17" Danny's voice was cold water to her face. "No," she said, her eyes opening sharply "Just closing my eyes and listening to the fireworks." Sprawled on the coffee table were tweezers, a needle, a ball of cotton, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. She hadn't heard him layout his tools. "Good," Danny said. "With all the questions surrounding the disappearance of my first wife I'm not sure how 1 would explain it." He laughed as he said this and ran his palm down the front of her face , first over her forehead, then her nose, and down past her chin as if he was closing the eyes of the one who just died. This is something he did when he wanted to say he loved her without talking. She managed a crescentmoon smile. August could faintly smell the alcohol as Danny pressed the cotton to the mouth of the bottle. Saturating it, he carefully took her hand as she stuck out her finger. Without resistance , he pulled it closer to him and with small circles cleaned the tip. "That was Piggy on the phone," Danny said, not looking up from his task at her hand. Piggy was one of August's oldest friends . Piggy wasn't her real name , but since junior high that was what everyone called her. August was Auggie and Peggy was Piggy After high school, August threw off that name as fast as she could. One too many times were they referred to as Doggie and Piggy Piggy was the only one who kept the nicknames alive. "1 told her you'd call her back later. " Danny then took the needle and passed it through the cotton ball as if he was stringing popcorn. Setting the cotton aside and keeping the needle poised between his right thumb and forefinger, he took her right hand again in his left. As he rested the needle against her skin he said, "She wanted to know if you heard the news." She jerked backwards as if she'd been bitten. "Whoa! Hold still babe. I wasn't even close to it. " He eased her hand back in his direction to begin again. After a moment he continued. "She said some classmate of yours from high school died. I forget his name. An accident I think. " She stared at him , fixing on his eyes. "Did she say anything else?" "She said you two were close . .. that you used to date ." Not pulling away, but instead leaving herself in his hands, she said slowly and softly, "I can't talk about that right now. " "Okay hon," he replied, sensing her sorrow. "It's all right. It's okay. " His gaze lowered to the finger she had now forgotten about. After a decade of silence she said, "I should have . .. " She stopped. ''I'm ... '' For a moment she considered her words, not necessarily the right words , but her words . "I just needed it to be mine ." "Did you love him?" Danny asked. She knew she was the only girl he had ever slept with and the only one he ever would . "He loved me ," she said, but heard the words as if someone else had spoken them. "His name was Cylas." She paused. "He moved into town the winter before I was to start college. For months he didn't know I was alive, but I knew him. Then we met one night at a party, and I don't think there was a sentence I said that June didn't start with 'Cy and 1'. Cyanide," she whispered the last word , smiling at a joke only she understood. "It was July fourth and I had to work. I was waiting tables and saving tips for school. He showed up and just stood outside. I saw him out the window, and I had never wanted anything so badly. I dropped my apron and walked out. We drove up the coast on his bike and didn't get back to my parents' house till dusk. He walked me to my door, and, out of nowhere , he asked me not to go away to school. I thought he was joking," she laughed ever so slightly, she could feel her bottom lip trembling, "but then he said if I loved him, I wouldn't go ." As her words flooded the room, she stared off at the wall painted freckled apricot that Danny had chosen for her. "I was so angry. I told him I never wanted to see him again, and I ran inside and up to my room." It was her eyes flooding now and she snapped them back at her husband with brutal divulgence. "I didn't mean it! " she wailed. "... And he just stood outside calling my name. Who does that? .. . Nobody does that! " She shook her head in fear her words would not convince him. "I fell asleep that night to the sound of fireworks and his voice. When I woke in the morning . .. he was gone." August pulled her hand away, to cover her mouth and near silent sobs. Unaware that the sliver was gone , she slid down next to her husband; her back again his chest and his arms around her. They did not speak again that night, but rather listened to the rhythm of each other's breathing punctuated by lateJuly bottle rockets. KIO SK06 47 HYPOCRISY I. Forty-six days ago my thirty-one year old brother moved back home for the eighth time this year and it was only April. My crank addicted brother hasn't been clean for more than an hour and I tried to sleep soundly while he trembled for a fix in the next room. My mother's mascara smeared as she wondered what she had done wrong. So she went out with blackened eyes to buy groceries and hoped that when she returned her jewelry would still be in its box. II . A week ago my brother got out, released after thirty days of good behavior and sent back to disrupt our happy home . He rode in on his black horse , unopened bible in hand, scoffed at our closed arms and lectured sin. He promised to stay only a day or five but that was four too many for his second-hand smoke began to seep into our healthy lungs. 48 KIOSK06 111. Last night my brother yelled at my mother and I couldn't take it anymore. His guilt trips oozed out of him like tar and stuck to everything he touched, leaked in under shut doors and dripped down from ceilings; blackening our quiet home. He told me to stay out of it, keep my big mouth shut, but I didn't back down and for an instant I wondered if he would hit me, part of me hoped he would, so the sirens could come and he could go back to hell. RACHEL CASTILLO KIOSK06 49 PERSONAL GENOCIDE weeds they were white well, mostly anyway white and limp with tips turning green pale corpses, dirt still clinging to limp bodies just weeds not important but my hands laid them in a row like that nice and organized, row of bodies which won't be buried rather ripped torn from soil we always dump them in the ditch after every single one has been torn from the beds unwanted STACY 50 KIOSK06 K. BALDU S MAKE ME bruises rising to the surface after nights of drunken disillusion I don't know the story but it's gory enough to forget or misremember I might like lacking gender and jealousy and mockery and the lines of sugar running through my veins I'm a girl sweet but vain I'm a girl emotions verging on insane take my hysterics and my baby-maker and say I will make her I will make her more . . . or less JESSI PWEGER KIOSK06 51 TRANSFORMATION by Meredith french acrylic poin~ng TEMPE RANCE FAllS by Stacy K Baldus . color photograph 52 KIOSK06 PAGE FROM THE PAST OTHER WOMAN I wish for you , Cats and canariesA clock's loud ticking, Your empty stair-case Creaking in the night, And for the rest of your days Never a man in your house . ELEANOR M OHR, 1949 UNTITLED once i was a cow and in a barbedwiresurrouned pasture grazed i and chewed my cud and was content anopen gate .. .hesitate ... labitoffearl and boldly travel through above them and then and flew I was a bird soared and I and knew a cow I could be nevermore (for I had tasted the sky) BILL R USSELL, 1968 KI OSK06 53 CONTRIBUTORS NOTES WRITING _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __ ART_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __ Stacy K. Baldus is a junior from Grand Meadow, MN majoring Cathleen Ann is a senior from Fort Hancock, Texas majoring in in Photography and Creative Writing. Photography, Rachel Castillo Stacy K. Baldus is a junior from Grand Meadow, MN majoring in Photography and Creative Writing. Her work has also been disp layed at the Minnesot a State Fair Fine Arts Exhibit, the Mower County Fair Fine Arts exhibit, and the Trave[ing Minnesota 4-H exhibit. IS a junior from Sioux City, [A majoring in Eng[i sh Education. This is her first contribution to the Kiosk. Stephen Coyne is a Professor of Eng[ish at Morningside Co[lege. He has served as faculty advisor to the Kiosk since [989. His short stories and poems have been published in numerous literary journals. Luke Dreier is a freshman from Aure[ia, [A majoring in Secondary Education/History, Jess Horsley is a senior from Em metsburg, [A majoring in Eng[ish Ed ucation and Creative Writing.T his is his first publication in the Kiosk. Emily Kesten is a junior from Oakland, [A majoring in Eng[ish. Last year her short story "The End of Nothing" won [st place. She is now in her second year as an assistant editor for the Kiosk. Tavia Knudsen is a junior from Sioux City, [A majoring in Creative Writing. Her story "Confession" is the first she's written since elementary school. This is her first time in the Kiosk. Jessi Plueger graduated from Morningside College in 2005 with a major in Creative Writing. She is from Sioux City, [A. She served as the ed itor in chief for the Kiosk in 2005 and w as assistant ed itor in 2004 and 2003. Crystal Quibell is a seni or from B[ue Springs, MO majoring in Creative Writ ing and Mass Communications. This is her first time as a contributor and assistant ed itor for the Kiosk. Rick Rector graduated from Morningside College in 2005 with a major in Stud io Art and a minor in Creative Writing. He currently resides in Fairbanks, A[aska. Rick has been published in four previous Kiosks: [986,2003,2004, and 2005. He received 3rd place in 2005, and [st place in 2003. He is a former assistant edit or for the magazine. Randy Uhl graduated from Morningside in [990 with a BA in Eng[i sh Ed ucation. He currently resides in Lawton, [A. Uhf has been a contributor and champion to the Kiosk for over [6 years, receiving honorable mention in [986, first prize in [995, and honorab[e mention again in [996. He recently had his work "Rare Birds" named internet poem of 2005 by Poetry.com and received $[0,000. Michael Drury is a senior from Sioux City, [A majoring in Studio Art. His work has been displayed at the Sioux City Art Center in multiple exhibitions, H ickman Johnson Fu rrow Library, and T he Iowa Biennia[ Col legiate Exhibition in Mason City, [A. Matthew Ellis is a juni or from Meadow Grove, NE majoring in Photography. His work has also been published in Food magazine in NewYonk City, Val Flanagan is a junior from New Yonk City majoring in Art Education. She has been previously published in the independent magazine ''Twist.'' Meredith French is a senior from Lemars, [A majoring in Bio[ ogy and Med ica[ Techno[ogy. Her work appears online at www. deviantart.com, www.e[fWood.com, and www.epi[ogue.com. Hemlata Gupta is a part time student from Surat, India majoring in Graphic Design. Kimberly Jessen is a junior from Ever[y, [A majoring in Studio Art and Photography. Cassandra Spence is a Sophomore from Des Moines Iowa majoring in S tudio Art. Dan Thorn is a sophomore from G[ idden, [A majoring in Studio Art. Megan Walding is a sophomore from Sioux City, [A majoring in Bio[ogy. Her work has also been displayed at the Sioux City Art Center Dan Widrowicz is a junior from Sioux City, [A majoring in Graphic Design Copyright 2006 The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication all rights revert to the authors and artists. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be suitable for children. 54 KIOSK06 M MORNINGSIDE LEG E COL 150 I MORNINGSIDE AVE. 06 SIOUX CITY, IOWA 5 11 The Momingside College experience cuttivates a passion for life-long learning and a dedication to ethical leadership and civic responsibility. -  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Kiosk: Volume 68 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Subject The topic of the resource Student Publications Description An account of the resource The Kiosk contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2006 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-11-02 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Thompson, Cliff: Editor-in-Chief Bensink, Assistant Editor, Prose Horsely, Jess: Assistant Editor, Prose Kesten, Emily: Assistant Editor, Prose; Copy Editor Ponder, Marcie: Assistant Editor, Prose Castillo, Rachel: Assistant Editor, Poetry Quibell, Crystal: Assistant Editor, Poetry Phillips, Angela: Assistant Editor, Poetry Trudell, Mallory: Assistant Editor, Poetry Ann, Cathleen: Assistant Editor: Art Ellis, Matthew: Assistant Editor, Art Gleiser, Andrea: Assistant Editor, Art Lussier, Brenda: Assistant Editor, Art Blake, Brianna: Graphic Design Kent, Nikki: Graphic Design Widrowicz, Dan: Graphic Design Wunsch, Megan: Graphic Design Peck, Cassandra: Copy Editor Coyne, Stephen: Faculty Advisor Kolbo, John: Faculty Advisor McGaffin, Terri: Faculty Advisor Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical 56 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Coyne, Stephen: Author Uhl, Randy: Author Baldus, Stacy K.: Author Dreier, Luke: Author Horsley, Jess: Author Quibell, Crystal: Author Knudsen, Tavia: Author Kesten, Emily: Author Rector, Rick: Author Castillo, Rachel: Author Plueger, Jessi: Author Mohr, Russel: Author French, Meredith: Artist Baldus, Stacy K.: Artist Jessen, Kimberly: Artist Ann, Cathleen: Artist Drury, Michael Cody: Artist Flanagan, Valerie: Artist Widrowicz, Dan: Artist Gupta, Hemlata: Artist Thorn, Dan: Artist Ellis, Matthew: Artist Walding, Megan: Artist Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-11-02 Kiosk Manuscript Perspectives student publications http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/7d24ac4595fa918aa3ae8a293ecdde0e.pdf a7337492c0740ef5fcd2cc4315741311 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Kiosk: Volume 40 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Kiosk contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ponder, Marcie Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2014-1-23 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-12-19 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-19 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF 3.93 MB 52 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Kiosk-Vol40_KDC_1978_01-01_01.pdf Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger PDF Text Text ��KIOSK Spring 1978 Kiosk is published annually by students of Morningside College, Sioux City, Iowa. Cover Sketch by John Johanson �Editorial Staff Polly Burke Bob Lee Mark McDermott Marc Nelson Tim Orwig Shannon Whitcomb Jane Zeigler-Lear Faculty Advisors Frank Breneisen -- Art Advisor Janice Eidus -- Literary Advisor The Kiosk staff would like to extend special thanks to Warren Moon, Rapid American Press, Cherokee, Iowa, for his generous help in publishing this magazine. �CONTENTS BATHROBES •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• THE HUSTrnR •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• TO GEORGE R. ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• 5 6 9 Sketch by Kevin Black THE DRE.AJ.1ER •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• 10 3rd FLOOR ROOM 314 ..................•......... 11 15 MASSEY FERGUSON 900 •••••••••••••••••••••••••••• Sketch by JoAnn Likness ••........•............. 16 THE DELIVERY ROOM •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• UBBY •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• THE STORE •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• UNTITLED ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• DREAM •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• 17 JUST-SO, OF COURSE ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• RA1-ffiLING ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• TONKA •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• Cl!ECK -MATE ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• ~ • • • THE CAT SITTER ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• 24 19 21 22 23 25 26 28 29 Sketch by Roberta Brunsell FLURRIES ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• SPOKEN-UNSPOKEN •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• HOW I SPEND MY SUNDAYS ••••••••••••••••••••••••• 32 34 35 Photograph by Frank Breneisen THE MELTING POT THAT WOULDN'T MELT ••••••••••••• HERMAPHRODITIC MESSAGE ••••••••••••••••••••••••• INFIDEL •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• BALLAD OF THE CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR ••••••••••• RABBIT STEW •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• 36 38 39 40 41 FACULTY WRITING AUBADE, WITH APOLOGIES TO ROETHKE •••••••••••••• HEARTS ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• THREE UNTITLED POEMS ••••••••••••••••••••••••••• I~RESSIONS •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• IOWA ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• WE SHYLY BARE OLD PHOTO ALBUMS ••••••••••••••••• 42 43 44 45 47 48 ��R~ba Vav~~ BATHROBES When I think of my life I see old bathrobes Hanging on hooks Behind closet doors. Corduroy, whispering childhood secrets. Adolescent flannel, muted and alone. Frothy nylon, white of course, Decorates the honeymoon suite Or floats gently to the floor, Frozen in time to a soft sigh. The sterile lever of a hospital bed Holds proud Chinese silk, A fitting garment For my spring accouchement. The yawning alcoves of my mind Stifle on fading old chenille That lingers over a towel rack, While my former body Happily soaks In lavendar bubbles. 5 �MD<.e. Thomp-6on. THE HUSTLER CAST: Sally Benson; young receptionist in an office, 28, attractive and moderately aloof. Also single. Bennett Claire; young business man, 29, single and good looking. SCENE: Small, crowded restaurant at noon hour. All the tables are occupied and Sally is alone at her table. Sally: Looks up from her menu as Bennett approaches to the chair opposite her. Bennett: Placing hand lightly on the chair as he slightly moves it backward. Smiling politely, he says with emphasis: "May I share this rush hour table with you? I'm in a terrible hurry today!" Sally: Returns the menu to the center of the table, looks around, and says evenly: "Well •.. I suppose it is necessary isn't it?" Bennett: In a fluid motion he sits. Places two thick file folders on the table in front of him and, with his smile becoming more formal, says: "Thank you very much, I do appreciate it, Louie is going to have to put tables on the sidewalk pretty soon." Sally: Sitting primly, hands together over lap. "You're welcome." Bennett: Relaxes and smiles a little easier. "I have lunch here regularly and I don't believe we've shared a table before, have we? MY name is Bennett Claire. I work upstairs for Williams, Inc." Sally: Immediately says: "No, I'm certain we never have. This is the first time I've been here. MY name is Benson •.. Sally Benson." 6 �Bennett: Casually adjusts his cuffs. "Do you work here in the building?" Sally: Hesitating a little at first. Maintaining composure. "No. I'm employed over in the Jackson BUilding on 38th Street." Bennett: Smiling as if her reply pleased him, and slightly amazed, says: "That's four blocks away ... Do you walk in this neighborhood?" Sally: Still composed but slightly agitated. "I enjoy walking ... it's healthy." Bennett: Gives her a visually frank appraisal, and says outwardly: "Yes ... it certainly is!" Sally: Flustered, she fidgets slightly) averts her eyes. Bennett: After a slight pause, looks over to the counter beyond her, to his left, saying: "Yep, today's special is spaghetti and meatballs. I hope that's what you're having too. Then we can share the garlic bread platter, hot-sauce dish, tossed salad bowl, and save on the table clutter." He turns and looks at her; continuing, "Do you use oil and vinegar?" With the question, he places his elbows on the table and leans forward, looking directly in her eyes. Sally: With a pained reserve, and a trapped-but-bearit-look, spares her shoulders, saying: "No ... no, in fact, I hadn't really decided yet." The waitress approaches and a ritual between her and Bennett begins. Bennett reaches out to pat her on the behind. Waitress steps back a step and raps his fingers with her pencil, laughingly. Bennett: Quickly says to waitress, looking at her: "Hiya toots, spaghetti and meatballs, and don ' t be stingy on the garlic this time. Lotsa hot sauce too!" His smile changes to a questioning look at Sally and leaving it for her to order, he rises while saying, "Excuse me for a moment." He then walks away to the counter by the -entrance and engages three men in animated conversation that cannot be heard and looks at his watch urgently. 7 �Meanwhile: Sally, with a blank look on her face, glances at the two thick file folders, changes expression to indigation, then anger. She rises, picking up her shoulder bag at the same time, and without looking at the waitress says icily: "Nothing, thank you!", and proceeds to leave the restaurant. Bennett: Almost back to the table as Sally is a couple feet from the door. He looks at her leaving with a gloating, gleeful expression and sits down calling out to his three friends : "G'mon, I told ya I could do it! Ralph has to buy! •.. Louie .•• Four specials as usual!" and continues to laugh with gusto. Sally: Overhears him as she steps through the door, double-takes, and realizes she's been had. Through the plate glass window she smiles slightly, then throws her hands up in an 1give-up fashion, over-emphasized, leaving the impression she'll be back, but not fooled again . 8 �MaAR. Mc.Vvr.moti TO GEORGE R., WHO WAS MY FRIEND AND IDOL AND TAUGHT ME HOW TO BE A GOOD KID BACK WHEN I WAS TOO YOUNG TO KNOW ANY BETTER. He was the shining knight of our childhoods, A Hercules in our troubled days. He thrilled us all with his battle calls Of "This is a job for .•. " and "Up, up, and away!" His expansive chest with the big red "S" Could laugh off bullets and fists. His was a guardian of truth and dispenser of justice Who also bent steel beams into twists. In his civilian guise as reporter C.K. He showed how to keep our strengths in control. The first patron saint of third-network TV --Who quickly got trapped in his role. Being wagonmaster to some Mouseketeers Was the only type of job you could land. No wonder they found you in your room, dead From the gun you had held in your hand. The Werthans and rumor-hounds all You forgot only the real thing But the child in us cried when he When the most Super of all men 9 whispered, "Fool, can fly." heard he had gone. said Goodbye. �LaWl.-i.e. J ohYL6on THE DREAMER He drifts into and out of her life as she creates fantasies in her mind-Never a word is spoken. She imagines torrid love affairs of lust and violence-The daydreams turn into nightdreams. This tall, blond co-worker transforms into an Egyptian god; a Roman emperor; A Medieval king; a Viking warrior; She is his maiden. A long, white gown drapes around her body, shining auburn hair falls to the waist-She is the most beautiful woman. This office typist is idolized by the man she worships-Upon her command his fate is determined. The dreams are silent pictures of dark-skinned peoples in far-off lands-It is the setting of their existence. Together in the visions of her mind but not in the circumstances of her life-These dreams and reality never unite. 10 �3rd FLOOR ROOM 314 I looked at my watch. It was 4:30. It was also Sunday afternoon. Visiting hours were over until 7:30 that evening and I was relieved and depressed. It was too early for mealtime. Another hour at the most. That would break the monotony. In the meantime, what was there to do? I really wasn't sleepy, but I was tired of lying in bed. After several minutes of indecision, I decided to look around at my surroundings. As I was getting into my robe and slippers, I remembered there had been quite a bit of activity in the room across from mine earlier that afternoon. Maybe I could talk to someone or meet someone new. I walked to my doorway and saw a young man who looked to be in his early twenties lounging in the bed across from my room. He had a male visitor. I noticed the guard rails were up on the patient's bed. The visitor was smoking and the room had a stale blue haze hanging midway from the ceiling. That was odd. No smoking in the room, they informed me. A sign in the hall clearly stated visiting hours were over at 4:00 p.m. Although the visitor's back was toward me, I could see he most certainly was not a doctor. Well, I thought grudgingly, some people can get away with murder. I changed my mind about walking in the hall. It looked too deserted. Instead I walked back into my room. I took the pillow from my bed and propped it behind my back as I got comfortably settled in the big chair. MY chair was toward the back of my room, yet I had a good view of the room across the hall. I was completely relaxed and had my eyes closed. I must have fallen asleep for a few minutes, but brought my head up with a start. Somewhere I could hear a nurse saying, "I explicitly told you not to get out of bed. Your visitor will have to go. Visiting hours have been over for over half an hour. Furthermore, you are not allowed to smoke in here." "Oh!, Oh! That's coming from Room 314. About time someone started enforcing the rules around here." 11 �I saw the nurse leave and closed my eyes thinking I could get a peaceful forty winks before tray time. MY head on the pillow was not right, so I moved to a more comfortable position. Through half-closed eyes, I saw the patient in Room 314 raise up in bed and proceed to climb over the rails while the vis~tor was putting out his cigarette. The patient walked toward the visitor and they held a hurried conversation. The visitor started toward the door to leave and the patient literally jumped back in bed. Now I could get a good look at the man coming out of the room. He was in his early thirties, very dark skinned and had uneven long black hair. No doubt about it, he was of Mexican origin. He had almost reached the doorway, when I saw him spin around and walk back in the patient's room. He pointed his thumb back of his shoulder, opened the door to the closet and stepped in and closed the door after himself. Why in heaven's name did he go in there, I wondered. A grown man hiding in the closet just didn't make sense. A nurse and the cart with the medications were briskly heading toward our rooms. She stopped at the room across from mine. "Hi, Jim," I heard her say. "Ready for your shot?" As she walked toward him with her hypo needle and blood pressure equipment, she remarked how awful his room smelled. She administered the shot and proceeded to open the window. "Jim, you're going to have a roommate. They should be bringing him in any minute now." With that cheerful bit of information she went on to her next patient. Almost on her heels, two nurses wheeled in the new patient. This new admittance was a much older man. Senior citizen would be more accurate. His wife was with him as well as another woman who could have been his daughter. There are certain procedures to be followed in getting a patient in bed and the 5:00 shift of nurses was much in evidence. Their clean uniforms, fresh looks and cheery greetings radiated all around the new patient. There just wasn't anything they wouldn't do to help this man enjoy his stay in comfort. As I watched them scurry about with the fresh ice water 12 �and temperature-taking, I told myself I. should have been a nurse. They looked so efficient and healthy. "How about you, Mrs. Lewison? I've got a shot for you the doctor ordered." Oh no, don't distract me with a shot now. I've got to keep my eye on Room 314. Oh my gosh, that man didn't come out of the closet. What if he should suffocate and die in there? How long does it take before a man runs out of air to breath in a confined space like a closet? I tried calculating the time with the space. These closets have high ceilings. He would be safe for another three hours at least. But who was going to let him out? His friend had just had a shot. He could be out for hours. Or Horrors, worse yet this crazy man could come out at night when I was asleep and sneak in my room. All right, the nurse is here to give me my shot. Shall I tell her I think there is a man in the closet in Room 314. Or wi11 she think I am daffy? Or will she think I am just trying to get attention by being dramatic? Or shall I just keep my mouth shut and let the man come out when he gets good and -ready. Then again, what if he isn't in there? Maybe there's another door that opens on the other side. But it can't. It's a closet. I saw the clothes and suitcase. But there are two closets, one for each patient. They didn't open one of them. I am not making any sense. "O.K., I'm ready," I said to the nurse. I looked at her and just couldn't tell her. She didn't appear to be the type one could confide in. I decided to wait. The trays were brought in and I made sure I ate facing the room across from me. Both patients in Room 314 were asleep and no food was brought to them. After the trays were cleared, I tried to read, but I couldn't get the dark skinned man out of my mind. I could just see an aide carrying out this unconscious man and it would be my fault for not speaking up. Well, he had no business in the closet. I was fast approaching a panic stage. I knew I had to do something. I could let him out, but what if he had a gun? 13 �By now, it was almost dark outside. I got up and walked over to my bed and rang for a nurse. I told her what I had seen. I told her I was sure there was a man in one of those closets in the room across from mine. She told me she would have to close my door and go find the Security Guard and have him check the closets. ~ mind went over the events of the afternoon. Things like that just don't happen in a hospital, I kept telling myself. What a fool I was to get the staff involved in what I saw, or thought I saw. About 9:00 o'clock I heard voices and a commotion in the hall. Then it was absolutely hospital quiet again. About 9:30 a nurse opened my door, came over to my bed and said: "You can go to sleep now, there was a man in the closet." 14 �MASSEY FERGUSON 900 Turning wheel and radio dial-"Love, love will keep us together. " "The teethbone's connected to the jawbone, the jawbone's connected to the headbone • • . "-Forming syncopated rhythmns like the trotting of a horse. . And they used to use the horses when they plowed. "Shake, rattle, and roll ••• " over and over "Crimson and clover, over and over. " As the windrow tumbles once more Smelling clover-sweet and hay. "KBOU and it's ninety-eight degrees." But, D.J., you're not trapped inside this tractor cab like me. "Get a bucket of .".". Arby's tender roast beef." I'm hungry; I think I'll kill a cowGrab one right out of the pasture-"Ized mild and processed cheese from Allen's Dairy." Make you dizzy t'watch the spinning While they're making that there cheese; Like your records, mister d.j. Spin another, will you please? Play "I'll Follow the Sun;" Our "discing" is nearly done. 15 �16 �Bob L~~ THE DELIVERY ROOM the double doors were in motion. doctors and nurses in white were making last minute preparations as the woman on the bed screamed that it was too late; that it had already begun to happen. the husband, who was at his wife's side, took several last swallows and tightened his grip on her hand. they made one last exchange of kisses and i love yo us and everything's going to be alright lines as the doctors and nurses conveniently held separate conversations as if they had seen the couple's need to have time alone. then pace picked up again. and even though she had practiced the procedure many times at home alone or with her husband, doctors and nurses had to begin giving the wife orders telling her how to move, breath, and push down, almost as if she had never heard of childbirth before. the husband held onto her hand and sweated and watched. you could see him resenting these men and women who were able, who had taken over and overrun a territory that he should know how to handle. but as the doctor demanded one last bearing down, death entered the room unnoticed. it slid in and hid behind a white partition and watched. blood came faster as the child slid from the womb and death would smile when it saw red. then the husband, who saw the baby coming, changed. his face brightened, eyes and smile widened; you could see him becoming a father. 17 �next someone did something with the cord, others were preparing for afterbirth, and one doctor slapped the baby's bottom as death laughed and took pleasure in the spanking. but silence was not mentioned in the books she had read on childbirth, and the mother kept asking why the baby did not cry. by this time, death had seen its victory; had moved its dark mass toward the doors. the father, who spotted death on its way out, tried to catch it, stop it, beat it, teach it a lesson, or kill it. but death went on; avoided the confrontation decided that letting the father live might cause a greater pain. 18 �Fvr.n Roc..k.L<.n LIBBY As a child, she was precocious. Her friends tolerated her antics with resignation. Indifferent to others, Libby read books avidly without the slightest interest in dolls or hopscotch or other activities. Twenty years later, Libby is holding one of the top management level positions in a multi-national, multi-million dollar corporation. She has the respect and devotion of all the line and staff employees that work with her. John Birmingham, a new~ hired method's analysttype, in the systems and procedures group of the finance and accounting section, wants to interview her to search for ways in which she can be replaced by a computer. Unaware of his intentions, Libby greets him briskly in her office while she continues about her work. "This might seem a bi t sil~ to you, but I have a few questions I'd like to ask you concerning your personality. I've asked other department heads already concerning their personalities and it's quite amazing how much is revealed about general intelligence and deductive powers," John began. "Alright, fire away!" Libby yelled back as she pulled her chair closer to her desk. "Sit down, please," she offered. "First of all, what is the first physical characteristic you notice when you meet someone?" he asked. "Whether they are male or female," she answered back. "I see," he said as he jotted down her answer. "Now, here is a hypothetical question that I want you to consider carefully. In your position as scheduling manager for audio-visual materials in this area, assume the following: A plane started out at Chicago's O'Hare field with seventeen passengers aboard and a crew of nine. At Omaha, four got off and nine got on. At Lincoln, three got off and one got on. At Des Moines, nine got off and four got on, and at each successive stop thereafter, nobody got off and nobody got on until the plane reached its next to the last stop, where five people got off and 19 �one got on. Then it reached the final destination," John paused. Libby blurted out, "Easy! Eleven passengers and a crew of nine." "But, that's not the question," he sneered back. "How many people got off at Des Moines?" "Nine," she quickly said. John cleared his throat and became a little disoriented. "Yes, well, right. Well, how did you know?" he asked. "Well, first of all there are nine letters in Des Moines. Seriously, I associate many things with many things," she flippantly answered. "I see," John said. The questioning continued for the remainder of the hour and John felt his shirt wet with perspiration and his throat became parched and dry. Every trick to mislead and foil Libby has failed . I~bb y enjoyed a little mental gymnastics and didn't want. the interview to end. "Well, I must be going now , " John said. "Oh no, I'm really enjoying this! Do I get a grade on this or what1" she asked. "Well, normally we classify people into three general categories--Below Average, Average, and Above Average," he answered hesitantly. "Well, what's my category?" she asked. "I don't know about you. You don't seem to fit into any of these categories. We'll have to program a new category for you!" he yelled as he stormed out the door. Libby returned to the file she had put aside before the interview and focused long and hard on the first word--"Compute." 20 �Shannon Wh-i.tc.omb THE STORE Beauchamp, the blind boy, kept Grandaddy's little store One room, a pot-belly stove black as the coal it burned. Four cane-bottom chairs soft drink box ice cream freezer. On the plank shelves was everything you needed to get you through to Saturday when you got to go to town. Bull of the Woods chewing tobacco hoop, cheese, fish bait, vienna sausages, soft, sugary peppermint sticks not shiny and slick like they are now. Beauchamp' gone and Grandaddy closed the store and moved it across the road. When it rains, Uncle Coot and Mr. Womack and Mr. Rice go to Valiant's store, I guess. It's bigger than the one Beauchamp ran, but otherwise the same, minus the cane. 21 �Robb-in Ple.-6he.Jr. UNTITLED In the wake of a telephone battle with MS. Hastings, (No, I can not take another case-four of mine are already on the docket for next week •••• ) comes my son: also associated with the number four by way of years and scratches on elbows. He needs to know if Tony can stay over-night and help him be baby-sitted while I go with Jack--and cheer under my breath when he delivers those great campaign ideas to Mr. Barrows over sloe gins and hors d'oeuvres. I keep wondering why I can't convince the D.A. to settle for suspended sentence in Monday's shop-lifting ordeal; while I try to squelch thank-you squeals and let the sitter in. The longer I think about it, the more clearly I see the absurdity of nurturing three different lives wi th one formula. The sun in the window catches my eye. It is bright, yellow, . and promising. Resolved, I start for the phone and MS. Hastings-I'll research the briefs tomorrow: after Jack has cinched the deal, and Tony is breakfasted and seen safely home. 22 �Steve Eugene Klotz DREAM Papers whirled around each other, caught in a column of warm summer wind, as two figures approach~d a corner streetlight. The last remaining rays of a hot blustery day showed variances of red in a cloudpocked sky. With a quickening of steps, the bent figure of one man reached the streetlight. Stretched hands grasped onto the long metallic column and using what strength was left in tired arms, pulled him upward and closer to the silver column. He sensed having been on this corner before, but couldn't recall when it could have been. Maybe he had dreamt of this corner before. "Hello," smartly said the second man as he approached the corner. "Beautiful sunset, isn't it?" "Yes. The sun is beautiful, but look at the splendor of the rising moon, my son!" Finally the column had been reached by the second man and again the feeling of having been here before many times. Sharp, cold sensations played on his nerves. Knowledge flooded his mind; the dream was proving itself to be true. "Wha t beauty God has created. Man doesn't need all of his senses to be aware of the power of God," proudly proclaimed the first man. "Man should dream and carry out the dreams he has, for then he will be honest with himself." The man paused and then asked, "Son, why have you become silent? Is it because you fear doing what you know you must eventually do?" "Yes, I can't do it. I have to go •.• I'm late already," and with that, the second man hurried away. A tear appeared and rolled down the cheek of the bent figure of a man. Another appeared and was followed by a stream of many more. The man's head shook and then he mumbled to himself, "Why, why do you have to always go away my son?" Turning away from the lighted column, the bent figure retraced his previous steps, thus exiting the same as he had always entered. Tears glistened on the sidewalk and then were gone. They reappeared upon the pillow of a sleeping boy, whose dream of a son wanting to tell his father how much he really loved him had passed through his mind once again. 23 �Judy s. O£~on JUST - SO, OF COURSE Always immaculately coiffed and groomed Miss Heath-Bradbury, white gloves in hand, Glides along Bradbury Avenue. It was named for her father, of course. Never quite attractive, about three pounds in excess, Perpetually dressed like the cover of Vogue. Never too much, never too little. She's her mother's daughter, of course. Never stopping to stare in the shop windows, (That would be too gauche) , The elegant lady knows just where she's going And buys just what she wants, of course. But, at home in the cavernous just-so rooms, She drifts aimlessly past Daddy's favorite Matisse Mother's Ming vase, and delicate crewel Not at all interested, but reverently, of course. Spotless window panes reflect empty eyes Trembling fingers smooth the drape. Too quiet, too empty, too lonely Too damnable proper and suitable, of course! Miss Heath-Bradbury can endure it no more. She climbs the hand-rubbed Victorian staircase Closes the door of her ruffled boudoir, and ends it all. But, in a fashionable way, of course. 24 �Haz~£ Buh£~~ RAMBLING What to write about When there is free choice? Thought patterns-From first days of teaching (I wonder if Delores ever learned to read-Billy, I know, learned in spite of me.) Now, eons later, I must, first and foremost, be accountable, While the media says children are learning nothing. Or there is snow-Beautiful, graceful, glistening snow. (Remember the delights of going down a high drift in a giant pan? And riding in the bob sled to the jingle of the horses' harness?) Beautiful snow, unless whipped and thrown by gales of wind To make man and beast miserable. Or there is being a parent, of course-(Remember how totally ignorant we were, except we didn't know it? And gave advice to others, too--The answers were so simple then.) But parenting goes on forever and nobody is really asking for much advice now. Or there is solitude-A time to let the mind expand and fly away-(Remember walking along the creek talking away to no one but me, And Florence hiding under the bridge and hearing every word of my soliloquy?) Now, too, it's a treasured time for music and dreams and just thoughts--Really, in my solitude, many things to write about come to me, And one day I shall write about them all. 25 �M~k~ Cumm~ng~ TONKA Nona walks blindly, slowly, laboring and pregnant through the snow blizzard toward a cave in the side of a mountain. The unborn is heavier than the others she bore, much heavier. As Nona enters the cave, she goes from blindness to blindness, but this blindness is warmer and more secure than the cold outside. On all fours, she does a simple dance of sleep, death. Her heart beats sadly. If this cub lives, he will be alone to live. No mother to teach it the ways to live. The howling wind sneaks through the cave heckling, echoing laughter at her. The labor pains are great; she retaliates with a scream of pain, shattering the laughing wind. No! she won't die. She and her cub will live. She screams again as the oversized cub oozes out between her hairy legs. The scream is one of relief. Tonka! a male cub. Tonka cuddles close to his new mother and they dream together until spring. But when the ground is fresh and water trickles down the outside of the cave and life is popping out of holes, underneath rocks, behind trees, bushes, caves, everywhere, Nona lies motionless. Tonka is awake and there is a smell he doesn't understand, doesn't like. It's terrible; he runs out of the cave and is stunned b,y the sunlight. He starts to cry and paw his eyes. Tonka is a huge cub with yellow fur. He stares awkwardly 'as the surrounding nature focuses. ~ut as he focuses with his big black eyes, the world looks puzzling, gaudy, fresh, but delicious. Tonka is impressed but hungry. He begins to eat anything in sight--grass, rocks, dirt, bark. His reverie of the cave's smell makes him puke, but he licks it back up and takes off in a gallop up the mount~n, not knowing about the territorial rights of other life. About three-fourths of a mile up the mountain, Tonka pauses for a drink from the running stream. He lunges in the water and begins playing. At his peak, he is dazed by a flashing mountain lion, which hits him with full force from behind. He tries to scramble to his feet, but is tossed from side to 26 �side. He feels a sharp pain in the middle of his back. The cougar draws blood. Tonka runs toward new territory, and the lion is satisfied with the intruder's quick decision to vacate. On the run to nowhere but anywhere, Tonka wonders what happened. He doesn't know and doesn't care. The thought falls out of his mind as he keeps running. Three years pass and Tonka stands alone on two feet gazing over a cliff so high he is eye level with the birds. The trees look small, miles below. The sun shines brightly on Tonka's radiant yellow fur which covers big, thick bones and a twelve-fQot mass of body. This is Tonka's land--Tonka's territory. He lifts his nose to the sky and growls the sound of victory. All obey his command, but he must obey the command of nature. All have heard the cry of Tonka, happy and sad. He leaves the high land in search of a mate. 27 �aJtJt-w Kathy H CHECK-MATE She whirled around and glared down at Him. He moved forward one space. How dare He think himself worthy. He has no right even being here. Straightening her embroidered silk collar, She smiled, conceited look on her face. She possessed them both and the others respected her. They knew her motives deadly, her mobility unlimited. She'd do it. She'd do it when she was damn good and ready. Once more, He moved forward. The gentleman gallantly stepped out of the way. So untidy, thought he. Why did they allow the likes of him in? Commoner, He smelled of lowliness. Disgusting. Manners, politeness, they were the key. He did not even bow to the passing of the queen. Again, He crept on. Down on your knees sinner. Only the righteous belong here, the man clad in black thundered. God is our only salvation. Walk the paths of righteousness and you shall be saved. 'Tis only those without sin, see heaven. Much too late for you. Turn back. _ The pious knight will do the deed, in the name of the Lord. Determined, He continued. Fools, all Fools. Is only cleverness and cunning will win the game. Smiling slyly the Rook muttered. 'Tis the knife placed in the back and the hand outstretched that will bring him down. For the last time, He took his final surge forward. 'Twas but a lowly Pawn caused the falling of the king. 28 �o o ~;3 0~ t! §i;; ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 2~2-3~O2. ~ ~ 1 ~ ~. Re.ba Vav-U, THE CAT SITTER Wanted: cat sitter to keep our beloved 15-year-old pet company for three weeks while we vacation in California. Must be mature and able to speak fluent Siamese. If you are sincerely interested, call 292-3602 for further details. Hi Jim, It's your crazy mother again with her weekly report. You'll never guess what I'm up to now. I've taken a job for three weeks baby-sitting with a Siamese cat. Since this cat is more neurotic than yrs. truly, 29 �it should be an interesting experiment. Please write me here: C/O M.G. Jensen Box 979 Edina, Minnesota. Love and kisses, Mom P.S. The cat's name is Kiki. Dear Mom, You've been going with Larry almost two years now. I wish he'd marry you and make an honest woman of you, or else you would find some normal kind of employment. It's somewhat embarrassing to speak of my mom, the cat-sitter. Seems funny to think of you, the former cat-hater, in such a weird job. Little did I dream when Hari Cat crept into our house and into your affections seven long years ago tha t you would ever come to this. But then, they always say converts are the worst kind! Love and kisses, Jim p.s. give Kiki a kick for me. Darling Kiki, Mommy and Daddy will :be home a week from Sunday. Be a good kitty and we'll bring you a lovely surprise. Your adoring, Mommy 30 �Dear Mrs. Jensen , Thank you so much for the check for the full three weeks. Of course I can understand your missing Kiki so much that you came home four days early . The five bites on my legs and three scratches on my arms are healing nicely . Sincerely, Alicia Perrin P.S. I ' m sorry I'll have to decline your offer to cat-sit when you next vacation. I'm afraid my Siamese isn't as fluent as I thought. 31 �K~mb ~~ ~~~ McQuown FLURRIES Winter in the midwest was always a damp biting cold, viewed from a crackling fireplace or a snug kitchen. The only time adults left their cozy tarn besides going to and from work was when it was necessary to free walks from a cushion of white. In empty lots and backyards the snow had been ruffled by children who actually made the cold emptiness into romper rooms: building forts, making snow angels, creating frosty playmates, even making temporary scenery changes, constructing ten-foot mountains that only the most daring would ski down and only the strongest could hold as their province for any length of time. From inside a cozy kitchen sitting on folded knees, eyes and nose peeking over the back of the chair, Eric watched in silence with wide eyes and a broad grin. The refrigerator door flopped shut behind him. "Eric," his mother began, · "why don't you run downstairs and get your boots and parka and I'll help you get dressed so you can go outside and play for awhile?" Eric slid off the chair, taking a final glance out the window before following his mother's suggestion. He hurried downstairs and reached up for his coat on the lowest hook and grabbed for his boots beneath the stairway, bumping his head lightly while struggling to pull them out of the boot box. He clumsily clomped back up the stairs and scooted onto a chair, holding one leg out stiff to make it easier for his mother to push the snow boot on. "Hurry, Mommy, hurry," he exclaimed, rapidly wagging his foot in anticipation. "Hold still, Eric, or I'll never get your boots on. " He quieted while his mother pushed his boots on and snapped the safety guard around the top, so no snow could wriggle its way in to bite her son's toes. , When she was done, he hopped o~f the chair, holding one arm out stiff, airplane-style, while his mother slipped it through a heavy coat sleeve and he bent the other arm behind him, making desperate lunges for the vacant sleeve. 32 �"Just a minute, Eric." "Come on, Mommy!" Finally the coat was on, zipped and. a scarf had been tied around his nose, mouth and neck; mittens were attached to his coat sleeves with safety pins, a measure taken after two mittens had lost their mates to the white fluffy plague. Eric bolted out the front door. His mother stared as Eric charged up the hill and gave his neighbor a shove, and she watched him clap as the little girl tumbled down the hill, then saw him fall forward when one of the boys pushed him from behind. But he scrambled to his feet and charged back up the mountain. Eric's mother busied herself cleaning out dresser drawers. She sorted the summer things into a tall cardboard box and, when she came to her striped maroon and pink bikini, a gleam radiated from her ice blue eyes. She tore her clothes off and jammed her winter bulges into the suit which had been challenging her. She ran to the front door and smiled at the· bleak iceland which seemed to defy her, dare her, laugh at her. She flung the door open and jumped into the polar climate. She ran madly around her home, laughing hysterically as if her antics could wrap the house up in a tornado-like flurry and sweep it to the equator. She ran back in the house and smiled, glared back at the artificial mountain and ~e children who were rolling in the confetti of her victory. Her smile melted and a tingle twisted her skin. She walked back to the bedroom and took off the swim-suit. She touched the cold red of her skin and reached for a blanket on the bed. After sitting for a few minutes, she put the clothes on that she had scattered on the floor. Then, finished putting the clothes away, she stuffed the box on the top closet shelf. She swept the kitchen floor, now and then glancing at the children's mountain. The dusting and vacuuming were finished. Finally, sitting down at the kitchen table, pouring herself a cup of coffee, staring through the mountafn, towards the brilliance of the sun, her eyes vaca- 33 �tioned from the freezing bars of her cell. Eric slammed the front door. "Mommy." She walked into the entryway and helped him slither out of the slushy clothes and listened to him tell about all the fun he had and how he was "King of the Hill" for most of the afternoon. "Did you have fun today?" he asked. Joa/1 Sa/1dv-i.c.k. SPOKEN-UNSPOKEN "I hate: getting up on a cold winter's day, worms on the sidewalk, their smell in the air, globs of dried toothpaste left in the sink, and white anklets." "I hate: scraping a pan with an old metal spoon, The Blob, Godzilla, and all of their friends, Liver, its smell, taste and touch, and mosquitos." The word slides out in so many phrases. Quite casual, used in this way. But when it is piercing -- bitingly brutal, It is felt loudly and clearly without even a word. 34 �wctf.,tvr. Mullin HOW I SPEND MY SUNDAYS I go to the cemetery. Before the morning passes away, it's quiet then. I spend a long time there looking at the stones, the leaves, the plastic flowers, the little dime store flags, and moss and lots of names. It's really a fine place to think. Some people say you shouldn't walk across the rows. "tha t 's di srespec tful" ••• when you're dead. I walk right across they don't mind. I talk to myself and cuss and bitch. sometimes I pray, out loud, But I never cry. I laugh a lot and tell myself jokes and think of all the stupid things that happen. It's best when it's foggy. It disappears and you don't even notice ••• till it's gone. 35 �THE MELTING POT THAT WOULDN'T MELT They never knew each other. Pretty dark-haired Mary O'Connor lived in the middle of the north half section of land, in a huge white house, surrounded by tall skinny silos, sprawling fat barns, and a motley assortment of sheds of a uniformly faded red. The O'Connors were a sharp tongued clan, respecters of no position or title. Everything was fuel for the battle of wits that went on constantly. They didn't tell jokes, they acted them out, feeding one another the lines, always with a little twist or variation. Mother Ellen could imitate with malicious accuracy her pious Aunt Lucy, her shrill Sister Tillie, or the cross old hen who tended the brood of chicks nearby. At the O'Connor's house, you opened a door cautiously, for the movement might trigger a dousing with an unseen pail of water. Wickedly leering dummies found their way mysteriously into beds and closets. When there was music, as there often was, no true O'Connor could listen sedately. They must be on their feet, clapping their hands, doing a do-si-do or an Irish jig. Tom O'Connor, the father, would seize the dog Teddy by the forepaws and waltz him wildly around the kitchen table while son Pat fiddled and ,Teddy barked wildly. Mealtime was a time for talk, laughter, and heated arguments. The family gathered around the huge oilcovered table in the kitchen and devoured quantities of food, washed down by cups of tea, without ever commenting or seeming to notice what they were eating, so absorbed were they in the quick quarrels and good natured banter that took place. Tears came as readily as laughter, and life was an effervescent mixture of sunshine and shadow. Just across the pasture lived the Olsons, neat, thrifty and hardworking. They respected work; a welltilled field with no weeds, a healthy flock of geese, sleek fat pigs grunting in their pens. �The Olsons were not given much to idle conversation. They spoke about the things that were necessary to the carrying on of their daily life, but it never occurred to them to use their own words for entertainment. Music was important to them, and three of their sons sang the sacred songs of the church in clear and beautiful harmony. As they didn't use words idly, neither did they use music. They would not break into song while stacking hay or planting corn. That would be unseemly. Music was relegated to the church and church functions which formed an important part of their life. One of the great pleasures of life for them was food. All family, community, and church festivals were celebrated with great feasts. Long tables, covered with heavy, smooth linen cloths held fine china platters and trays heaped with roasts of pork, beef or chicken. Garden vegetables, home-made sausages, glistening strawberry preserves, crusty breads and rich cakes, thick-frosted and covered wi·th nuts. There was lefse and lingonberries and lute fisk drenched with melted butter. The two families each had only one daughter; Myrtle Olson and Mary O'Connor were the same age. But darkhaired Mary O'Connor and blonde-headed MYrtle Olson always played with dolls, picked wild flowers and made mud pies alone. They knew of each other's existence and would peer shyly at one another when they accompanied their mothers to the village store to shop. Mary could have taught MYrtle her songs and poems and how to make May flowers into lovely wreaths. Myrtle could have shown Mary how to make beautiful doll clothes and transplant the wild flowers into a neat bed by the porch. But no exchange was possible because Mary O'Connor was Catholic and MYrtle was a Protestant. Myrtle's father knew that the Romans were a slightly mad group with devious plans for conquering the world and forcing everyone to worship the Pope, a strange alien worship of burning candles, smoking incense and strange chants. Mary's mother knew that all Protestants were an inferior people with dangerously mistaken ideas about God. 37 �So, living within shouting distance of one another, each looked longingly over to the other girl as she worked or played alone. Separated by a wall that neither girl knew how to penetrate, they never knew each other. Po R.R.tj Bwc.k. e. HERMAPHRODITIC MESSAGE Human Mon - ster - os - i - ty More threatening than insecurities of scale, More threatening than a bearded lady. Born man and born woman One testes, one ovary. Born mother and father to conceptus Put on stage to reassure us Of our normality Yet proof of the absurdity of The sacred act. Making "freak" undefined And normal precarious • • . �J u-e-<.e. Rucin-<.ge.n INFIDEL Promised from the first to be true to each other, Sharing his bed. Knowing she was his, his one and only lover, Eventuall~ wed. Keep her pregnant and barefoot to keep her near, Jokingly said. But thoughts of her wandering brought pain and fear, Wracking his head. Admiring glances others threw her direction, Noticed by him. Suspicion and doubt of her professed affection Burning wi thin. Conviction from doubt and hate from suspicion Painfully grew. Faithless killed faithful for some strange obsession Keeping her true. 39 �Ronald w. Vobb-6 BALLAD OF THE CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR I'm a man named Neverwas, I never was nor will be. They asked me to carry a gun to keep my country free. I told them that I wouldn't kill, it was against my ways. I went down to the draft board and was classified I-A. They took me down to boot camp to teach me how to kill. I told them that I wouldn't learn, but they would teach me still. They cut off my golden hair and shaved my face so clean And then they starved me half to death, to make my body lean. You wake up when the trumpet sounds! You eat when the trumpet calls! Do everything when you hear the trumpet sounding through the halls. They took me to the target range to learn to shoot a gun; Shooting at a cardboard man, hours 'neath the sun. Out for bayonet practice with dummies filled with sand! The sergeant showed us fourteen ways to stab to kill a man. Shoot! Shoot! Shoot! Kill! Kill! Kill! Johnny'll be a soldier, like his mother said he will. Now I'm at the war front with my gun slung cross my breast; I saw a man across the way, he shot me in the chest. When I first was contacted, I said I ~uldn't kill. They did not believe me then, I guess they never will. You wake up when the trumpet sounds! That trumpet sounds so brave . When you're dead your family hears the trumpet sounding at your grave. 40 �T~m O~w~g RABBIT STEW (for Elizabeth Bishop) The day I turned thirteen, my parents gave me a rabbit I built a hutch in our backyard Right under my window so I could watch it from my pillow. So innocent and harmless And yet so lonely It must have a helpmeet I delved into my secret compartment Withdrew my life's savings Counted it jealously, one last time And purchased love for my white friend What I'd heard of the birds and the bees Was borne out by my rabbits All of them more love, and yet Not quite the same as before While they increased, I decreased. I no longer gave them my choicest leaves And stopped feeding bread to all the little ones They had grown to too many for me to love And then one night I turned on them Mauled the latch and splintered the bar Then overturned the hutch And left them to the embrace of the Dark Striding away, I laughed bitterly In the morning I found one Crushed and broken And saw the tire treads Marking its grave Nothing I could do would mend the broken And no matter how deep I buried it It would still rise again So I flung it into the creek Watched it sink, and prayed it would never surface I fixed the hutch and collected the inmates Locking them away from the world and myself And yet, at times I still must sit At my lonely table for two And eat a dish of rabbit stew 41 �JCUL D. HC'dg ~ AUBADE, WITH APOLOGIES TO ROETHKE I wake to day, but take my waking slow Despite the harsh alarm's assault. I fear I've no desire to go where I must go. Escaping day) I burrow far below The bl-anket' s dark; it is with no great cheer I wake to day, so take my waking slow . }tr conscience whispers I should rise and glow An echo of the dawn, but, happy here, I've no desire to go where I must go, So linger half asleep. Although I know I must cast off my dark and reappear, Waking to day, I take my waking slow, Because this morning (it is always so!), bones reluctant and my head unclear, I've no desire to go where I must go. My But need prevails, and I prepare to show A civil smile, and, bravely insincere, I wake to day . . . but take my waking slow, With no desire to go where I must go. 42 �HEARTS I insist, no matter how clumsy, our summers be shaped like hearts. Mine is propped near my typewriter. Typewriter--you think--that's too ... overt! Next May when I move, the heart will be packed. It will hide in the car trunk; two months later the car burns on the Turnpike. June spreads, a travel brochure before you. Plants and bric-a-brac are given to your parents, with careful instructions. To your college friend Joseph go the old photos, the antique lamps. The heart is somehow left (not on purpose--one of those nights, one of those parties--you'd been lugging it moodily for days) at the home of someone named Sebastian. Sebastian--you think, from a bar in Maine--affected! Sebastian works in the garden; Anatole combs the attic for garden tools. Returning with rake and heart, cries, "What's this?" Sebastian, unmoved, still weeding: "Can't imagine. Might it look good in the parlour? From a beachchair you think: 43 It might. �R. J. HC!-Jr. /l.O l1. THREE UNTITLED POEMS (1) GOD IS NOTHING without which nothing could exist. (2) Somewhere between I and me the region of love untouched, untapped is locked and going undiscovered to death (3) when will my sky forever blue to points of pins where angels live? we have learnt little. some dodge-um perhaps. no cause for celebration but celebration itself will make us believe. my father lives, his father is dead, his father is dead. jon grace, called by me jon disgrace , and myself once killed a cat. a black cat. we planned it . we did it. we were proud of ourselves . i broke windshields and antennas and car mirrors told jokes and masturbated for the first time at four years old . my mother miscarried - twice-second time was my fault-she said. my father broke a model ship over my head. some girls called me a pip . my friend moved away a long time ago. after that i was the fastest. 44 �Jane. L. Z,[e.g.f.e.Jt - Le.aJr. IMPRESSIONS There was the time I "borrowed" my older sister's prom shoes (before the dance) to attend my own makebelieve Cinderella ball in the attic. Only my fairy godmother never turned me into a pumpkin when I broke one of the heels. MY sister tried to, though. And then, when I was ten, I worried about being fat because my sisters were thin and my brother hated the sight of both my stomachs hanging out. He rarely let me forget that I was a disappointment. MY sculpting and ballet careers didn't last too long. MY clay horses never did stand up unless I squished the legs, and dancing caused my toenails to turn purple and falloff. Dad laughed and said, "What did you expect with such little toes and all that weight?" Besides, I looked like a baby blue blimp in a tu-tu. Swimming was my great summer love. I was at the city pool as soon as it opened and was still ready to go when it closed. I could swim under the water clear across the width of the pool--in one breath. But jack-knife dives were my specialty. Than I fell in love with Pat, the paperboy, and forced my best friend to sleep out on the front porch with me just so I could see him at six in the morning. Our affair was short-lived. He told me my hose were bagging around the knees when I wasn't even wearing hose. We all hated chickens and especially having to gather all those eggs and clean them. It was great the day my brother got mad and kicked a rooster up to the ceiling of the hen house. He killed it, "and we cheered. Still, I never could gas the baby cockrels when Dad asked me to do it. They were so soft and yellow. I always cried until Dad would come in and tell me he'd do it. I should never have talked to them as I dropped them into the barrel one at a time. I loved Tom. I even swore I'd learn Morse code to prove just how much I loved him. Sally was a year older, but we were great friends. Plus, she lived at the end of my block. We always spent the night at the house with the best stocked refrigerator. We had wonderful dreams about FINALLY being sixteen and getting married to our latest movie hero. 45 �I wore glasses from first grade on. The best part about being sick was that Mom pampered me AND I got to drink "Constant Comment" tea. Also, if I timed it right, I missed band and my private clarinet lesson with Mr. Grumbach. Yahoo! Slumber parties were great. I attended my first when I was seven with twenty other girls. Jill's mom went crazy trying to keep us confined to the backyard. MY mother limited my parties to five friends, and Peter could never be one of them. MY favorite books were: LITTLE WOMEN, MARY POPPINS (all four books), and BEAUTIFUL JOE. My favorite movie was THE VIKINGS with Kirk Douglas, Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh. I forced my sister to sit through the second show, and we got into trouble for being late. MY period shattered my childhood. 46 �IOWA Going for a walk one day I discovered a frog from Iowa At least he said so (and who would lie about such) 47 �Jct!1-i.c.e. E-i.dw.:, We shyly bare old photo albums. "This was my home in Tuskalooska." (A glossy color print of a barren hill boasting one stray toothpick at the height.) "Reminds me of my own Kentucky home." (A black and white of an empty brass candle holder halfburied in a field.) "This was the apartment I had when I lived on West Ninth Street and worked for an aeronautics journal as an associate editor and was involved with that neurotic woman I've told you about with .. the long braids and Indian dresses who never stopped talking." (A rusting ivory tusk next door to a hamburger joint.) Then, The photos tumble from The pages as you place Your teeth to my wrist. Later, We hope to Refrain from rearranging Your pictures, my pages. 48 ��� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College. Through its several titles—Manuscript, Perspectives, and Kiosk—the magazine has a long history of celebrating creative writing and art on campus. It began publication in 1938 under the title of Manuscript before changing its name to Perspectives in 1953. Then in 1971 it took another name that it is known by currently: Kiosk. It is still published annually by the Morningside College English Department. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1938- Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Morningside College Library Morningside College English Department Ponder, Marcie: Digital Creator Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical PDF Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Title A name given to the resource Kiosk Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource "The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children," (The Kiosk, 2003). Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. KIOSK Spring 1978 Kiosk is published annually by students of Morningside College, Sioux City, Iowa. Cover Sketch by John Johanson Editorial Staff Polly Burke Bob Lee Mark McDermott Marc Nelson Tim Orwig Shannon Whitcomb Jane Zeigler-Lear Faculty Advisors Frank Breneisen -- Art Advisor Janice Eidus -- Literary Advisor The Kiosk staff would like to extend special thanks to Warren Moon, Rapid American Press, Cherokee, Iowa, for his generous help in publishing this magazine. CONTENTS BATHROBES •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• THE HUSTrnR •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• TO GEORGE R. ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• 5 6 9 Sketch by Kevin Black THE DRE.AJ.1ER •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• 10 3rd FLOOR ROOM 314 ..................•......... 11 15 MASSEY FERGUSON 900 •••••••••••••••••••••••••••• Sketch by JoAnn Likness ••........•............. 16 THE DELIVERY ROOM •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• UBBY •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• THE STORE •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• UNTITLED ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• DREAM •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• 17 JUST-SO, OF COURSE ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• RA1-ffiLING ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• TONKA •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• Cl!ECK -MATE ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• ~ • • • THE CAT SITTER ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• 24 19 21 22 23 25 26 28 29 Sketch by Roberta Brunsell FLURRIES ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• SPOKEN-UNSPOKEN •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• HOW I SPEND MY SUNDAYS ••••••••••••••••••••••••• 32 34 35 Photograph by Frank Breneisen THE MELTING POT THAT WOULDN'T MELT ••••••••••••• HERMAPHRODITIC MESSAGE ••••••••••••••••••••••••• INFIDEL •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• BALLAD OF THE CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR ••••••••••• RABBIT STEW •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• 36 38 39 40 41 FACULTY WRITING AUBADE, WITH APOLOGIES TO ROETHKE •••••••••••••• HEARTS ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• THREE UNTITLED POEMS ••••••••••••••••••••••••••• I~RESSIONS •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• IOWA ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• WE SHYLY BARE OLD PHOTO ALBUMS ••••••••••••••••• 42 43 44 45 47 48 R~ba Vav~~ BATHROBES When I think of my life I see old bathrobes Hanging on hooks Behind closet doors. Corduroy, whispering childhood secrets. Adolescent flannel, muted and alone. Frothy nylon, white of course, Decorates the honeymoon suite Or floats gently to the floor, Frozen in time to a soft sigh. The sterile lever of a hospital bed Holds proud Chinese silk, A fitting garment For my spring accouchement. The yawning alcoves of my mind Stifle on fading old chenille That lingers over a towel rack, While my former body Happily soaks In lavendar bubbles. 5 MD<.e. Thomp-6on. THE HUSTLER CAST: Sally Benson; young receptionist in an office, 28, attractive and moderately aloof. Also single. Bennett Claire; young business man, 29, single and good looking. SCENE: Small, crowded restaurant at noon hour. All the tables are occupied and Sally is alone at her table. Sally: Looks up from her menu as Bennett approaches to the chair opposite her. Bennett: Placing hand lightly on the chair as he slightly moves it backward. Smiling politely, he says with emphasis: "May I share this rush hour table with you? I'm in a terrible hurry today!" Sally: Returns the menu to the center of the table, looks around, and says evenly: "Well •.. I suppose it is necessary isn't it?" Bennett: In a fluid motion he sits. Places two thick file folders on the table in front of him and, with his smile becoming more formal, says: "Thank you very much, I do appreciate it, Louie is going to have to put tables on the sidewalk pretty soon." Sally: Sitting primly, hands together over lap. "You're welcome." Bennett: Relaxes and smiles a little easier. "I have lunch here regularly and I don't believe we've shared a table before, have we? MY name is Bennett Claire. I work upstairs for Williams, Inc." Sally: Immediately says: "No, I'm certain we never have. This is the first time I've been here. MY name is Benson •.. Sally Benson." 6 Bennett: Casually adjusts his cuffs. "Do you work here in the building?" Sally: Hesitating a little at first. Maintaining composure. "No. I'm employed over in the Jackson BUilding on 38th Street." Bennett: Smiling as if her reply pleased him, and slightly amazed, says: "That's four blocks away ... Do you walk in this neighborhood?" Sally: Still composed but slightly agitated. "I enjoy walking ... it's healthy." Bennett: Gives her a visually frank appraisal, and says outwardly: "Yes ... it certainly is!" Sally: Flustered, she fidgets slightly) averts her eyes. Bennett: After a slight pause, looks over to the counter beyond her, to his left, saying: "Yep, today's special is spaghetti and meatballs. I hope that's what you're having too. Then we can share the garlic bread platter, hot-sauce dish, tossed salad bowl, and save on the table clutter." He turns and looks at her; continuing, "Do you use oil and vinegar?" With the question, he places his elbows on the table and leans forward, looking directly in her eyes. Sally: With a pained reserve, and a trapped-but-bearit-look, spares her shoulders, saying: "No ... no, in fact, I hadn't really decided yet." The waitress approaches and a ritual between her and Bennett begins. Bennett reaches out to pat her on the behind. Waitress steps back a step and raps his fingers with her pencil, laughingly. Bennett: Quickly says to waitress, looking at her: "Hiya toots, spaghetti and meatballs, and don ' t be stingy on the garlic this time. Lotsa hot sauce too!" His smile changes to a questioning look at Sally and leaving it for her to order, he rises while saying, "Excuse me for a moment." He then walks away to the counter by the -entrance and engages three men in animated conversation that cannot be heard and looks at his watch urgently. 7 Meanwhile: Sally, with a blank look on her face, glances at the two thick file folders, changes expression to indigation, then anger. She rises, picking up her shoulder bag at the same time, and without looking at the waitress says icily: "Nothing, thank you!", and proceeds to leave the restaurant. Bennett: Almost back to the table as Sally is a couple feet from the door. He looks at her leaving with a gloating, gleeful expression and sits down calling out to his three friends : "G'mon, I told ya I could do it! Ralph has to buy! •.. Louie .•• Four specials as usual!" and continues to laugh with gusto. Sally: Overhears him as she steps through the door, double-takes, and realizes she's been had. Through the plate glass window she smiles slightly, then throws her hands up in an 1give-up fashion, over-emphasized, leaving the impression she'll be back, but not fooled again . 8 MaAR. Mc.Vvr.moti TO GEORGE R., WHO WAS MY FRIEND AND IDOL AND TAUGHT ME HOW TO BE A GOOD KID BACK WHEN I WAS TOO YOUNG TO KNOW ANY BETTER. He was the shining knight of our childhoods, A Hercules in our troubled days. He thrilled us all with his battle calls Of "This is a job for .•. " and "Up, up, and away!" His expansive chest with the big red "S" Could laugh off bullets and fists. His was a guardian of truth and dispenser of justice Who also bent steel beams into twists. In his civilian guise as reporter C.K. He showed how to keep our strengths in control. The first patron saint of third-network TV --Who quickly got trapped in his role. Being wagonmaster to some Mouseketeers Was the only type of job you could land. No wonder they found you in your room, dead From the gun you had held in your hand. The Werthans and rumor-hounds all You forgot only the real thing But the child in us cried when he When the most Super of all men 9 whispered, "Fool, can fly." heard he had gone. said Goodbye. LaWl.-i.e. J ohYL6on THE DREAMER He drifts into and out of her life as she creates fantasies in her mind-Never a word is spoken. She imagines torrid love affairs of lust and violence-The daydreams turn into nightdreams. This tall, blond co-worker transforms into an Egyptian god; a Roman emperor; A Medieval king; a Viking warrior; She is his maiden. A long, white gown drapes around her body, shining auburn hair falls to the waist-She is the most beautiful woman. This office typist is idolized by the man she worships-Upon her command his fate is determined. The dreams are silent pictures of dark-skinned peoples in far-off lands-It is the setting of their existence. Together in the visions of her mind but not in the circumstances of her life-These dreams and reality never unite. 10 3rd FLOOR ROOM 314 I looked at my watch. It was 4:30. It was also Sunday afternoon. Visiting hours were over until 7:30 that evening and I was relieved and depressed. It was too early for mealtime. Another hour at the most. That would break the monotony. In the meantime, what was there to do? I really wasn't sleepy, but I was tired of lying in bed. After several minutes of indecision, I decided to look around at my surroundings. As I was getting into my robe and slippers, I remembered there had been quite a bit of activity in the room across from mine earlier that afternoon. Maybe I could talk to someone or meet someone new. I walked to my doorway and saw a young man who looked to be in his early twenties lounging in the bed across from my room. He had a male visitor. I noticed the guard rails were up on the patient's bed. The visitor was smoking and the room had a stale blue haze hanging midway from the ceiling. That was odd. No smoking in the room, they informed me. A sign in the hall clearly stated visiting hours were over at 4:00 p.m. Although the visitor's back was toward me, I could see he most certainly was not a doctor. Well, I thought grudgingly, some people can get away with murder. I changed my mind about walking in the hall. It looked too deserted. Instead I walked back into my room. I took the pillow from my bed and propped it behind my back as I got comfortably settled in the big chair. MY chair was toward the back of my room, yet I had a good view of the room across the hall. I was completely relaxed and had my eyes closed. I must have fallen asleep for a few minutes, but brought my head up with a start. Somewhere I could hear a nurse saying, "I explicitly told you not to get out of bed. Your visitor will have to go. Visiting hours have been over for over half an hour. Furthermore, you are not allowed to smoke in here." "Oh!, Oh! That's coming from Room 314. About time someone started enforcing the rules around here." 11 I saw the nurse leave and closed my eyes thinking I could get a peaceful forty winks before tray time. MY head on the pillow was not right, so I moved to a more comfortable position. Through half-closed eyes, I saw the patient in Room 314 raise up in bed and proceed to climb over the rails while the vis~tor was putting out his cigarette. The patient walked toward the visitor and they held a hurried conversation. The visitor started toward the door to leave and the patient literally jumped back in bed. Now I could get a good look at the man coming out of the room. He was in his early thirties, very dark skinned and had uneven long black hair. No doubt about it, he was of Mexican origin. He had almost reached the doorway, when I saw him spin around and walk back in the patient's room. He pointed his thumb back of his shoulder, opened the door to the closet and stepped in and closed the door after himself. Why in heaven's name did he go in there, I wondered. A grown man hiding in the closet just didn't make sense. A nurse and the cart with the medications were briskly heading toward our rooms. She stopped at the room across from mine. "Hi, Jim," I heard her say. "Ready for your shot?" As she walked toward him with her hypo needle and blood pressure equipment, she remarked how awful his room smelled. She administered the shot and proceeded to open the window. "Jim, you're going to have a roommate. They should be bringing him in any minute now." With that cheerful bit of information she went on to her next patient. Almost on her heels, two nurses wheeled in the new patient. This new admittance was a much older man. Senior citizen would be more accurate. His wife was with him as well as another woman who could have been his daughter. There are certain procedures to be followed in getting a patient in bed and the 5:00 shift of nurses was much in evidence. Their clean uniforms, fresh looks and cheery greetings radiated all around the new patient. There just wasn't anything they wouldn't do to help this man enjoy his stay in comfort. As I watched them scurry about with the fresh ice water 12 and temperature-taking, I told myself I. should have been a nurse. They looked so efficient and healthy. "How about you, Mrs. Lewison? I've got a shot for you the doctor ordered." Oh no, don't distract me with a shot now. I've got to keep my eye on Room 314. Oh my gosh, that man didn't come out of the closet. What if he should suffocate and die in there? How long does it take before a man runs out of air to breath in a confined space like a closet? I tried calculating the time with the space. These closets have high ceilings. He would be safe for another three hours at least. But who was going to let him out? His friend had just had a shot. He could be out for hours. Or Horrors, worse yet this crazy man could come out at night when I was asleep and sneak in my room. All right, the nurse is here to give me my shot. Shall I tell her I think there is a man in the closet in Room 314. Or wi11 she think I am daffy? Or will she think I am just trying to get attention by being dramatic? Or shall I just keep my mouth shut and let the man come out when he gets good and -ready. Then again, what if he isn't in there? Maybe there's another door that opens on the other side. But it can't. It's a closet. I saw the clothes and suitcase. But there are two closets, one for each patient. They didn't open one of them. I am not making any sense. "O.K., I'm ready," I said to the nurse. I looked at her and just couldn't tell her. She didn't appear to be the type one could confide in. I decided to wait. The trays were brought in and I made sure I ate facing the room across from me. Both patients in Room 314 were asleep and no food was brought to them. After the trays were cleared, I tried to read, but I couldn't get the dark skinned man out of my mind. I could just see an aide carrying out this unconscious man and it would be my fault for not speaking up. Well, he had no business in the closet. I was fast approaching a panic stage. I knew I had to do something. I could let him out, but what if he had a gun? 13 By now, it was almost dark outside. I got up and walked over to my bed and rang for a nurse. I told her what I had seen. I told her I was sure there was a man in one of those closets in the room across from mine. She told me she would have to close my door and go find the Security Guard and have him check the closets. ~ mind went over the events of the afternoon. Things like that just don't happen in a hospital, I kept telling myself. What a fool I was to get the staff involved in what I saw, or thought I saw. About 9:00 o'clock I heard voices and a commotion in the hall. Then it was absolutely hospital quiet again. About 9:30 a nurse opened my door, came over to my bed and said: "You can go to sleep now, there was a man in the closet." 14 MASSEY FERGUSON 900 Turning wheel and radio dial-"Love, love will keep us together. " "The teethbone's connected to the jawbone, the jawbone's connected to the headbone • • . "-Forming syncopated rhythmns like the trotting of a horse. . And they used to use the horses when they plowed. "Shake, rattle, and roll ••• " over and over "Crimson and clover, over and over. " As the windrow tumbles once more Smelling clover-sweet and hay. "KBOU and it's ninety-eight degrees." But, D.J., you're not trapped inside this tractor cab like me. "Get a bucket of .".". Arby's tender roast beef." I'm hungry; I think I'll kill a cowGrab one right out of the pasture-"Ized mild and processed cheese from Allen's Dairy." Make you dizzy t'watch the spinning While they're making that there cheese; Like your records, mister d.j. Spin another, will you please? Play "I'll Follow the Sun;" Our "discing" is nearly done. 15 16 Bob L~~ THE DELIVERY ROOM the double doors were in motion. doctors and nurses in white were making last minute preparations as the woman on the bed screamed that it was too late; that it had already begun to happen. the husband, who was at his wife's side, took several last swallows and tightened his grip on her hand. they made one last exchange of kisses and i love yo us and everything's going to be alright lines as the doctors and nurses conveniently held separate conversations as if they had seen the couple's need to have time alone. then pace picked up again. and even though she had practiced the procedure many times at home alone or with her husband, doctors and nurses had to begin giving the wife orders telling her how to move, breath, and push down, almost as if she had never heard of childbirth before. the husband held onto her hand and sweated and watched. you could see him resenting these men and women who were able, who had taken over and overrun a territory that he should know how to handle. but as the doctor demanded one last bearing down, death entered the room unnoticed. it slid in and hid behind a white partition and watched. blood came faster as the child slid from the womb and death would smile when it saw red. then the husband, who saw the baby coming, changed. his face brightened, eyes and smile widened; you could see him becoming a father. 17 next someone did something with the cord, others were preparing for afterbirth, and one doctor slapped the baby's bottom as death laughed and took pleasure in the spanking. but silence was not mentioned in the books she had read on childbirth, and the mother kept asking why the baby did not cry. by this time, death had seen its victory; had moved its dark mass toward the doors. the father, who spotted death on its way out, tried to catch it, stop it, beat it, teach it a lesson, or kill it. but death went on; avoided the confrontation decided that letting the father live might cause a greater pain. 18 Fvr.n Roc..k.L<.n LIBBY As a child, she was precocious. Her friends tolerated her antics with resignation. Indifferent to others, Libby read books avidly without the slightest interest in dolls or hopscotch or other activities. Twenty years later, Libby is holding one of the top management level positions in a multi-national, multi-million dollar corporation. She has the respect and devotion of all the line and staff employees that work with her. John Birmingham, a new~ hired method's analysttype, in the systems and procedures group of the finance and accounting section, wants to interview her to search for ways in which she can be replaced by a computer. Unaware of his intentions, Libby greets him briskly in her office while she continues about her work. "This might seem a bi t sil~ to you, but I have a few questions I'd like to ask you concerning your personality. I've asked other department heads already concerning their personalities and it's quite amazing how much is revealed about general intelligence and deductive powers," John began. "Alright, fire away!" Libby yelled back as she pulled her chair closer to her desk. "Sit down, please," she offered. "First of all, what is the first physical characteristic you notice when you meet someone?" he asked. "Whether they are male or female," she answered back. "I see," he said as he jotted down her answer. "Now, here is a hypothetical question that I want you to consider carefully. In your position as scheduling manager for audio-visual materials in this area, assume the following: A plane started out at Chicago's O'Hare field with seventeen passengers aboard and a crew of nine. At Omaha, four got off and nine got on. At Lincoln, three got off and one got on. At Des Moines, nine got off and four got on, and at each successive stop thereafter, nobody got off and nobody got on until the plane reached its next to the last stop, where five people got off and 19 one got on. Then it reached the final destination," John paused. Libby blurted out, "Easy! Eleven passengers and a crew of nine." "But, that's not the question," he sneered back. "How many people got off at Des Moines?" "Nine," she quickly said. John cleared his throat and became a little disoriented. "Yes, well, right. Well, how did you know?" he asked. "Well, first of all there are nine letters in Des Moines. Seriously, I associate many things with many things," she flippantly answered. "I see," John said. The questioning continued for the remainder of the hour and John felt his shirt wet with perspiration and his throat became parched and dry. Every trick to mislead and foil Libby has failed . I~bb y enjoyed a little mental gymnastics and didn't want. the interview to end. "Well, I must be going now , " John said. "Oh no, I'm really enjoying this! Do I get a grade on this or what1" she asked. "Well, normally we classify people into three general categories--Below Average, Average, and Above Average," he answered hesitantly. "Well, what's my category?" she asked. "I don't know about you. You don't seem to fit into any of these categories. We'll have to program a new category for you!" he yelled as he stormed out the door. Libby returned to the file she had put aside before the interview and focused long and hard on the first word--"Compute." 20 Shannon Wh-i.tc.omb THE STORE Beauchamp, the blind boy, kept Grandaddy's little store One room, a pot-belly stove black as the coal it burned. Four cane-bottom chairs soft drink box ice cream freezer. On the plank shelves was everything you needed to get you through to Saturday when you got to go to town. Bull of the Woods chewing tobacco hoop, cheese, fish bait, vienna sausages, soft, sugary peppermint sticks not shiny and slick like they are now. Beauchamp' gone and Grandaddy closed the store and moved it across the road. When it rains, Uncle Coot and Mr. Womack and Mr. Rice go to Valiant's store, I guess. It's bigger than the one Beauchamp ran, but otherwise the same, minus the cane. 21 Robb-in Ple.-6he.Jr. UNTITLED In the wake of a telephone battle with MS. Hastings, (No, I can not take another case-four of mine are already on the docket for next week •••• ) comes my son: also associated with the number four by way of years and scratches on elbows. He needs to know if Tony can stay over-night and help him be baby-sitted while I go with Jack--and cheer under my breath when he delivers those great campaign ideas to Mr. Barrows over sloe gins and hors d'oeuvres. I keep wondering why I can't convince the D.A. to settle for suspended sentence in Monday's shop-lifting ordeal; while I try to squelch thank-you squeals and let the sitter in. The longer I think about it, the more clearly I see the absurdity of nurturing three different lives wi th one formula. The sun in the window catches my eye. It is bright, yellow, . and promising. Resolved, I start for the phone and MS. Hastings-I'll research the briefs tomorrow: after Jack has cinched the deal, and Tony is breakfasted and seen safely home. 22 Steve Eugene Klotz DREAM Papers whirled around each other, caught in a column of warm summer wind, as two figures approach~d a corner streetlight. The last remaining rays of a hot blustery day showed variances of red in a cloudpocked sky. With a quickening of steps, the bent figure of one man reached the streetlight. Stretched hands grasped onto the long metallic column and using what strength was left in tired arms, pulled him upward and closer to the silver column. He sensed having been on this corner before, but couldn't recall when it could have been. Maybe he had dreamt of this corner before. "Hello," smartly said the second man as he approached the corner. "Beautiful sunset, isn't it?" "Yes. The sun is beautiful, but look at the splendor of the rising moon, my son!" Finally the column had been reached by the second man and again the feeling of having been here before many times. Sharp, cold sensations played on his nerves. Knowledge flooded his mind; the dream was proving itself to be true. "Wha t beauty God has created. Man doesn't need all of his senses to be aware of the power of God," proudly proclaimed the first man. "Man should dream and carry out the dreams he has, for then he will be honest with himself." The man paused and then asked, "Son, why have you become silent? Is it because you fear doing what you know you must eventually do?" "Yes, I can't do it. I have to go •.• I'm late already," and with that, the second man hurried away. A tear appeared and rolled down the cheek of the bent figure of a man. Another appeared and was followed by a stream of many more. The man's head shook and then he mumbled to himself, "Why, why do you have to always go away my son?" Turning away from the lighted column, the bent figure retraced his previous steps, thus exiting the same as he had always entered. Tears glistened on the sidewalk and then were gone. They reappeared upon the pillow of a sleeping boy, whose dream of a son wanting to tell his father how much he really loved him had passed through his mind once again. 23 Judy s. O£~on JUST - SO, OF COURSE Always immaculately coiffed and groomed Miss Heath-Bradbury, white gloves in hand, Glides along Bradbury Avenue. It was named for her father, of course. Never quite attractive, about three pounds in excess, Perpetually dressed like the cover of Vogue. Never too much, never too little. She's her mother's daughter, of course. Never stopping to stare in the shop windows, (That would be too gauche) , The elegant lady knows just where she's going And buys just what she wants, of course. But, at home in the cavernous just-so rooms, She drifts aimlessly past Daddy's favorite Matisse Mother's Ming vase, and delicate crewel Not at all interested, but reverently, of course. Spotless window panes reflect empty eyes Trembling fingers smooth the drape. Too quiet, too empty, too lonely Too damnable proper and suitable, of course! Miss Heath-Bradbury can endure it no more. She climbs the hand-rubbed Victorian staircase Closes the door of her ruffled boudoir, and ends it all. But, in a fashionable way, of course. 24 Haz~£ Buh£~~ RAMBLING What to write about When there is free choice? Thought patterns-From first days of teaching (I wonder if Delores ever learned to read-Billy, I know, learned in spite of me.) Now, eons later, I must, first and foremost, be accountable, While the media says children are learning nothing. Or there is snow-Beautiful, graceful, glistening snow. (Remember the delights of going down a high drift in a giant pan? And riding in the bob sled to the jingle of the horses' harness?) Beautiful snow, unless whipped and thrown by gales of wind To make man and beast miserable. Or there is being a parent, of course-(Remember how totally ignorant we were, except we didn't know it? And gave advice to others, too--The answers were so simple then.) But parenting goes on forever and nobody is really asking for much advice now. Or there is solitude-A time to let the mind expand and fly away-(Remember walking along the creek talking away to no one but me, And Florence hiding under the bridge and hearing every word of my soliloquy?) Now, too, it's a treasured time for music and dreams and just thoughts--Really, in my solitude, many things to write about come to me, And one day I shall write about them all. 25 M~k~ Cumm~ng~ TONKA Nona walks blindly, slowly, laboring and pregnant through the snow blizzard toward a cave in the side of a mountain. The unborn is heavier than the others she bore, much heavier. As Nona enters the cave, she goes from blindness to blindness, but this blindness is warmer and more secure than the cold outside. On all fours, she does a simple dance of sleep, death. Her heart beats sadly. If this cub lives, he will be alone to live. No mother to teach it the ways to live. The howling wind sneaks through the cave heckling, echoing laughter at her. The labor pains are great; she retaliates with a scream of pain, shattering the laughing wind. No! she won't die. She and her cub will live. She screams again as the oversized cub oozes out between her hairy legs. The scream is one of relief. Tonka! a male cub. Tonka cuddles close to his new mother and they dream together until spring. But when the ground is fresh and water trickles down the outside of the cave and life is popping out of holes, underneath rocks, behind trees, bushes, caves, everywhere, Nona lies motionless. Tonka is awake and there is a smell he doesn't understand, doesn't like. It's terrible; he runs out of the cave and is stunned b,y the sunlight. He starts to cry and paw his eyes. Tonka is a huge cub with yellow fur. He stares awkwardly 'as the surrounding nature focuses. ~ut as he focuses with his big black eyes, the world looks puzzling, gaudy, fresh, but delicious. Tonka is impressed but hungry. He begins to eat anything in sight--grass, rocks, dirt, bark. His reverie of the cave's smell makes him puke, but he licks it back up and takes off in a gallop up the mount~n, not knowing about the territorial rights of other life. About three-fourths of a mile up the mountain, Tonka pauses for a drink from the running stream. He lunges in the water and begins playing. At his peak, he is dazed by a flashing mountain lion, which hits him with full force from behind. He tries to scramble to his feet, but is tossed from side to 26 side. He feels a sharp pain in the middle of his back. The cougar draws blood. Tonka runs toward new territory, and the lion is satisfied with the intruder's quick decision to vacate. On the run to nowhere but anywhere, Tonka wonders what happened. He doesn't know and doesn't care. The thought falls out of his mind as he keeps running. Three years pass and Tonka stands alone on two feet gazing over a cliff so high he is eye level with the birds. The trees look small, miles below. The sun shines brightly on Tonka's radiant yellow fur which covers big, thick bones and a twelve-fQot mass of body. This is Tonka's land--Tonka's territory. He lifts his nose to the sky and growls the sound of victory. All obey his command, but he must obey the command of nature. All have heard the cry of Tonka, happy and sad. He leaves the high land in search of a mate. 27 aJtJt-w Kathy H CHECK-MATE She whirled around and glared down at Him. He moved forward one space. How dare He think himself worthy. He has no right even being here. Straightening her embroidered silk collar, She smiled, conceited look on her face. She possessed them both and the others respected her. They knew her motives deadly, her mobility unlimited. She'd do it. She'd do it when she was damn good and ready. Once more, He moved forward. The gentleman gallantly stepped out of the way. So untidy, thought he. Why did they allow the likes of him in? Commoner, He smelled of lowliness. Disgusting. Manners, politeness, they were the key. He did not even bow to the passing of the queen. Again, He crept on. Down on your knees sinner. Only the righteous belong here, the man clad in black thundered. God is our only salvation. Walk the paths of righteousness and you shall be saved. 'Tis only those without sin, see heaven. Much too late for you. Turn back. _ The pious knight will do the deed, in the name of the Lord. Determined, He continued. Fools, all Fools. Is only cleverness and cunning will win the game. Smiling slyly the Rook muttered. 'Tis the knife placed in the back and the hand outstretched that will bring him down. For the last time, He took his final surge forward. 'Twas but a lowly Pawn caused the falling of the king. 28 o o ~;3 0~ t! §i;; ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 2~2-3~O2. ~ ~ 1 ~ ~. Re.ba Vav-U, THE CAT SITTER Wanted: cat sitter to keep our beloved 15-year-old pet company for three weeks while we vacation in California. Must be mature and able to speak fluent Siamese. If you are sincerely interested, call 292-3602 for further details. Hi Jim, It's your crazy mother again with her weekly report. You'll never guess what I'm up to now. I've taken a job for three weeks baby-sitting with a Siamese cat. Since this cat is more neurotic than yrs. truly, 29 it should be an interesting experiment. Please write me here: C/O M.G. Jensen Box 979 Edina, Minnesota. Love and kisses, Mom P.S. The cat's name is Kiki. Dear Mom, You've been going with Larry almost two years now. I wish he'd marry you and make an honest woman of you, or else you would find some normal kind of employment. It's somewhat embarrassing to speak of my mom, the cat-sitter. Seems funny to think of you, the former cat-hater, in such a weird job. Little did I dream when Hari Cat crept into our house and into your affections seven long years ago tha t you would ever come to this. But then, they always say converts are the worst kind! Love and kisses, Jim p.s. give Kiki a kick for me. Darling Kiki, Mommy and Daddy will :be home a week from Sunday. Be a good kitty and we'll bring you a lovely surprise. Your adoring, Mommy 30 Dear Mrs. Jensen , Thank you so much for the check for the full three weeks. Of course I can understand your missing Kiki so much that you came home four days early . The five bites on my legs and three scratches on my arms are healing nicely . Sincerely, Alicia Perrin P.S. I ' m sorry I'll have to decline your offer to cat-sit when you next vacation. I'm afraid my Siamese isn't as fluent as I thought. 31 K~mb ~~ ~~~ McQuown FLURRIES Winter in the midwest was always a damp biting cold, viewed from a crackling fireplace or a snug kitchen. The only time adults left their cozy tarn besides going to and from work was when it was necessary to free walks from a cushion of white. In empty lots and backyards the snow had been ruffled by children who actually made the cold emptiness into romper rooms: building forts, making snow angels, creating frosty playmates, even making temporary scenery changes, constructing ten-foot mountains that only the most daring would ski down and only the strongest could hold as their province for any length of time. From inside a cozy kitchen sitting on folded knees, eyes and nose peeking over the back of the chair, Eric watched in silence with wide eyes and a broad grin. The refrigerator door flopped shut behind him. "Eric," his mother began, · "why don't you run downstairs and get your boots and parka and I'll help you get dressed so you can go outside and play for awhile?" Eric slid off the chair, taking a final glance out the window before following his mother's suggestion. He hurried downstairs and reached up for his coat on the lowest hook and grabbed for his boots beneath the stairway, bumping his head lightly while struggling to pull them out of the boot box. He clumsily clomped back up the stairs and scooted onto a chair, holding one leg out stiff to make it easier for his mother to push the snow boot on. "Hurry, Mommy, hurry," he exclaimed, rapidly wagging his foot in anticipation. "Hold still, Eric, or I'll never get your boots on. " He quieted while his mother pushed his boots on and snapped the safety guard around the top, so no snow could wriggle its way in to bite her son's toes. , When she was done, he hopped o~f the chair, holding one arm out stiff, airplane-style, while his mother slipped it through a heavy coat sleeve and he bent the other arm behind him, making desperate lunges for the vacant sleeve. 32 "Just a minute, Eric." "Come on, Mommy!" Finally the coat was on, zipped and. a scarf had been tied around his nose, mouth and neck; mittens were attached to his coat sleeves with safety pins, a measure taken after two mittens had lost their mates to the white fluffy plague. Eric bolted out the front door. His mother stared as Eric charged up the hill and gave his neighbor a shove, and she watched him clap as the little girl tumbled down the hill, then saw him fall forward when one of the boys pushed him from behind. But he scrambled to his feet and charged back up the mountain. Eric's mother busied herself cleaning out dresser drawers. She sorted the summer things into a tall cardboard box and, when she came to her striped maroon and pink bikini, a gleam radiated from her ice blue eyes. She tore her clothes off and jammed her winter bulges into the suit which had been challenging her. She ran to the front door and smiled at the· bleak iceland which seemed to defy her, dare her, laugh at her. She flung the door open and jumped into the polar climate. She ran madly around her home, laughing hysterically as if her antics could wrap the house up in a tornado-like flurry and sweep it to the equator. She ran back in the house and smiled, glared back at the artificial mountain and ~e children who were rolling in the confetti of her victory. Her smile melted and a tingle twisted her skin. She walked back to the bedroom and took off the swim-suit. She touched the cold red of her skin and reached for a blanket on the bed. After sitting for a few minutes, she put the clothes on that she had scattered on the floor. Then, finished putting the clothes away, she stuffed the box on the top closet shelf. She swept the kitchen floor, now and then glancing at the children's mountain. The dusting and vacuuming were finished. Finally, sitting down at the kitchen table, pouring herself a cup of coffee, staring through the mountafn, towards the brilliance of the sun, her eyes vaca- 33 tioned from the freezing bars of her cell. Eric slammed the front door. "Mommy." She walked into the entryway and helped him slither out of the slushy clothes and listened to him tell about all the fun he had and how he was "King of the Hill" for most of the afternoon. "Did you have fun today?" he asked. Joa/1 Sa/1dv-i.c.k. SPOKEN-UNSPOKEN "I hate: getting up on a cold winter's day, worms on the sidewalk, their smell in the air, globs of dried toothpaste left in the sink, and white anklets." "I hate: scraping a pan with an old metal spoon, The Blob, Godzilla, and all of their friends, Liver, its smell, taste and touch, and mosquitos." The word slides out in so many phrases. Quite casual, used in this way. But when it is piercing -- bitingly brutal, It is felt loudly and clearly without even a word. 34 wctf.,tvr. Mullin HOW I SPEND MY SUNDAYS I go to the cemetery. Before the morning passes away, it's quiet then. I spend a long time there looking at the stones, the leaves, the plastic flowers, the little dime store flags, and moss and lots of names. It's really a fine place to think. Some people say you shouldn't walk across the rows. "tha t 's di srespec tful" ••• when you're dead. I walk right across they don't mind. I talk to myself and cuss and bitch. sometimes I pray, out loud, But I never cry. I laugh a lot and tell myself jokes and think of all the stupid things that happen. It's best when it's foggy. It disappears and you don't even notice ••• till it's gone. 35 THE MELTING POT THAT WOULDN'T MELT They never knew each other. Pretty dark-haired Mary O'Connor lived in the middle of the north half section of land, in a huge white house, surrounded by tall skinny silos, sprawling fat barns, and a motley assortment of sheds of a uniformly faded red. The O'Connors were a sharp tongued clan, respecters of no position or title. Everything was fuel for the battle of wits that went on constantly. They didn't tell jokes, they acted them out, feeding one another the lines, always with a little twist or variation. Mother Ellen could imitate with malicious accuracy her pious Aunt Lucy, her shrill Sister Tillie, or the cross old hen who tended the brood of chicks nearby. At the O'Connor's house, you opened a door cautiously, for the movement might trigger a dousing with an unseen pail of water. Wickedly leering dummies found their way mysteriously into beds and closets. When there was music, as there often was, no true O'Connor could listen sedately. They must be on their feet, clapping their hands, doing a do-si-do or an Irish jig. Tom O'Connor, the father, would seize the dog Teddy by the forepaws and waltz him wildly around the kitchen table while son Pat fiddled and ,Teddy barked wildly. Mealtime was a time for talk, laughter, and heated arguments. The family gathered around the huge oilcovered table in the kitchen and devoured quantities of food, washed down by cups of tea, without ever commenting or seeming to notice what they were eating, so absorbed were they in the quick quarrels and good natured banter that took place. Tears came as readily as laughter, and life was an effervescent mixture of sunshine and shadow. Just across the pasture lived the Olsons, neat, thrifty and hardworking. They respected work; a welltilled field with no weeds, a healthy flock of geese, sleek fat pigs grunting in their pens. The Olsons were not given much to idle conversation. They spoke about the things that were necessary to the carrying on of their daily life, but it never occurred to them to use their own words for entertainment. Music was important to them, and three of their sons sang the sacred songs of the church in clear and beautiful harmony. As they didn't use words idly, neither did they use music. They would not break into song while stacking hay or planting corn. That would be unseemly. Music was relegated to the church and church functions which formed an important part of their life. One of the great pleasures of life for them was food. All family, community, and church festivals were celebrated with great feasts. Long tables, covered with heavy, smooth linen cloths held fine china platters and trays heaped with roasts of pork, beef or chicken. Garden vegetables, home-made sausages, glistening strawberry preserves, crusty breads and rich cakes, thick-frosted and covered wi·th nuts. There was lefse and lingonberries and lute fisk drenched with melted butter. The two families each had only one daughter; Myrtle Olson and Mary O'Connor were the same age. But darkhaired Mary O'Connor and blonde-headed MYrtle Olson always played with dolls, picked wild flowers and made mud pies alone. They knew of each other's existence and would peer shyly at one another when they accompanied their mothers to the village store to shop. Mary could have taught MYrtle her songs and poems and how to make May flowers into lovely wreaths. Myrtle could have shown Mary how to make beautiful doll clothes and transplant the wild flowers into a neat bed by the porch. But no exchange was possible because Mary O'Connor was Catholic and MYrtle was a Protestant. Myrtle's father knew that the Romans were a slightly mad group with devious plans for conquering the world and forcing everyone to worship the Pope, a strange alien worship of burning candles, smoking incense and strange chants. Mary's mother knew that all Protestants were an inferior people with dangerously mistaken ideas about God. 37 So, living within shouting distance of one another, each looked longingly over to the other girl as she worked or played alone. Separated by a wall that neither girl knew how to penetrate, they never knew each other. Po R.R.tj Bwc.k. e. HERMAPHRODITIC MESSAGE Human Mon - ster - os - i - ty More threatening than insecurities of scale, More threatening than a bearded lady. Born man and born woman One testes, one ovary. Born mother and father to conceptus Put on stage to reassure us Of our normality Yet proof of the absurdity of The sacred act. Making "freak" undefined And normal precarious • • . J u-e-<.e. Rucin-<.ge.n INFIDEL Promised from the first to be true to each other, Sharing his bed. Knowing she was his, his one and only lover, Eventuall~ wed. Keep her pregnant and barefoot to keep her near, Jokingly said. But thoughts of her wandering brought pain and fear, Wracking his head. Admiring glances others threw her direction, Noticed by him. Suspicion and doubt of her professed affection Burning wi thin. Conviction from doubt and hate from suspicion Painfully grew. Faithless killed faithful for some strange obsession Keeping her true. 39 Ronald w. Vobb-6 BALLAD OF THE CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR I'm a man named Neverwas, I never was nor will be. They asked me to carry a gun to keep my country free. I told them that I wouldn't kill, it was against my ways. I went down to the draft board and was classified I-A. They took me down to boot camp to teach me how to kill. I told them that I wouldn't learn, but they would teach me still. They cut off my golden hair and shaved my face so clean And then they starved me half to death, to make my body lean. You wake up when the trumpet sounds! You eat when the trumpet calls! Do everything when you hear the trumpet sounding through the halls. They took me to the target range to learn to shoot a gun; Shooting at a cardboard man, hours 'neath the sun. Out for bayonet practice with dummies filled with sand! The sergeant showed us fourteen ways to stab to kill a man. Shoot! Shoot! Shoot! Kill! Kill! Kill! Johnny'll be a soldier, like his mother said he will. Now I'm at the war front with my gun slung cross my breast; I saw a man across the way, he shot me in the chest. When I first was contacted, I said I ~uldn't kill. They did not believe me then, I guess they never will. You wake up when the trumpet sounds! That trumpet sounds so brave . When you're dead your family hears the trumpet sounding at your grave. 40 T~m O~w~g RABBIT STEW (for Elizabeth Bishop) The day I turned thirteen, my parents gave me a rabbit I built a hutch in our backyard Right under my window so I could watch it from my pillow. So innocent and harmless And yet so lonely It must have a helpmeet I delved into my secret compartment Withdrew my life's savings Counted it jealously, one last time And purchased love for my white friend What I'd heard of the birds and the bees Was borne out by my rabbits All of them more love, and yet Not quite the same as before While they increased, I decreased. I no longer gave them my choicest leaves And stopped feeding bread to all the little ones They had grown to too many for me to love And then one night I turned on them Mauled the latch and splintered the bar Then overturned the hutch And left them to the embrace of the Dark Striding away, I laughed bitterly In the morning I found one Crushed and broken And saw the tire treads Marking its grave Nothing I could do would mend the broken And no matter how deep I buried it It would still rise again So I flung it into the creek Watched it sink, and prayed it would never surface I fixed the hutch and collected the inmates Locking them away from the world and myself And yet, at times I still must sit At my lonely table for two And eat a dish of rabbit stew 41 JCUL D. HC'dg ~ AUBADE, WITH APOLOGIES TO ROETHKE I wake to day, but take my waking slow Despite the harsh alarm's assault. I fear I've no desire to go where I must go. Escaping day) I burrow far below The bl-anket' s dark; it is with no great cheer I wake to day, so take my waking slow . }tr conscience whispers I should rise and glow An echo of the dawn, but, happy here, I've no desire to go where I must go, So linger half asleep. Although I know I must cast off my dark and reappear, Waking to day, I take my waking slow, Because this morning (it is always so!), bones reluctant and my head unclear, I've no desire to go where I must go. My But need prevails, and I prepare to show A civil smile, and, bravely insincere, I wake to day . . . but take my waking slow, With no desire to go where I must go. 42 HEARTS I insist, no matter how clumsy, our summers be shaped like hearts. Mine is propped near my typewriter. Typewriter--you think--that's too ... overt! Next May when I move, the heart will be packed. It will hide in the car trunk; two months later the car burns on the Turnpike. June spreads, a travel brochure before you. Plants and bric-a-brac are given to your parents, with careful instructions. To your college friend Joseph go the old photos, the antique lamps. The heart is somehow left (not on purpose--one of those nights, one of those parties--you'd been lugging it moodily for days) at the home of someone named Sebastian. Sebastian--you think, from a bar in Maine--affected! Sebastian works in the garden; Anatole combs the attic for garden tools. Returning with rake and heart, cries, "What's this?" Sebastian, unmoved, still weeding: "Can't imagine. Might it look good in the parlour? From a beachchair you think: 43 It might. R. J. HC!-Jr. /l.O l1. THREE UNTITLED POEMS (1) GOD IS NOTHING without which nothing could exist. (2) Somewhere between I and me the region of love untouched, untapped is locked and going undiscovered to death (3) when will my sky forever blue to points of pins where angels live? we have learnt little. some dodge-um perhaps. no cause for celebration but celebration itself will make us believe. my father lives, his father is dead, his father is dead. jon grace, called by me jon disgrace , and myself once killed a cat. a black cat. we planned it . we did it. we were proud of ourselves . i broke windshields and antennas and car mirrors told jokes and masturbated for the first time at four years old . my mother miscarried - twice-second time was my fault-she said. my father broke a model ship over my head. some girls called me a pip . my friend moved away a long time ago. after that i was the fastest. 44 Jane. L. Z,[e.g.f.e.Jt - Le.aJr. IMPRESSIONS There was the time I "borrowed" my older sister's prom shoes (before the dance) to attend my own makebelieve Cinderella ball in the attic. Only my fairy godmother never turned me into a pumpkin when I broke one of the heels. MY sister tried to, though. And then, when I was ten, I worried about being fat because my sisters were thin and my brother hated the sight of both my stomachs hanging out. He rarely let me forget that I was a disappointment. MY sculpting and ballet careers didn't last too long. MY clay horses never did stand up unless I squished the legs, and dancing caused my toenails to turn purple and falloff. Dad laughed and said, "What did you expect with such little toes and all that weight?" Besides, I looked like a baby blue blimp in a tu-tu. Swimming was my great summer love. I was at the city pool as soon as it opened and was still ready to go when it closed. I could swim under the water clear across the width of the pool--in one breath. But jack-knife dives were my specialty. Than I fell in love with Pat, the paperboy, and forced my best friend to sleep out on the front porch with me just so I could see him at six in the morning. Our affair was short-lived. He told me my hose were bagging around the knees when I wasn't even wearing hose. We all hated chickens and especially having to gather all those eggs and clean them. It was great the day my brother got mad and kicked a rooster up to the ceiling of the hen house. He killed it, "and we cheered. Still, I never could gas the baby cockrels when Dad asked me to do it. They were so soft and yellow. I always cried until Dad would come in and tell me he'd do it. I should never have talked to them as I dropped them into the barrel one at a time. I loved Tom. I even swore I'd learn Morse code to prove just how much I loved him. Sally was a year older, but we were great friends. Plus, she lived at the end of my block. We always spent the night at the house with the best stocked refrigerator. We had wonderful dreams about FINALLY being sixteen and getting married to our latest movie hero. 45 I wore glasses from first grade on. The best part about being sick was that Mom pampered me AND I got to drink "Constant Comment" tea. Also, if I timed it right, I missed band and my private clarinet lesson with Mr. Grumbach. Yahoo! Slumber parties were great. I attended my first when I was seven with twenty other girls. Jill's mom went crazy trying to keep us confined to the backyard. MY mother limited my parties to five friends, and Peter could never be one of them. MY favorite books were: LITTLE WOMEN, MARY POPPINS (all four books), and BEAUTIFUL JOE. My favorite movie was THE VIKINGS with Kirk Douglas, Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh. I forced my sister to sit through the second show, and we got into trouble for being late. MY period shattered my childhood. 46 IOWA Going for a walk one day I discovered a frog from Iowa At least he said so (and who would lie about such) 47 Jct!1-i.c.e. E-i.dw.:, We shyly bare old photo albums. "This was my home in Tuskalooska." (A glossy color print of a barren hill boasting one stray toothpick at the height.) "Reminds me of my own Kentucky home." (A black and white of an empty brass candle holder halfburied in a field.) "This was the apartment I had when I lived on West Ninth Street and worked for an aeronautics journal as an associate editor and was involved with that neurotic woman I've told you about with .. the long braids and Indian dresses who never stopped talking." (A rusting ivory tusk next door to a hamburger joint.) Then, The photos tumble from The pages as you place Your teeth to my wrist. Later, We hope to Refrain from rearranging Your pictures, my pages. 48  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Kiosk: Volume 40 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Subject The topic of the resource Student Publications Description An account of the resource The Kiosk contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Davis, Reba: Author Thompson, Mike: Author McDermott, Mark: Author Johnson, Laurie: Author Hawks, Marianne: Author Averill, Allison: Author Lee, Bob: Author Rocklin, Fern: Author Whitcomb, Shannon: Author Plesher, Robbin: Author Klotz, Steve Eugene: Author Olson, Judy S.: Author Buhler, Hazel: Author Cummings, Mike: Author Harris, Kathy: Author McQuown, Kimberlee: Author Sandvick, Joan: Author Mullen, Walter: Author Murray, Fran: Author Burke, Polly: Author Rudnigen, Julie: Author Dobbs, Ronald W.: Author Orwig, Tim: Author Hodge, Jan D.: Author Eidus, Janice: Author Herron, R. J.: Author Ziegler-Lear, Jane L.: Author Breneisen, Frank: Author Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1978 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-19 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Burke, Polly: Editor Lee, Bob: Editor McDermott, Mark: Editor Nelson, Marc: Editor Orwig, Tim: Editor Whitcomb, Shannon: Editor lZeigler-Lear, Jane: Editor Breneisen, Frank: Art Faculty Advisor Eidus, Janice: Literary Faculty Advisor Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical 52 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kiosk Manuscript Perspectives student publications http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/25358f3ee7d8b480a192cff87259517a.pdf a55a220452a104bbfa7f7213d741191e Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Perspectives: Volume 22, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Kiosk Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource This PDF file of the Perspectives contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ponder, Marcie Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2013-01-13 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-12-11 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-11 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF 9.67 MB 72 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Perspectives-Vol22-No01_KDC_1963_01-01_01.pdf Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger PDF Text Text P E R S P E ARCHIVES 810.8 P432 1963 c.2 C T I \' E S I '63 1 I �ARCHIVES 810.8 P432 Perspectives (Morningside College). �11 11 111 1 11111111111 1111111 111111 1111111 1111 1111 11111111 11111111 1 3 3191 00013 4955 PERSPECTIVES VOLUME XXII SPRING 1963 NUMBER J Stall Editor ................... . .. ........................... David Ott0 Business Manager ........................................ Marie Dee! Art Consultant ............................... Mr. William Zimmermafl Faculty Advisor . .. ............... . ........ ... .... Dr. Howard Levant PERSPECTIVES is published by the students of Morningside College Sioux City, Iowa �PREFACE: TO THE READER Last year, for the first time, on an experimental basis, PERSPECTIVES contained a ten page section of the year's best student painting and sculpture. The experiment was successful. This issue of PERSPECTIVES contains again a ten page section devoted to the visual arts. Moreover, through the kindness of the Student Council, we have added two further departments: a section of critical essays, and a section of translation from a foreign language. We feel that such developments indicate an unusually healthy climate in which the creative arts may flourish in the broadest, the only ultimately meaningful, sense. For it is a truism that any art tends to suffer through isolation from its peers, whereas all of the arts tend to flourish in a general creative effort. Certainly we feel that the usual departments of fiction and poetry have gained in significance through being set within a broader context of the creative mind at work. In essence, it is our hope that the range of this issue of PERSPECTIVES- the fiction, poetry, translation, criticism, painting, and sculpture--is personally enriching to you, as well as an important contribution toward the furthering of the creative life on our campus. Finally, we cannot hope to guess what Queen Victoria might have said, but we are pleased, and we trust that you are pleased. The Editorial Staff 2 �Marie Deel A perplexing child, Gabrielle. To watch her sitting inert in that maple rocking chair, swallowed up in it nearly, clutching that pathetic celluloid lamb ... baffling. Her parents are convinced she's a mystic. A mystery, most assuredly, but a mystic? When I first came here my only involvement was the hospital. There is a stigma attached to women physicians no matter where they practice. But here especially I needed to prove myself, and I did of course. After that I became increasingly aware of the community outside the hospital, and a good thing, too. Here at the hospital we have the unfortunate tendency to withdraw. We have a strange self-sufficiency; even much of our food is grown by the patients on an acreage nearby. The staff, including myself, forgets that it is part of the world. So here we are, nursing our neuroses, functioning admirably enough in thel eyes of an outsider, I suppose, but forgetting that each of us has a baffling syndrome of our own and no one to help to shake it off. Sometimes I think we need a moat to detach ourselves altogether. The pitiable aspect of psychiatry is not always the patient, but often as not the psychiatrist. Doctor Locke is a good case in point. A brilliant man and a gifted healer, but, like the rest of us, a cripple of sorts. His particular cross is a fear of feeling any affection for his patients. That's not entirely fair. A fear, then, of showing any affection. There are others of this persuasion. They feel a sense of dismal failure if, in spite of themselves, they slip and evidence a manifestation of their love and pity. Pity. That was my undoing. For a very long time I had the difficulty of translating my pity into action. But I am over that now. The village is a fascinating place. Fortunately it is within walking distance of the hospital, only a mile down the road. A sociologist would find it doubly intriguing, but I enjoy it in a superficial, unscholarly way. The mountain people in this area have an affinity 'for Biblical names, and nearly everyone in the village is Hosea or Malachai or Naomi. But the village is a sad place too. Gabrielle is the only patient we have from there. Her father holds great sway over these poor, credulous people. Their ignorance is appalling. He is the prophet of the new messiah. Yes, indeed. Oh, and thafs not all. Gabrielle of the enigmatic smile has been designated his handmaiden whence he cometh. It's only natural that they practice an occult religion, but there is something terrifyingly unshakable about the fervor with which the villagers and mountain 'folk follow Gabrielle's father. As nearly as I can define it, it's a kind of fanatical fascination for the gospels, a literal acceptance of the written word thrown into a shadowy mysticism by their utter lack of perspective. From it they gain a kind of static ecstasy, a god intoxication, as the Greeks would say. But what it's done to Gabrielle is what frightens me. Such a plain little thing. Only her eyes are alive and she guards them beautifully. For a time I thought perhaps she was not quite bright. But she reacts normally to the tests we've given her; other than during one of her catatonic periods, of course. A classic manic depressive, I'd say. And now that she's been with us awhile, I see how truly alert she is. Nothing slips by 3 �this one. She will sit for hours on end in that rocking chair, watching the others and gripping that lamb, often until she falls asleep. We haven't gotten her to talk, but this too will come. Doctor Locke says that when she does speak it will undoubtedly be to herald the arrival of the new messiah. Actually, I find no humor in the doctor's remark. How he can remain so detached from our people is quite beyond me. Tender, loving care has always achieved the best results so far as I can see. I've grown quite fond of Gabrielle. Doctor Locke insists that it's only stifled maternal instinct. PosEibly, but I think not. How intriguing her eyes are. Sunk in that colorless little face, they burn with such intensity. She desires communication, I feel sure, but she is not quite ready for it yet. We are patient here. We won't prod her unnecessarily. Gabrielle came to us nearly six months ago and only once has she been violent. Her father put up a dreadful fuss. Naturally his completely unreasonable performance made their parting difficult. As he left he whispered something to her and gave her the celluloid lamb. After he had gone, Amy, one of our aides, was instructed to bathe her and give her a fresh change of clothes. Gabrielle was completely docile until Amy took the lamb from her hands in order to undress her. Of course the lamb is Gabrielle's only tangible tie to her father and snatching it away is the same as wrenching her from her only connection with the past. We should have foreseen that. We are hoping that Gabrielle will eventually cease to depend so completely on the lamb as her sole comfort and companion; which will indicate, of course, that she is becoming more firmly grounded in reality. But as yet the lamh and the child are inseparable. I do wish she would relinquish it for a time at least. It really does need to be disinfected. Three months ago today was the first time Gabrielle made noticeable progress in group therapy. Doctor Locke had succeeded amazingly well in drawing out Knudsen who related a dream in which he dismembered his father. This in itself is a minor triumph, for at long last he overtly stated his filial hostility, a crucial step in curing a rather nasty Oedipus complex. At any rate, Cummings, whom we were treating for senile dementia, began to weep uncontrollably. Gabrielle left the rocking chair in which she had been sitting on the far side of the room and walked across to her. She held the celluloid lamb aloft and smiled that strange smile of hers. Cummings ceased to weep and drew Gabrielle into her lap. They sat like that for quite a long time, and Cummings began to sing to Gabrielle after a while in almost a whisper. I remember the refrain: Weep not my wanton, Smile upon my knee, When thou are old There's ~rief enough for thee. Gabrielle watched her as she sang in the breathy, tremulous monotone of the very old, and finally reached up and touched her face, softly, tentatively. Cummings was a sick old woman, and I wondered at the time if this newl~r established rapport between the two was the best thing for Gabrielle, but Doctor Locke seemed to think the relationship harmless enough. No matter. Cummings died some weeks ago and Gabrielle doesn't seem to have missed her all. at 4 �It was shortly after Cummings' death that Doctor Locke called me ill for a talk. He seemed to feel that my interest in Gabrielle was possibly becoming more than I could handle. You're a fool, Locke, you're a cold inhuman fool to think that I could ever isolate myself from my patients the way you have. Oh, Gabrielle, what have they done to your poor little mind? Walking down the corridor from Doctor Locke's office, I thought how remarkably well he had bathed himself in the detached astringent atmosphere of our profession. He was swimming in it. It would drown him. Gabrielle's father is allowed to visit here twice a year. Soon he will see Gabrielle for the first time in six months, a thought which I don't relish. It may very well mean a serious relapse for Gabrielle if his behavior is consistent with his last trip here when she was committed. Pity, too, for I feel we've done well with Gabrielle. Perhaps if I speak to him and explain the difficulties involved ... but one can't reason with these people. Logic is wasted on them, they are so thoroughly unenlightened. Gabrielle is sleeping now, clasping the lamb under her blanket. Even in sleep she retains that vice-like grip on the soiled celluloid lamb. I could take it from her now and wash it. But no. Should she awaken and find her lamb missing, she would be frightened, so frightened. Today is grey and sullen. The occupational therapy people maintain that our patients react favorably to yellow clay and red tempera on a day such as this. Assuming, of course, that they react at all. When I was in college I lived for days like this, I thrived on melancholy. I would sit alone in my room and listen to cello music and write despairing verse. Oh, life in an institution is much like living behind a glass silvered on only one side. You can see the world reflected but you can't reach out and touch it and it can't see you. It makes little difference if the institution happens to be college or a mental hos pital. The same clinical atmosphere pervades and they smell much alike. Sterile. Perhaps our people would progress more rapidly if it weren't for the antiseptic odor. If only they could forget where they are, if they weren't constantly reminded by so much ungodly white and the barred windows and the softened voices and the visiting days. I often wonder what prompted me to take up psychiatry. I suppose that by helping others to re-enter the land of the living I experience a kind of vicarious vitality. To be perfectly honest, I could never achieve a real appetite for life on my own. Perhaps healing others is a sickness with me, the worst sort of escapism. Physician, heal thyself. I finished with Gabrielle a little while ago. Our sessions are so reward ing' from my end at least. I've established some degree of contact, I feel certain, but it's not enough for either one of us. Slowly, by degrees, never hurrying, never prodding, it's the only way. She let me hold her today, an· other small triumph. So painfully thin, and those tiny pale hands gripping the lamb. One day she will cast aside the lamb, reject it as an inadequate substitute for- for what? For me. Ridiculous! But is it really? Not for me as an individual, but for warmth and comfort, the sort only people can provide, not a celluloid lamb that vaguely links her with a tortured past. How I've come to love that child! 5 I �There now, I 've said it. A dangerous situation, admittedly. Never become emotionally involved with your patients. Never let them depend upon you as a person. Concern yourself only with their mental and emotional regeneration. And if you do love them it must be impersonally. A contradiction in terms, to love impersonally. Perhaps unobviously would be better. Impossible. Oh, and now it's raining. Gabrielle must be sitting in the rocking chair on the rag rug near the fireplace as she has begun to do, stroking the lamb, caressing so much plastic. plastic. How real the rain is. More of a reality than I. What have I caused to grow? What have I soothed? What have I cleansed, purified, made whole '( Gabrielle must give me the lamb. It won't. do for me to take it from her. Of her own free will, she must give it to me and I will smash it to show her that it is only a hollow toy, nothing mor,e, only a hollow piece of celluloid. The lamb, Gabrielle, the damned lamb. Marie Deel I don't dislike being impoverished. For a student there can be a certain pathetic charm connected to it if he knows how to use impoverishment correctly. Everyone loves the image of a threadbare, undernourished young man, doggedly pushing his way through academia, eating saltines in his room because he hasn't the price of a meal ticket, or hocking his Smith-Corona to buy text books. Girls will give you pitying glances, and buy you coffee and ask if you don't get terribly depressed at times. At this point you have two choices. You can manage a sudden depression or you can feign a touching bravado; either will undoubtedly win you a doughnut and still more pity. Herb, that's myoid roommate, always told me I was bitter-but I don't think so. It's only that I see things in sharper focus than Herb because my stomach is always empty. Herb is constantly getting letters from his mother with money in them and often as not he will spend it on food. For myself, I prefer being glutted by knowledge. I don't live in the dorm any more. But my new room is much nicer than the one I had. Herb kept a lot of photographs around and his desk was always cluttered with letter openers and stationery and similar junk. That always annoyed me because basically I am very tidy. I remember one afternoon after classes I went back to the room to sleep but everything was in such disarray that I cleaned instead. I made Herb's bed and stacked his books and put his pencils and eraser and slide rule in his desk drawer. I was putting his soiled clothes in his laundry bag when he came in and slouched against the door-he has very poor posture--and asked what the heck I was doing. "It is obvious, Herb," I said, "that I am removing your dirty clothes from the floor and putting them where they belong." He glanced over at his desk. "What happened to my slide rule?" he demanded. 6 �"In the desk drawer," I said, and I walked out. I could think of nothing else to say-I'm not used to being confronted with rudeness. It baffles me. Not long after that our already precarious friendship began to deteriorate considerably. It was simply that Herb and I were unable to talk. A problem in semantics, I guess you could say. But it wasn't that I didn't try. Herb would be reading the latest from home and I'd say, "What's that, a letter from your mom?" "It's nothing, nothing at all," he'd say, sort of crouching over his silly letter. "Well, it's got to be something," I'd reply, mustering up a jocular tone. Mter all, I had to live with the guy. "Mind your own business," he'd mutter. Herb always was jealous of my scholarship, I think. Once, about a week before final exams, Herb was almost decent to me. We had just gone to bed and I remember the room was very nearly dark but not quite. I could see Herb's black profile against the gray wall. He always slept propped up a bit so he could breath easier. Sinuses. Things had been strained so I was surprised when he asked detachedly, "How does it feel not to have any money ever?" I didn't answer right away. I was puzzling out his choice and order of words. Finally I decided he had meant to say, "How does it feel never to have money?" So I told him. I told him I was carrying on the proud tradition of the starving artist in the garret and that being poor was no problem, as long as I kept two things firmly in mind: never borrow money and don't bum cigarettes. Herb grunted , turned over, and said nothing. Sarcasm always was wasted on Herb. I suppose I'm really very content in my room off campus. Privacy is so important to the true aesthete. It's beautifully depressing with grey walls and paisley drapes. Just me and my Botticelli prints. And with the money I save, I can manage a regular meal from time to time. I saw Herb yesterday in the Commons but he pretended not to see me, I think. Strange. He knows perfectly well I didn't take his money. Marie Deel Katje climbed the steps to her flat slowly. The thin fabric of her coat hung shapelessly from narrow shoulder,s and her face was shrouded in a black scarf. Fumbling in her pocket, she drew out a single key. She turned it in the lock and the door swung open grudgingly. The room was large and ill-lit by the late afternoon light from the single window. A sofa of dusty green velour occupied one wall and a circular table stood in the center of the room. To one side was a single gas burner and a small bookcase filled with Dresden figurines and one book, the Bible. The rest of the furnishings were equally insignificant; they had been in the room for a long time and had been used by a good many people. A doorway led to the bedroom. 7 �Katje placed her coat carefully on the table and lay down on the sofa. It was nearly dark now. She was alone once again, by her,self in the flat she had occupied for "five months, five months since Max had left. The war. Its cloying, death-like stench permeated even this room, there was no escaping it. In the street below people were scurrying about like ants on a wound. Katje pitied them. She pitied them for their hatred. It was later now. The water boiled wildly in the copper kettle and Katje looked into its convex surface--her nose protruded bulbously and her chin faded into oblivion. Katje poured the water into a cracked blue teapot and stood for a moment warming herself in the rising steam. She walked to the window and pulled aside the curtain. It rained. She smelled the rain, the clean mineral smell, chaste yet earthy. If only they bottled its fragrance, she thought, if only they bottled it she would bathe in it, drink it, comb it through her hair. Katje poured a cup of tea and went to the table. The room, dimly lit by the streetlight outside the window, was peacefully gray and dimensionless. The copper kettle above the burner drew the little light there was and gleamed orangey-pale. Katje sipped the sweet strong tea. It was good, so good. She thought 0.£ her father, she thought of what it had been like when they had first come to this country. She had been so small. Pastor Muller. Even she thought of her father as the Herr Pastor. He had told her stories every night at this time, stories about her mother who was dead so that she would not forget her. Stories about Nuremburg. She could still remember Nuremburg, vague memories as though seen in a dream. Her mother was with her still. A dim warmth, a red apron, a lullaby. Katj e thought of Max. She could think of Max now without the twisting pain she had felt when he was first gone. Katj e was aware of a stirring deep within her. The child. She had Max within her as the child. Katje sang softly to herself. Mude bin ich, geh zu ruh, Schliese meine Augen zu. Vater lass die Augen dein Uber meinem Bette seine Her mother had always sung that, Katje remembered. She arose from the table and went into the darkened bedroom. It smelled of cedar wood and rain from the open window. Katje undressed, closed the window, and slid between the cool sheets. She folded her hands. I thank Thee my heavenly Father, through Jesus Christ Thy dear Son, that Thou hast kept me this day; and I pray Thee that Thou wouldst forgive me all my sins where I have done wrong and graciously keep me this night. For into Thy hands I commend myself, my body and soul, and all things. Let Thy holy angel be with me that the wicked foe may have no power over me. Katje slept. Katj e moved in her sleep. She saw them entering the parsonage. Pastor Muller, they said, we have come for the Bibles. Katje moaned as her father said, You shall not burn them, you shall not! But Pastor, they said as one, they must be burnt. They are in German. The prayerbooks and hymnals also. Then you destroy them to your damnation, spat her father. He vanished with fist upraised and enraged god-like visage. It was no longer her father, but Katje's husband. It was no longer the parsonage, but the train terminal. Max, dear, dear Max, Katje moaned. He was bending toward her, Goodbye my Katje, he was saying, Katje, Katje, Katje. The people were running wildly, trampling one another, a small boy wailed for his mother, the sound of 8 �the train was deafening, she could not see him, where had he gone to, she was in the midst of them, A German gone to kill the Germans, A German gone to kill the Germans, they were chanting. A German gone to kill ... a small boy wailed for his mother, their faces masked with evil smiles came closer and closer, she caught a glimpse of his olive drab uniform. She fought her way through the vast network of restraining hands, the hot fetid breath of the locomotive, the roar, the wail, he turned before her. Where his face had been was a gaping, open wound. Max! She was jarred awake by the sound of her own scream. She jerked upright in the bed. She was breathing in loud shallow gasps and her hands gripped the sheets. Her skin was damp. She left the bed and moved to the window. She sat in the sill and looked out at the wet street and wept soundlessly. Max, she whispered against the cold, foggy window, Max come home to me please. Please, please. She slipped to the floor, trembling and whimpering. Vater unser, der du bist im Himmel, geheileget werde dein Name, dein Reich komme-Max is dead. They would call soon or there would be a telegram. The child stirred beneath her heart. She stared into the dark. It rained. 5he JJarvejl !)j Read';! Patrick Detches The desert rushed past the window of the coach. Outside, the air was hot, dry, unmoving. Vision was sharp and clear for miles but all there was to see was the scorched, rippling sand. Inside, a few members of our company were dozing in the gentle, swaying rhythm of the train. Three girls sat knitting, their jaws chewing gum in tempo with the clacking 'of the needles. F our of the boys were idly playing cards in a cloud of smoke. The rest were juxtapositioned into crazily strewn patterns on the neat rows of seats- some reading, some talking. Sonja sat next to me, her fingers interlacing mine as she dozed lightly. I gazed at the broad scope of nothingness flooding past the window. White, black, pink, blue, grey- a rainbow of colored tights hung on temporary clotheslines strung from one end of the car to the other. Tote bags, dance belts, toe shoes and crumpled lunch bags littered the aisle and suit case racks. We were on our way to Albuquerque to play a five night stand in the older section of the city. We just closed in Phoenix and were looking forward to a brief one week rest before this next performance. However, this was not to be. We were asked by a committee from the Chamber of Commerce, who were sponsoring the event, if we would include another number in our repertory. The festival was almost continuous in ancient Mexico and carried over to a large extent in the present. It was the middle of August- a time when the tribes poured into Tenochtitlan in a festive mood to celebrate the fall of' the fruits. The Aztec rites to the fire god, Huehueteotl, during the same month were also certain to attract the holiday crowds. They were glorious and rollicking fun-fests of blood-letting. The people appeased the gods and their own superstitious minds by watching someone get drawn and quar- 9 �tered or, even better, beheaded. The same festive spirit survived through the centuries but the dignity of human sacrifice had been reduced to animals, crops, and then to myths. It was now a time when tired farmers and laborers could laugh, sing, and dance, after food. and libations of intoxicating octli. What the committee requested was a brief ceremonial dance not to exceed fifteen minutes. They furnished. the costumes, consisting of scant loin cloths, head bands, and bright colored blankets for the boys and not much more to cover the girls. It was to be a simple repetitive number accompanied by the huehuetl and toponzatli drums and conch shell pan-pipes. The manager, regisseur, and choreographer were happy to oblige-the rest of us were not. We had looked forward to a brief rest and an opportunity to soak up some Mexican culture and tequila. Now we would have to struggle through a week of pinning together a "simple" ethnic dance, polishing it, and brushing up our regular program. It was going to be hectic. The train continued to bear down on the work and sweat to come. As the train rumbled into the station, mass confusion exploded in the coach. The tights. slippers, belts and other costume pieces were snatched up and shoved into bags and pockets or thrown over arms and shoulders. Suit cases tumbled out of the racks. Pulling, tugging and cries of possession created. a sea of arms, legs and bobbing heads. We stepped off the train into a still oven. The sun slapped against us. The metal guard railS' were hot to the touch. The heat ricocheted from the pavement. Breathing was, difficult in the dry inferno. We had one hour to get settled, to eat, and to report to the theatre. Waves of pin-curlers and unshaven faces charged on Albuquerque. In a few days these same bodies" clad in tight, wrinkled pants and loose, sloppy sweaters flopping down the street, would reappear, almost like magic, in wispy tutus and elegant costumes flying across the stage. Sonja and I checked in, had a quick cheese sandwich and chocolate malt, and walked to the theatre. Outside, it was a large humble structure of adobe brick that scaled and crumbled in the relentless sun. It was situated amidst other adobe buildings ~hurches, schools and a few houses. Now and then one could see the brash aluminum and glass of New Mexico jutting out of the aged remnants of Old Mexico. Quetzalcoatl serpents and Totonac laughing heads decorated. the marquee and the main entrance. The theatre was built on the long-buried ruins of an old festival ground of the Totonac cultures. This fact was printed on the billboards and in the program notes and it was sure to draw the people in. It gave them an a'ffinity to their ancestral way of life and a general feeling of nationalistic content. It would also fill our coffers. Inside, the air-conditioner droned under its labors to cool the old theatre from the glaring sun. A stream of hot light poured on the stage through an uncovered window up near the catwalk. The fly gallery was emptied of all its trappings. They were being renovated for the show. Prickly jute ropes dangled like broken spider webs from long black travellers suspended high in the proscenium arch. The stench of earth, from the musty, dust-coated seats in the auditorium, permeated the air. The backstage wall cracked and flaked into small pyramids. Our dressing rooms were atrocious - small, dark, dirty, and hot. We changed quickly and set to work. The rehearsals dragged on for about three days and a mutual feeling of disgust ran through the whole company. We hadn't accomplished a thing. The steady beating and the flat, discordant notes baffled us. We went through 10 �the number over and over and over. Still nothing. A chorus of exaggerated sighs rose with the steam of our bodies when we were told to start from the beginning. Two of the girls retreated to the wings, the broken blisters on their feet preventing them from stamping out the incessant rhythms. The boys grunted purposely when they lifted the girls. The bright hues of our sweaters deepened as the perspiration spread from our backs and armpits. Limp, soggy sweat shirts hung from limp, soggy bodies. Listless faces weaved mechanically in and out of the intricate patterns. The choreographer snapped at us unceasingly as we stumbled into each other, crowded into sloppy circles and trudged through his carefully measured steps like amateurs. Sonja and I screamed through a heated argument. Our semi-nude bodies were slick with sweat. Then my grip on her legs gave out and she went sprawling in the midst of the whole corps. She recovered quickly and pounced on me, her fists slashing the air and frequently clipping me across the face. She drew blood. Mter we quieted down, she sulked through the ballet, touching me only when she had to. From the orchestra pit, the musicians concentrated their attention on the foreign instruments, completely ignoring the happenings on stage. The tempo in no way matched our movements. The choreographer slammed his notebook to the floor and stormed out of the theatre. We collapsed where we stood. Hollow footsteps broke the silence. A tall, red-skinned man was walking toward us from the wings. I wondered how he had slipped past the backstage doorman. Few people ever have. He carried himself tall and erect and walked ceremoniously into our midst. Shining black hair lay straight back over his head. His onyx eyes peered from narrow slits mounted on high cheekbones. A chisled nose jutted out and down from his straight brow. Faint glimmers of white, even teeth poked through his slightly parted lips. The sinewy muscles of his. angular frame ripped beneath his close-fitting white shirt and white pants. His feet were bound in brown, glossy, leather sandals. We gaped at him as he walked through our loose formation on the floor. He approached the edge of the stage and bent low from the waist, his arms clinging to his sides, and whispered to the drummer and flutist. They nodded and the figure in white stood erect again, turned, and walked to center stage. He paused. Then one of the sandaled feet stepped out to the side. His arms shot straight out from his sides, fingers stretching, reaching. Gently, he pounded his feet, first simultaneously, then alternatingly. His lanky frame swayed from side to sjde. The drums softly beat out rhythms in precise accord with the dancer. The piercing screech of the pan-pipe reverberated off the brick walls. His limbs undulated like a snake to the wail of the conch shells. The drums grew louder and more insistent. Erratic spasms threw the dancer's head back. His teeth, bared menacingly, 'were long and glimmering. Our eyes were transfixed by the pendulous being quivering with reckless abandon. Drums, flute and body were fused into a marriage of primitive ecstacy. Sonja slowly rose to her feet. She asumed the same initial stance, and her body, almost involuntarily, gently began to oscillate. Her blond hair matted to the side of her face. Beads of sweat spilled onto her forehead. Her jaws clenched, her eyes floundering in their sockets, her lips spread, she flung her head back, and lurched and fluctuated with savage beauty. The rest of us were drawn to our feet. Soon we were caught in the haze of waverII �ing to and fro, side to side. The cadence pounded in our heads. Unspent energy beat down on the dark wood floor. We felt an electrifying grasp, an ancient rite. Our arms and legs cut through the still air. The drums beat louder and louder. The flute shrilled high. dissonant cadenzas. A sea of humanity waved in unison, ebbing higher and higher. Now jerking. Now stamping. Now reaching. The choreographer ran into the theatre, his eyes glazed with anger. He shouted at us. Sonja and Marcia suddenly grabbed his arms. Jerry and I lunged at his legs. We carried him to the center of the stage. The drums beat louder. The flute shattered the air. The girls pulled on his arms, stretching them out. Jerry and I lifted his legs. He was suspended above the stage floor, writhing in our grasp, desperately screaming to be let go. We swayed with his struggling body to the steady beating of the drum. The rest circled around us, their eyes fixed on the squirming body. The drums roared in our ears. The red-skinned man broke the circle and walked to the bodv we held in our tight grip. He raised his arm high in the air. The sun glinted off the short straight blade clenched in his fist. He brought his arm down with a sweeping arc. The knife plunged into the chest. He drew the dagger down, tearing open the rib cage, and exposed the palpitating heart. With the other hand he reached down and tore it loose from the arteries. He raised it high in the air .... into the sun streaming from the window. From deep in his throat a harsh benediction riveted the air, si1encing the drUIILS and flutes. We dropped the limp body and he ceased canting. The now still heart slipped fom his fingers and fell to the floor. He disappeared from our midst. Sonja is crouching low- bent over as if in pain. Her hands are clutching the sides of her face. Her mouth is open and her head is vibrating as if she might be sCfleaming. But I can't hear her. The drums are so loud. Patrick Detches "Nectar and ambrosia! Morning, noon and night! I'm sick of it!" Hera slammed her goblet into a nearby cloud. "There's nothing wrong with this batch, dear," said Zeus, sipping comfortably. "It tastes bitter!" "You think so?" "And yesterday the golden apples were tarnished. Before that .... " "Now look! If you're thinking of getting a new cook, forget it. The last time you did that we nearly got ptomaine." "Well, she was just trying something different." "Arg!" "Oh, you haven't progressed at all ! You're as dated as the Parthenon. And have you taken a good look down there lately? They may forget you're still up here ... if they haven't already." "F orget me? Forget Olympus? Hera! These radical ideas don't become you. Of course they haven't forgotten. How can they, while the Sun Chariot flashes across the sky by day, and the Moon Chariot by night, etcetera?" 12 �"That just proves how stuffy you are. Look!" With an imperious gesture, Hera waved aside a curtain of mist, exposing the full view of the earth. "Well ?" "They're harnessing the rays of your precious sun to power a generator! I certainly don't see any glory being rendered to you." "Well ... ah ... I can't stand in the way of progress, can I? Besides, that's Helios' problem- not mine." "Progress, you say'? How far would they have progressed without us? Do you remember when they last offered a sacrifice to us? Do you?" "Certainly! It was ... why, just last ... ah ... no. Do you?" Zeus and Hera sat in silence. "Well, well! Don't we look contemplative!" "Helios! Come sit with us.," said Hera beckoning him to her side. "What seems to be troubling YOll two? You look as if Hades had loosed Cerberus on the heavens." "I was just talking to Zeus about that bunch down there." "Oh, that! I gave up on those people long ago. You just can't evoke any adoration from them no matter how you try. And, believe me, I've tried." "That's true," said Hera, "but doesn't it sometimes get on your nerves? I mean this complete lack of any respect. Not so much as a ripple of praise!" "Why get worked up over it, Hera? If they've neglected us this long, you don't think they're coming back to the fold now, do you?" "Helios is right. We may as well give it up as a lost cause," said Zeus. "Maybe you two will sit here and do nothing about it, but I won't. Just who do those ingrates think they are that they can discard us on a whimsey? I tell you I won't stand for it!" "Easy now, Hera," said Zeus soothingly. "You shut up!" Helios put his hand to his face to cover the small snicker he was enjoying at Zeus' expense. "And you too! You're just as disgusting as he is. Sitting there, complacent, not budging an inch. Both of you make me sick!" Hera got up quickly and stormed out of their midst. Zeus and Helios sat in embarrassed silence for awhile. After what seemed a painfully long time, Zeus spoke. "You think maybe she's right?" "What she says does carry a grain of truth." "So?" "What do you mean?" "What can we do about it?" Helios sat thinking for a moment. He got up quickly and started to leave. "I'll be right hack." Helios left Zeus and began to make the rounds of Olympus. The plan was fermenting in his mind. The pictures were vague but they pointed in one direction. The idea would not be entirely new. The gods had considered it before. But how to do it? Zeus would agree, he was sure. He would do anything to stop Hera from nagging him. The task would be simple enough but they would have to let it coincide with some event to make it look good. Helios couldn't help but think what a lovely pyre a nuclear detonation would make. 13 �He talked first in committee to Hephaestus, Poseidon, and Ares. The gods of the Smiths, the Sea, and War would have to be in on the initial plans. He sent Hermes with a message through Olympus. The timing seemed right and this called for quick planning and execution. Hermes was swifter than usual, and soon Helios had his key personnel gathered about him. There was a tense murmuring of excitement rustling through the assemblage. Helios was silently thankful that Dion appeared sober. "Please let me have your attention for just a minute. This may not seem like anything of any importance to some of you, but it concerns all of us in one way or another. First, let me pose a question to one of you." Confusion and bewilderment showed on the faces of the group gathered before Helios. "Demeter--when did someone from down there offer you a field of grain ?" Demeter was perplexed. She could not quite follow the underlying query, but she thought for a moment and finally spoke. "Really, it's hard to say, Helios. What I mean is, it's been some time since I've heard the rustle of so much as a blade of grass from there. Actually, I didn't know they were still there." "Well, they are-in great numbers. And the ground has been broken and re-broken a thousand-fold since you last looked. And the same is true in your case, Pallas Athene. Battle after battle has been fought since you last blessed Theseus. There have been so many conflicts between them that it would astound you. Nations mightier and much more powerful than Greece have circled the globe in their struggles for dominance." The two women were rather disturbed upon hearing this. They felt cheated and neglected. "The same is true with all of you. Ares! Such wars there have been! What did you receive from all this? Nothing! The whole lot of you! You have sat back and let all this pass you by. Well, take a look. Take a good, long look at what has been taking place down there. And we've let them go on completely ignoring us. Not so much as a lowly goat has had its throat cut for our sake." The gods and goddesses became indignant and angry at what Helios was telling them. Shouts for revenge rose in chorus through the gathering. Hera stood in the back of the crowd looking at Helios and gently smiling to herEelf. Zeus was pacing back and forth in front of his throne. He was· curious as to what Helios was up to and irritable at Hera's behavior. He looked up and saw a host of the deity coming to him en masse with Helios at their head. They came and stood him. Helios advanced forward a few steps. "What's going on here? Helios, what is it?" "We have just had a little conference, Zeus, and we are all in accord. So if you'll just sit down we'll explain it to you." Zeus mounted his throne and gazed out at those gathered before him. "Since none of us have actually received any of that which is due to us from those peoples on earth, why should we tolerate such behavior from that motley collection of ungrateful indolents?" "Yes .... " "All they are doing is causing unrest in the house of the Cloud Gatherer and serving no useful purpose." 14 �"True ... I can agree with you on that," said Zeus, thinking of Hera, "but what did you have in mind?" "Eliminate them," said Helios, casually. "What good are they? What have they done to make you smile with favor upon them? Have they or have they not disregarded you completely for the last two thousand years or so? Can you sit back and not feel slighted at such carryings-on? I tell you, Zeus, something must be done and quickly. We won't even receive honorable mention in the histories in time. We mean absolutely nothing to these people. They're like little children who have suddenly discovered an uncle, and have forsaken their parents for another's favors. I say get rid of them. It's too late to try and redeem them at this time!" "You realize, of course, that you're talking about annihilating a planet of peoples?" "So what? They care nothing for us. Why should we care anything about them?" "Yes, I suppose you're right. How do you plan to go about it?" Captain Ralph Linton had just come on duty in the ready room. He had picked up a copy of True and he was thumbing through the pages. The sharp clanging of the bell started him quickly and methodically out of his seat. He grabbed his helmet and check-off list from the shelf and he was running down the flight line to his waiting jet. The slim, dart-like craft taxied down the runway and was airborne in seconds. He juxtapositioned his ship in formation with other identical crafts. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as his instructions were monitored to him through his earphones. This was not a practice alert. The enemy had declared total war. Arthur Hall The summons blared out of the wall speaker: "Doctor Benson, report to Superior Tarus immediately!" Dropping his pencil on his notes, Doctor Benson looked up from his work. His face reflected his annoyance at the interruption. Loudspeakers were meant for outdoor political rallies, not for quiet laboratories. But this was the new order under these brazen, alien overlords. What could be in Tarus' simple mind? He'd just held his weekly staff meeting yesterday. WelL it can't be put off; when they order anyone to report immediately, it is best to go do it. After scooping up his notes and tucking them into an inside coat pocket, he trudged down the hallway and up the stairs to the Superior's office. His knock on the doorframe was acknowledged with a grunt, so he stepped into the room, opened the gate on the low fence, and confronted Tarus. "You sent for me?" he asked. Superior Tarus' massive upper torso seemed to almost overflow his small desk as he remained huddled in silence over a paper he pretended to be studying. He would let Benson stand there a while since he hadn't shown the proper respect towards a Superior. Benson had always rubbed him the wrong way. 15 �"I say," Dr. Benson repeated, "Did you want to see me?" It was an effort for the older man to remain civil after this deliberate, rude treatment by a young bully. "You heard the order to report to me, or you wouldn't be here," Tarus growled without looking up. "But I suppose you're in a hurry to get back to puttering around with that invention of yours." Tarus was one of the more arrogant Superiors. He enj oyed his position of authority over his captive staff of scientists who were much more intelligent than he was. "As a matter of fact," Dr. Benson replied, "I need every available minute to complete my project by the arbitrary deadline you picked out of thin air." At this bit of criticism, Tarns raised his massive head and stared at the Doctor through large, unblinking eyes. Benson had butted heads with him before. The sight of the red-headed Doctor only infuriated him further. "That's enough out of you!" he screamed. The back of his thick neck turned scarlet. Charging straight to the point, he continued with shrill, angry authority, "Your time doesn't matter any more. Your replacement takes over in the morning." "But," Dr. Benson objected, "I had another week until the deadline." He knew there was no real hope that Tarus would reconsider. "In the morning!" Tarus roared as he banged a clod of a fist on the desk. "We've let you fool around down there long enough; now we'll put someone in there who will produce." Tarus went back to pawing through papers. "That's all, Doctor." The title was added sarcastically. Dr. Benson turned without a word and passed back through the gate. Tarus bellowed after him, "Tomorrow I won't be bothered by you; no one will!" On his way back to the laboratory~ Dr. Benson reviewed the situation. These aliens had infiltrated the society of his small country. After bulling their way into power, they established an aristocratic rule and named themselves the Superiors. They took complete control of everything, including research. When they learned that he was developing a mind reading machine, they conscripted him to continue the project, for such a machine would enable them to ferret out all opposition. The chief opposition to their plan for complete subjugation of all men in F'redoma was a secret underground organization; the Libers. They were very difficult to deal with, for few of them knew each other and none of them knew who their real leader was. It was a good thing the Superiors didn't have the perfected mind reader, else they would find out quickly that Dr. Benson was this anonymous, troublesome leader. He had submitted to their authority for the past two years so that he could complete his machine and turn it against the Superiors. This new development changed his plans; the time schedule must be moved up. To do it, he'd have to work all night to install the final circuits which he had developed in utmost secrecy. Early the next morning, the new man came in just as Dr. Benson made the last adjustment. "DoctoT Benson, my name is Peterson; I've been assigned to take over your project." The young man seemed to be almost apologetic about it. "I was told yesterday afternoon that I was being relieved today," Dr. Benson answered, "But I didn't know that you were to be my replacement." He had seen Peterson before and had talked to him on infrequent occasions but that was the extent of their relationship up to that time. He certainly 16 �didn't know Peterson well enough to be sure of his political leanings; however, he knew that the fellow was a brilliant and promising scientist. With a slight air of defeat, he added: "It looks as if the Superiors chose a good man." He had no doubt that Peterson would succeed for the project was completed. "I don't think for a moment that 1 can replace you, Doctor," Peterson replied with guarded admiration. "Most of what 1 know about the subject came from your reports." This was true, yet Peterson had also studied the device on his own and had noticed that one vital circuit had never been mentioned. The machine wou1d never work without it. Had it been left out of the reports deliberately or was it that Dr. Benson had never developed it? -- "I've worked all night on the final adjustments," Dr. Benson said. "I was about to try the machine one last time." "Then you have only made adjustments?" Peterson asked, "You didn't add any new circuits?" "No, 1 didn't add new circuits," Dr. Benson replied. It wasn't really a lie; he had developed the secret circuit long ago. Peterson studied the Doctor's weary, stony face for some clue to his inner thoughts. Quite sure that there could be no harm in letting the old man have his last chance, Peterson offered, "Well, go ahead and give it another try." "Thank you, Peterson," Dr. Benson said and then added, "You could be of real service to me if you would put this extra headset on to help me evaluate the machine's per'formance. I'd be interested in knowing what you think of it." Peterson adjusted the wide, metallic device to his head while Dr. Benson donned the master thought helmet and turned the mind reading machine's power on. At this moment the wall speaker blared out, "Doctor Benson, report to the detention office in five minutes." The old Doctor ignored the announcement as he watched the power needle rise slowly across the dial to the "ready" position. He pressed the master switch to the "read" position. The reception indicator blinked. Dr. Benson suddenly wheeled on Peterson and charged, "So! You hope it never works, you traitor!" "I didn't say that!" Peterson denied. The accusation caught him off guard. "I know you didn't say it," Dr. Benson explained, trying to prime Peterson's mind. Peterson's face revealed the realization that the machine was working for the reception indicator blinked at his very thoughts. Benson's reading my mind right now, he thought, he'll expose me any second. Backing away from the console, he made a move to rip off the headset. The "hostile thought" light was already on. Dr. Benson had anticipated this sort of reaction and had quickly pressed the master switch all the way down to the unmarked "control" position. The strong thought went through the Doctor's mind as he turned again to Peterson: A Liber should stop and consider all the facts before he does anything. P eterson's hand froze on the headset as he complied with the Doctor's mental order. At the same time, he knew that he had been exposed and this set off a chain reaction of thoughts; anxiety, doubt, and wonder raced through his brain. The reception indicator blinked furiously with alarm. 17 I �Dr. Benson smiled kindly yet with satisfaction. The machine not only read men's minds, he thought, but my secret modifications give it the capability of projecting thoughts for control. The closed circuit between us provides the final test. 1 regret that 1 had to put you to such a mental strain but time was short and 1 had to be sure of you. Now if you will take the head· set off, we can work together to get the machine on the air and use it against the Superiors. Peterson took the headset off. "Congratulations, Doctor!" he exclaimed. "You did give me a bad time there for awhile, because 1 didn't know f or sure which side you were on until just now." "I know," Dr. Benson agreed as he bent back over the control console. "However, there is no time for discussion. Turn on the transmitter." "Of course," Peterson replied as he took the necessary action. " When is the moment of truth? " he asked enthusiastically. "Right away, son, right away!" Dr. Benson spun the wave-Iengtll tuner to the lower order of the scale, adjusting it to the freque ncy of Superior Tarus' brain. JJ. ms. Jerimiah Joan Neiman Lt. Colonel Whitey Ratsman unbuckled the restrammg seat belt and stepped out of the reclination seat. He reveled briefly in the familiar sensation of weightlessness, and then moved over to the control panel. All lights go. Whitey checked each listing and punched the corresponding signal switches. "Baby's riding smooth as ether tonight. Good dependable ship. Yes sir, every bit as good as any of those the Russo-Americans could orbit. Like a second home to me now. You, too, huh, Metchine? Should be, we spend most of our time here." Metchine swung out of his alloy pressure-protection chamber and pushed a button on the wall. The take-off rocket broke sharply and then died. Metchine raised his gloved hand, moved his eyeless head up and down, and squeaked, "Yes, Seir." "Okay, buster, let's run the tests." Metchine rolled over to the green wall, released the magnets, and part of the wall gave way. It folded into the ceiling of the master room. Whitey moved away from the panel and helped Metchine move the revealed cages up to the counters. He then began to assemble the equipment while Metchine arranged the white mice and rats in the proper sequence. This was a very important step in the studies and he felt safer letting Metchine do it. Metchine would set up the lists and establish the control rats precisely right. Control is the password of a successful orbitman. Without the control his tests would be worthless. The tests took over an hour per set, and at the end of the run Whitey was disgusted with the results. Five of the rats had been unable to react positively to the stimuli even under terra conditions. 18 �"They're useless baggage now, Metchine. Put them out." Metchine carefully selected the deficient rats and removed them from their cages. He placed them in the decomposition chambers. The rays whirred for a few seconds and then automatically ejected the gases out through the exhaust funnels. "Set the course for that small formation we passed back about an hour ago." "Yes, Seir." "We needed those five rats to get the proper control on the tests we're making. Maybe there will be some species on the formation that we could use just as well." "Wheat do wee have to leose?" "Rudder Rockets!" "Right." The ship cruised for fifty-five minutes and then the anti-gravity ascillators took over and H. M. S. lerimiah began to orbit slowly around the old planet. Whitey was in the upper observation dome, waiting to see if there was any sign of life on the rock, and Metchine was in the rear section checking the landing equipment. "All right, insert the landing tube," Whitey blared into the microphone. "Let her fall." Metchine took the cream colored cylinder and inserted it into the atomic reactor. There was a slight jar as the computer began to lower the ship towards the strong gravital pull. Whitey took the escalators into the lower observation dome and prepared to enjoy the landing. This was the favorite time for most of the orbitmen. The computer took over the responsibility of the ship, and the captain could relax. Once the tape was placed in the brain nothing could change the order, and the orbitmen were powerless until the ship reached a solid object and switched off of brain control. "Mighty strange planet here. Has an unusual orbit, and I've never seen such smooth terrain. It's completely grey with no sign of vegetation; it looks almost like a glass-isotope substance. But I guess there's a whole lot in the 01' galaxy you and I've never seen, huh? Shaped like an egg. Suppose the Russo-Americans ran some tests on it? Humped it up? Ha! The Prime Minister'd get a vibration out of that one. Better get in the compartment, Metchine, boy." Metchine whirred away and Whitey sat down in the reclination seat in the lower dome. He wanted to see this landing. He'd had land duty since last fall, and this was his first solo in nine months. The rotary engines plunked on and the ship eased up, and de-acceleration began. The shop cut speed to a minimum. The egg loomed larger and larger until it covered the dome. Whitey could feel himself falling and delighted in the sensation. It aways started that way just when they should be about ready to make contact. Then the center of the planet cracked open. Like a huge hand unfolding its fingers. The jags threw a shadow over the dome, and the last thing he saw was the red Abandon Ship sign flashing frantically on the wall. Large hand. Large hands, reaching, reaching out of the sky. Little hands. Racking up and down his back. Quickly. Slyly. Little fingers with dinner rings beckoning to him. Index fingers holding smoking cigarettes . . . cigars . . . pipes. The smoke begins to curl. Around the feet, 19 �over then ens, And the chest. It envelopes the head, eyes, teeth. Whirling, whirling ... and it begins to, slow and thin. It floats away and comes back. Thins, deepand then begins to disappear completely until there is only blackness. then, slowly, light. The cage was twelve feet high with a circumference of about fifty feet. The bars were vertically placed, and crossed at the center top. Whitey lay in the corner. He was lying on a soft, spongy mat fastened to the floor of the cage. It appeared to be a sort of bed and covered half of the floor. The only other object in the cage was a plastic container in the corner. Whitey decided it was useless. A large lock hung on the only door. It was composed of the same grey glasslike substance as the cage and ship. Four feet tall and three feet wide, it was too heavy for Whitey to budge. "Bet that key would be a goodie. Me Grand nanny would never believe me. Must be some husky guy what carries that, huh?" His head began to pound again and he sat down in the same corner. The cage began to shimmy and the sponge tossed Whitey about, jarring him one way and then another. A tiny grey face peered through the top of the cage. A clawlike hand extended from the thorax of the being and held a large key. The key was raised to an even level with the lock. A slight twist of the claw removed the lock completely, and the door swung open. When Whitey dared look at the being's eyes he sensed immediately that the species had not mastered the art of telepathy as had the orbitmen. For he could surmise what the grey skinned vertebrae was thinking, but the other did not seem to comprehend his thoughts. He realized that this would probably be his only weapon. The gentleness of the grasp surprised him, but the jerky movements of the animal jarred him sharply and he could not move at all, so cleverly was he held. The creature's brain patterns were a conglomeration of past experiences and recurring glimpses of some strange creature, probably one of the females . of the species. So Whitey took a survey of his surroundings. They descended to a lower level of th~ craft. This space was full of large grey boxes and some cages similar to the one he had been in earlier. Each cage had its own temperature control and atmospheric pump. Most of the cages were full. There were animals from all over the galaxy. A two-headed mascetonian from Venus crockled at Whitey as they passed the cage, fluttered its tails, and lay down on the cage floor in a fit of laughter. A twelv~ inch protozoa from Sun I swam around in the red acid solution Whitey knew to be its natural habitat. And a white rat from Terra sputtered at him from one of the grey boxes. . The being's brain waves altered sharply as he lowered himself beside one of the boxes. "Oh, an empty one. Here, now, down you go. Now see if you are :s mart enough to find your dinner." . He stood up and trudged away to the other rooms. The box was hexagonally shaped and very roomy. The walls were about fifteen feet apart and every surface was crystal smooth. Three doors led ' a~ay 20 : ;: ' : ', 1 �from the area where Whitey had been placed. Two doors were three feet wide and one door was two feet wide. He entered the first two and found only twisting corridors with dead ends. When he entered the third door he wa's extremely hungry and glad to see bread and butter on the table. He gobbled all of the food. When he returned to the outer chamber he found a bed on the floor which was exactly like the one he had slept on before. As he began a search for a place to relieve himself he understood why the plastic container was in the corner, and the spongy mat looked good. When Whitey awoke the grey man was making strange patterns and vibrations. He sat very still and concentrated on the brain waves. After a few moments he began to make something out of them. "Oho Ho Ho. Oho Yo Yo. Jay. Jay. Ba Ba. Galinthians. Yah! Galinthians." "I'll be," thought Whitey, "sounds like my school song." He realized he was on a Galinthian Ship. He had heard about the Galinthians. Everyone had heard about them. They were a race from a distant galaxy which had discovered a new form of energy that enabled them to journey to any of the universes. Of course some people denied that they even existed. Called the tales about them "ghost" stories. But now Whitey was sure that they did exist. He had heard that they would travel from one galaxy to another, studying the inhabitants and testing their intelligence. When they found a mentally alert race they would enslave them and use them to work in their plants. Whitey stared at the doors ahead of him. They had been shifted and the two foot door was now between the other two. He knew that his breakfast would be behind the middle door. But the Galinthians did not know that he knew it. And that was what they were after. They want to know if he had enough knowledge to open the middle door this time. And tomorrow what would they set before him? A shock system perhaps. And the light tests or series of locks and puzzles to test his mechanical ability. "And then? They will go to Terra and enslave them all. We'll be machines." "Perhaps there is a way. If they found that I was not intelligent at all they would destroy only me and let the rest survive. Not all of us. It is worth a try. The other way is hopeless. I'm no martyr, but I'm dead either way.'~ He stood up, threw back his shoulders and marched toward the left door humming a dirty song he had learned in orbitman's school. He made certain in every test he tried to show no insight into the problems. None at all, only coincidence and a little habitual trial and error sense. The waves kept beating: "You must have some intelligence. You made that creature. Try ,again. Come on. Please." : Mter a long succession of .tests, during what Whitey surmised to be a week, the being picked him out of the latest maze and shook him. "Fool thing. You'll be of no use to us. All this time just wasted." He trudged over to the square object which contained absolutely nothing, and placed Whitey inside. He shuffled over to a control panel, sighed, and started the decompositions chambers. He grunted, pioked up a microphone, and issued the final command. 21 �"T0 headquarters. Alert." "Rayo, go ahead." " Tests are finished. All done. Negative. Absolutely no intelligence discovered. This last one was no good either. Destroying galaxy immediately per plan." Nine . . . Eight. . Seven . . . Six . . . Five . . . Four . . . Three .. . Two ... One ... The rays whirred for a few seconds, then automatically ejected the gases out through the exhaust funnels. David Otto I'm glad to have my rope. If it wasn't for this, I don't know how I'd get along. Everybody tries to boss me around but no one succeeds because I tell them where to go. But when I do that, I get mad. The only thing I can be happy with is my rope. It will do what I tell it to. It will do a double loop with a twist in it, or anything. I hate cars. They are always trying to boss me around too. On my way home today I saw a car that looked at me just like those bullheads used to when I would go fishing. He said, "You scroungy rat; get off the streets. " Then he just stood there and looked at me. I wasn't afraid. I just stared back and then walked on down the street. But he made me so mad. That's wh y I'm playing with my rope. But it's time to go to work I hate work. I guess I don't hate work ; ies the people I have to work with. Have you ever seen a doughnut machine? I hate the one I work with. He just stands there for five hours and spits dough nuts at me. And I have to keep putting dough in so he can keep spitting them at me. Sometimes I don't put any dough in and he just stands there and makes funny faces. That is really funny. But I can't get caught because I am supposed to always have dough in it. That doughnut machine is so dumb. He always spits them at me but misses and they always fall way down deep into the grease. Then the grease throws them back at me, but he isn't strong enough to lift them very high, so they just float around. It's kind of funny because that machine and grease have been trying to get me for over a month. But I still get mad because the motive is there. They would get me if they could. The worst thing is that after all this I have to clean him. When he spits he splatters, and so after he is all done for the day I give him a sort of bath. The other job I have at work is making chocolate coating. That is just as bad because the mixer I run hates me too. Actually, all four of the mixers hate me, but I never get close enough to the others for them to get a good look at me. But my mixer not only growls, he grinds his hands together, hoping to catch me. I can stop him by pulling out the plug, but I can't get caught at that either. When he gets especially loud (yesterday he wasn't too bad after I pulled out his plug a time or two), I get frustrated and want 'my 22 �rope even more. Every night when I leave I go right home, get my rope and go to bed. My rope and I get along real well. I just learned another thing: never go to the bathroom while at work. I just did and I almost didn't get out. When I flushed the toilet it opened up its mouth with a roar and sucked. I could feel the air rushing by me, trying to suck me along with it right into that toilet. Of course, I didn't fall. I am strong, but I think you can see the problems I have. I hate that toilet. And it hates me, but I am stronger than it. I just get mad. I wish I could bring my rope to work. One of the things I really like is to sleep. I wish I could sleep more than nine hours a day, but I can't. Of course, I take my rope to bed with me. I practice tying all kinds of knots. I tie a sailor's knot around the bed post, and a square knot, and a slip knot. That's the one I like best. I tie that around the bedpost and when I get real mad I pull real hard and squeeze the bedpost. But he ne:ver says anything. And then I hate myself for doing that because the bed is so nice to me. I can really sleep good in my bed. You know what I like? Nylon fishing line; the black kind. I like plain wire hangers for clothes too. And dirt; I love to pile dirt on top of plant=, and things. Today's work was the worst yet. After the toilet tried to swallow me, that doughnut machine burned me. He still didn't hit me with his spit, but I burned my hand. And then the mixer growled so that I couldn't hear anything else. I couldn't even think. When I was cleaning him up, I happened to think of something (incidentally, I forgot to mention, I really like water too. I really like water) : What would happen if I didn't come to work anymore? Those machines would go insane. The doughnut machine wouldn't have anyone to spit at or even anyone to feed it. The mixer wouldn't have anyone to plug him in. That's what I'll do. I just won't be around for these machines to pick on. I'll go downstairs and throw my rope up over the rafters. Then I'll tie it and make a slip knot. I can stand on a chair so that I can put the slip knot over my head and then kick that chair out from under me. That will squeeze my neck and I love to squeeze things when I'm mad. I'll show those machines. David Otto "Good afternoon, Mr. Welsh." I cannot figure out how a man so young can leave for the golf course or wherever he goes every day at three. I'm here in the morning at least an hour before he gets here. And to top it all off, he must be twenty years younger than I am. I wish old man Smith would be content with pushing that buzzer once. After all, this thing will only go so fast. . .. And here is another example. Smith leaves the office every day at three, and everyone knows that he is a millionaire. They say that he doesn't have a normal day if he doesn't buy at least a thousand dollars worth of stocks. But everything he touches seems to turn to money. I just don't .... 23 �"Hello, Mr. Smith. . .. One it will be." Smith is always telling me that if I ever want to buy some stocks, Smith and Sons is the place to go. I think he says that to make me m ad. He probably thinks that I don't have any savings and couldn't buy if I wanted to. "Here's number one, Mr. Smith. And I'll let you know if I want any of those stocks. " Why doesn't he just shut up about those stocks? I would buy them if I wanted to, but I would rather put my money in the bank where it earns interest. After all, I'm not one to just throw money away. That's proven by the fact that I saved over two hundred dollars last year. And besides that I am paid up on my thousand dollar life insurance policy. That's the difference between AI and myself. We both run elevators from 8 :00 until 6 :00, but when Al is done he goes out to spend his m oney in a bar. Not me. I go to the bar too, but I work. With my new j ob at Penny's on Sunday, I can save even more money. I would think AI could see that. All you have to do is be willing to put forth a little energy and you can save money. 'Hello, Mrs. Ramlet. One?" Even the secretaries don't work to five. And they don't work Saturaays either. How come they all seem to have so much money? " Good night, Mrs. Ramlet. Did you forget something, Mr. Smith,( Sure, I'll take you back up." ·'Do you have any quick money makers today ? " I wish I hadn't asked him that. I know he will tell me again how I am missing my golden opportunity to double my money in a short time. Boy, he burns me. And he always says, "This is the way I made my money in a short time." Sure it is! I know that his father was in this same business. You don't make money by paying one-hundred thirty dollars for a suit and thirty dollars for shoes and fifteen dollars for a hat. "Okay, Mr. Smith, I'll wait." I sure wish he would just forget the stock business when he is around me. If I could afford to lose a little money, I would play the stock market, but I can't. I know some people have made money at this .... but a lot have lost money too. "Get it, Mr. Smith? Good." Elevator, go fast! Fast! Get this goof off here before he starts telling me what to do with my money again. I hate people like him. I know what to do with my money. I've done all right so far. He doesn't even know how to make money. He has had all his given to him. "Good night." He makes me mad! If he had to work for his money he wouldn 't throw it around like he does. Anyone who's worked his own way up as I have, knows that you have to work hard and save your money. You can't throw it around like you throw sweeping compound on the floor. You have to give it out as if you were giving away a part of yourself. That's how to make money. 24 �-.A- Cefacean Amy Russell Leaping gracefully, body slightly arched and fins pointed outward in a continual waving movement, the torpedo-shaped porpoise snapped the fish out of Dr. Steller's hand. The old man studied the animal carefully. Its smooth, hairless body shone in the spring sunshine. The slipperiness of the water made the upper, black side an ebony blue and the whiteness of the underneath seemed a clear ice color. Rays of sun penetrated the smooth skin and bounced off with reflections, skipping over the waves each time the porpoise leapt high above the water for a piece of herring. With each plunge, the animal's short, beakless muzzle with a blowhole between the eyes on top of its head, split the water, and the doctor examined it carefully. And, with each plunge, it made a low puffing, hissing noise, letting the air out of its lungs. The wind rippled the cold water, just beginning to warm in the early spring. Holding out the last o'f the herring, the doctor bent over and clicked off the recorder. Then, clutching the recorder in one hand and the bucket in the other, the old m an slowly climbed the steps of his cottage. Once up the bank, he looked down at the swimming animal. He felt almost like a cetacean himself. For years now, hours each day, he had devoted his study and teaching to the porpoise. He had made a definite conclusion. It was the most intelligent animal next to man himself, and the doctor wondered if it wasn't more intelligent at times. Later in the afternoon, he would give it the daily lessons. Swimming alongside the animal, feeling the closeness of its velvety damp body, he would communicate with it. In the quiet of his library, he set up the recorder, opened the window to let the river smell and wind fill the room, and, adjusting all dials on the recorder, slowly and steadily as he had done numerous times for the past years, he clicked on the machine. The wheels revolving on the tape barely moved. He had set it back a little over ten times the speed of a natural human voice and had found it quite satisfactory to understand what others, thought just a hissing, annoying noise. Slowed down considerably, the words were clear and precise as any. At first it was just a phrase or two and maybe sentence fragments, but after years of recording his own voice and speeding it up on the recorder to the pace the porpoise hissed, he was able. to get through to it. Once it understood him, he taught it math, science and all the medical knowledge he knew himself. The cetacean could figure the problems the doctor gave it over the rapidly playing recorder, and with the answers slowed down he was able to interpret them. Dr. Stellers had had old associates from his past come in numerous times to listen, but, unable to understand the squealing tape, they would leave in confusion and with the convinced idea that he was losing his mind over the porpoise. After several attempts to convince others, Dr. Steller kept track of the recordings and scribbled notes of the advancement of his well-trained animal, filling notebook after notebook with his progress. Today he felt successful. The animal was in a good mood and they had been spending some time on the space age and science. The porpoise 25 I �seemed to enjoy this very much. He kept in touch with the world problems, the struggle against communism; and with its mathematical mind, the porpoise seemed to be able to figure things out much better than the old man himself. The doctor listened to the first several phrases. As the tape wound continuously around the wheel to about the middle of the tape, he jotted down the voice, discovering the porpoise was not only answering the questions given him in the last session, but was trying to tell the doctor something. Rerunning the tape over and over, the man, coughing from swimming in cold water and working tirelessly into the night, jotted down a mathematical formula the cetacean had given him. The following weeks were spent questioning and testing the formula. In the end the doctor came to believe in it. lt was a chilled autumn evening when the doctor gave in. Putting on his swimming clothing, he walked to the bank without the recorder. He could see no other way. The porpoise had worked it out like a genius and he couldn't begin to contradict him. Diving in the river, he swam around hunting for it. Reaching out, he felt the slippery, hairless body and patted it. Without the recorder, they could talk in the hissing voice of the cetacean. Amy Russell She sat down beside the coffin. The man opened the lid. She shut her eyes. "If you need me, I will be in the next room," said the man. She heard the soft swish of his shoes as he crossed the room. There was a pause, then the quiet closing of a door. Slowly, she forced her eyes open. He looked alive. Sleeping. She could almost see his chest rise and decline as it did as he breathed in his. afternoon nap. His hands were folded in the usual fashion of the dead. That was strange. He never folded his hands like that, even in sleep. She had decided on his gray suit with specks of orange-ish pink through it. It was ugly, but it was the only suit he liked and he had picked it out. At Krig's Men's Store. That was back in 1938. He thought it was handsome. Several had commented on its! simplicity and elegance. He always itched whenever he wore it. She recalled one time in church how he had wiggled, [ cratched, and crossed and uncrossed his legs a dozen times because of the s suit. But he liked it. And the tie. lt was black. That she had bought new. Several of the neighbors had sent sympathy cards with money. She went to town the following afternoon and purchased a four dollar tie. With tax included, four dollars and eight cents. Plain black. With the money left she bought his gray socks. The usual heavy work socks he wore to the yards. She could have used a pair he had, but with money left over she felt she should really buy something for him. She wondered if they remembered to take the price tag off. It was on the bottom of one sock and rather small. They could have missed it easily. 26 �She looked around the room. Noone was there. She looked at the door the man had gone out of. It was still closed. She leaned over the coffin and quickly untied his right shoe. The had told her they didn't usually leave the shoes on, but she had insisted. They were his good shoes. She had shined them until they looked real nice. Slipping the shoe off, she lifted the heavy foot to check. The price tag was gone. Sighing with relief, she replaced the shoe and tied it tightly, then loosened it a little. When he had gotten so he couldn't bend over, she would hold his foot on her lap and tie his shoe. Usually she got it too tight, so she loosened it and smoothed the sock. She sat and examined his white hair. She looked more closely. She noticed several dark hairs on top that hadn't turned. He always put lots of Wildroot on his hair each morning. That darkened it and made him feel much younger. She wondered why they had parted his hair on the left side. He always parted it close to the middle, but a trifle to the right. Never on the left side. Looking around again, she opened her purse. Taking out her long COIlli she combed his hair all forward and, after three tries, to make sure the part was straight, she smoothed it back. She put her comb back. Moving his head around to the position it had been in, she noticed his cowlick stood up. She wet her finger and pressed it down. It flipped back up. She opened her purse again and got her small size Avon spray net. Holding the hairs down, she sprayed them. The sticky spray held the cowlick neatly in place. She felt much better. She straightened his head. She didn't care for the pillow under his head. A deep red, flat pillow. It didn't look comfortable. She wondered if they would mind if she brought his white pillow he took naps on-the one with th~ brown embroidery she had worked on the nights he worked late. He liked it. It was soft and clean and not so drab as the red felt one they had placed under his head. He usually wadded it up right under the nape of his neck so he wouldn't wake with a headache. She would have to remember to ask the man if it was okay that she brought the pillow. It looked like they had put a dark make-up on his, face and neck. She leaned closer. Some had collected around his nose. She didn't like that. It was too dark. He was always pale, except in the winter when his cheeks and forehead chapped roughly from outdoor work. She pulled her handkerchief from her bosom and wet it, dabbing around his nose. It smeared a little so she wet it some more and tried to even it. She brushed the excess around his eyelids and forehead. It looked blotchy. She rubbed over it again and stuck her handkerchief back in her bosom. She leaned back in the chair and sighed. She glanced at the big bouquets of flowers. Chrysanthemums, roses, iris and carnations. One had a long blue ribbon with gold trim around the edges. The gold inscription said, "We love you, Grandpa." She sighed again. Her hands felt damp. Glancing at her watch, she stood up. She had a hair appointment. She was going to try her very hardest to hold up well at the funeral in the morning. 27 I �5omorrow and 5omorrow and 5omorrow Virginia Wads ley Restlessly, she picked up the pipe from the little coffee table and hit it in her cupped left hand, just as she had seen him do so many times. Glancing over at the mantel, she once again realized how long the day was. Maybe the old clock was running down. But she knew better than that. She put the pipe back in place and walked into the den, rubbing a speck of dust off the antlers over the mantel as she went by. Yes, that was a proud pair of antlers. He had always been able to get the best. Oh, there's the phone. Maybe it's him. "Hello." "Hello, Helen? This is Marge and I'm getting up a little card party next Tuesday at my house. Will you be able to come?" What they won't do to dig up gossip! I know they're all just dying to hear my story. But if they think they're going to get it out of me this way they've got another think coming. "Oh, I'm sorry, Marge. But I just can't come then." "I'm sorry too." I imagine. "Do you have other plans?" "Yes,"-not to come to your party. "I'll have to go now as I'm terribly busy." "Well, bye. Maybe you can come next time." I wouldn't count on it. I'll never understand why they can't keep their noses out of my businessl And besides, the doctor said to take it easy for . a while anyway. As she returned to the den, she looked out the front door and noticed the paper lying on the step. Hmm, it's rather early today. She picked it up and placed it by the leather chair where it would wait for him to come home. She shuffled through the magazine rack but didn't see anything interesting. They can't even print anything decent these days, and his old sports magazines bore me to tears. What's the world coming to? With an empty feeling of despair she wilted down into his chair and wept. Suddenly she looked up, blew her nose, and wiped her eyes. What on earth am I crying about? The doctor said that I'd have some depressed times but it'll be all over in a couple of years. Get a hold on yourself, lady. I just wish he wouldn't always go on such long hunting trips. She examined her red eyes in the mirror, unable to avoid seeing the tiny wrinkles and the graying roots. But by the time she reached their bedroom she felt much better. Why, this new make-up really makes the wrinkles disappear! And I'll call Pat tomorrow for a touch-up job on my hair. Now, I'll work on his socks. Goodness knows, he will need them for the pheasant season. And I can watch "Queen for a Day" while I'm doing. it. Finally, the rays of sunlight began to slant in the window and she got up to start supper. He's going to love these ribs. They always were his favorite. Tonight's going to be special. And she began to hum a little tune. Time passed, the tune got less cheerful, then it stopped. The house be- 28 �gan to get dark and chilly. I guess· this isn't the night. Depression set in once again as she choked down a few bites by herself. She moved back into the den, not even bothering to light a fire as she went by the fireplace. Tonight the comfort of his gunrack, his geese picture, and his bearskin rug was gone as she sank down into his chair to waste away another dismal evening. I know I used to be more attractive but I'm not really old yet. The doctor said I'd be a new woman in a few years. Tears were once again streaming down her cheeks. But he'll be back. I know. He'll come back to me. Maybe tomorrow. :lite (jreening Spring Karen Wolff We had a place down by the river that we figured we had discovered. We got to it by going through the unused part of the cemetery, across the railroad tracks, and through a willow thicket. It was a shaded clearing- flat and grassy and all enclosed with trees and vines so that it was private and secret. Margaret and I had come across it one day in our tenth summer. We were so pleased with it, we vowed never to tell anyone else about it. We went there a couple of times a week that first summer and spent whole days. We'd take sack lunches and pretend we were the only people left in the whole world; or that we had run away and outwitted the sheriff and everyone who came looking for us. Some days we'd just talk the way girl friends do. When fall came, we borrowed the family rakes and cleaned the place up properly so it would be ready for winter, and then we sadly paid our last respects until the next spring. . The next summer was perfectly glorious. We fixed the place up with orange crate benches and tables. We even went to the Book and Thimble Club's white elephant sale, and for ten cents we bought a dilapidated old love seat which we lugged out there. During the winter we kind of forgot about the place, what with the snow and school and all. But one day toward the end of April, I remembered it again. The snow was nearly gone, and whenMr. Richards opened the classroom window the soft breezes came in with the smell of the slowly warming earth, and I was near crazy I wanted to be out there so badly. When the bell finally sounded, I hurried outside, and, not seeing Margaret anywhere, I ran home and changed into my jeans and a sweatshirt and phoned Margaret. "She's not home yet," her mother said. "She's probably down at the drugstore with the kids." I thanked her, hung up, and sprinted out of the house before Mom found some work for me to do. At the drugstore, I spotted her ~itting in a booth with a bunch of older kids. They were laughing and talking. When I remembered my faded jeans, I got embarrassed. But I wanted to go out there so badly, I just went ahead and squeezed in beside her. I never doubted for a minute that Margaret would jump up and go with me. 29 I �"Hi," she said. "What are you doing in that get-up." That kind of threw me because Margaret liked to scrounge around in old sloppy clothes as well as I did. But I ignored it. _ "Hey, Margaret. Let's go out to the place. It's such a nice day." I said it in an undertone because, for some reason I didn't understand, I didn't want the others to hear. She looked at me like I was sick or something. "What do you want to go out there for?" she asked. "It's too wet. Besides, there's nothing to do out there." Then somebody started talking to her and she turned her back on me. I could 'feel my face burning and I eased myself out of the booth and left the drugstore hoping no one was noticing. I just couldn't understand Margaret. We'd always done everything together, but now that I thought about it, it did seem like Margaret had changed. She was always fussing with her hair and worrying about how she looked, and as far as I could see she looked the same as she always had. Anyway, I was so mad, I just decided to go out there without her. I walked fast because it was getting late and it would be dark in an hour or so. All the way out, the tears kept stinging my eyes and I kept thinking how Margaret had let me down. And I didn't even notice how the new green things were starting to sprout and how soft and lovely everything smelled. When I finally got there, I discovered that there was still some snow left because the place was so protected, and where the snow was gone the ground was mud with little rivulets of water running and dripping all over the place. The bad leg on the loveseat had finally given way and it was tipped crazily on its side with a pile of dirty wet snow covering one end of it. I sloshed around there for a while and tried to get excited about cleaning and fixing it up when it dried out. I tried to think about the long summer days we'd spent there, but somehow I just couldn't get in the mood. Finally I gave it up and decided to go home. My feet were wet and cold and the sun was nearly down. Besides, I had my Latin to do. 30 �-'I WAS A BIG MAN YESTERDAY" . "THE KING" -Drew Miller "LANDSCAPE" Carol J oransen M arybelle Jepson ���"STARVATION" ;SPRING" Avis Willer' Richard Jacobi - "CORN" Paul Corbin · "IOUGLIOUS EVIL" R. R. De Vries �"BIRD" "CONDOR" John King Duane Cole "POOCH" Avis. Willer "WESLEY BUDDHA" Robert Frey �"ROOTS OF FIRE" "FRUIT UPSET" Avis Willer Beverly Frazier �"ARIA DA CAPO "LANDSCAPE" Celia Bird Bean · I" T om Edlund ",RETICULITERNES FLAVIPES" Avis Willer �"DECADENCE" "DECADENCE ( CLOSED) "SEASCAPE" Beverly Frazier (OPEN) Avis Willer �"DOVE OF PEACE" Paul Corbin I �'''TRINITY OF THOuGHT" "COMMUNITY" R. R. De Vries R. Kitterman �Karen Wolff A hot dry wind blew ceaselessly across the flats of western South Dakota and raised small whorls of dust as it whipped around the corners of Ike's truck stop. A person could stand on that bleak crossroad and listen to the zing of the electrical power lines and once in a while a meadowlark. Every minute or so a car would pass by on the highway, and when it was gone the big, desolate emptiness returned and the inside of your mouth felt dry and dusty. Out back, Addie Pine finished cramming the leavings from the noon meal into the garbage can and slammed on the lid harder than she needed to. She straightened up, wiped the grease and sweat from her face with her grimy apron, and headed for the back door. She felt cross on account of the heat and the dust, but, mostly, on account of the ever-present wind. "Good thing today's Saturday," she thought. "Tomorrow I can stay home." She waved her fat, white arms to shoo the flies off the screen door and went back inside the cafe. The kitchen was stifling hot and had the rancid smell of countless orders of French fries and greasy, tasteless gravy. Addie went out into the front part and sat down on a stool. She was running the place alone today because Ike had taken his wife into Rapid City for a shopping trip. There hadn't been much business today and she hated not having anyone to talk to. Even Ike was better than no one. She liked it best when the place filled up with truckers. They laughed and kidded and called her "Tiny" for all her one hundred and eighty pounds. She laughed, too, even at their stories. It was just two-thirty by the clock over the counter. Two and a half hours before Ike would relieve her. She knew she ought to get up and clean the place a little. The buzzing flies made her drowsy and her dress stuck to her back, making her feel wet all over, and she just didn't want to move. Pretty soon it would be time for people to start coming in for something cold to drink or a cup of coffee. Mostly they would be tourists or truckers. Webster, the little town she lived in, was set back from the highway a half mile or so but the two hundred odd souls who lived there weren't about to go a half mile on a day like this for a cup of Addie Pine's coffee. Not for anything. She reached up and pulled down a sticky fly paper from the ceiling. It was covered with upwards of a hundred flies, their glistening bodies now held motionless by that sticky sweetness that was their undoing. She tossed it in the waste basket and poured herself a cup of coffee. The screen door slammed behind her and she got into her car and headed reservation came in. "Hello, boys," said Addie. "Hi, Addie. Give us a beer will ya?" They disappeared into the darkness of the adj oining room which was the bar. Addie followed them. They sat down at a small table and waited while she drew two foaming glasses of beer for them. 41 �"Startin' pretty early for Saturday night, aren't you?" she asked. She worried a little becaue Ike wasn't there. He'd be back at four but she knew that those young bucks would be ready for hell-raising before then. She went back into the cafe and stared out the window into the dust and heat of the horizon fifteen miles away. The vast emptiness began working on her again. It always did by the end of the week. On Monday things didn't seem so bad, but by the end of the week the loneliness got to her and it seemed harder and harder to face the weekend alone. She wondered what she'd do with her day off, knowing well enough that she'd do exactly as she'd done every Sunday for the last couple of years since her Ma died. Quietly, desperately, she prayed that something would happen to change it, that something would drive that terrible ache away. But nothing would change. For a moment resentment and frustration seethed within her; then she relaxed and her face became placid. Why fight it? She was like a fly caught on the sticky paper. A carload of tourists came in and ordered iced tea. It was getting noisier in the bar. She kept watching the clock, wishing Ike would come out a little early. It took Ike to manage the place come Saturday night. At last the familiar dusty blue car drove up. "Hi, Addie. How's it going?" "OK, Ike. I'm glad you're back though." She gestured toward the bar with her head. "Well, I'll go write your check and then you can go," he said. She hung up her apron and got her purse, wishing all the time that she wouldn't do what she was going to do. "Say, Ike. You'd better deduct the usual from the check." He returned presently from his office with the check and a bottle wrapped up in a paper sack. "Take it easy now," he said. "See you Monday." The screen door slammed behind her and she got into her car and headed for town and home. The back door of her house was open and she let herself into the coolness of the big, old kitchen. Ike often asked her why she continued to live in that big house all by herself. She couldn't tell him why, but she knew she'd never be able to leave it. She set the bottle on the refrigerator and went into the bathroom to draw her bath. She undressed slowly and sank her huge body into the delicious coolness of the water. With her head back and her eyes shut she let her thoughts wander, and whenever she did that, she ended up knowing the feeling of the aching void within her. She soaked a while, then climbed out, put on a wrapper and went to the kitchen for something to eat. All the time she fought the emptiness, but when she'd eaten she knew it was hopeless, and the time had come. Slowly, as if in a trance, she went to the refrigerator and took down the bottle. She unwrapped it, neatly folded the sack, and set the bottle on the table. She went to the cupboard and gave great thought to which glass she would use. At last she selected a large one with red flowers painted on it. She sat down at the table and very deliberately opened the bottle. Her thoughts began to move faster and faster until they were racing through her head in wild disorder. The yen for the stuff came on with blinding intensity. She poured a glass and gulped it down in huge mouthfuls. And the round ball of fire in her gullet burned and seared her delicate insides, and in a 42 �moment, the hole, the enormous void, began to close; and whenever it quit burning and hurting, she swallowed more and more and the tortured hours passed quickly. When the dawn came and the red ball of the sun, that parching heat, appeared on the horizon, she gave a low moan and slumped on the table. When she awoke it was late afternoon. The sky was hazy with dust and the sun burned hot and the rushing of the wind was still there. She got to her feet and her head throbbed and she wanted water. She retched violently a couple of times but then with great relief she knew it was all over for another week. By and by she began to feel better. Anne L. Stephens "Thirteen cannons, two hundred men- all lightly armed- planning to cut through Racheal's Creek at the northwest corn~r of the Caven place four miles north of town at dawn Tuesday, sir." The speaker was a slight woman with curly brown hair forming tight maverick ringlets around her face and drawn in a soft bun at the nape of her neck. She had a pixie-type nose and a spontaneous childlike mouth. Her face was young and perceptive; however, a stable maturity shone in her elfin, blue eyes. She was dressed in a dark cape with the hood carelessly pushed back. "Hmm, we hadn't expected the Yanks to come this way so soon. I've sent the bulk of my troops east of us to Magnolia to help General Davis." The humid summer air of July 1863 hung heavily and caused the little tent which contained the girl and the officer to be almost stifling. It seemed almost an eternity of silence, broken only by the hum of the flies gliding lazily from desk to lamp and back, before either one spoke again. Presently the general turned around, his fingertips, pressed together, and his brow furrowed in concentration. "I shall issue orders directly, ma'm. Why don't you go to the canteen and get some food before you prepare to return to Baltimore? You undoubtedly have been extremely instrumental in helping us to avoid complete disaster. At least they won't have the element of surprise on their side. The Confederacy can never thank you for all you've learned and passed on to us through your daring escapades among the Yankee soldiers, behind enemy lines. You will, however, be the recipient of" .... "What is that smell? Have you got something burning? Where is all that black smoke coming from?" "Hm? " said Mrs. Mitty. She blinked her eyes and viewed the present situation. Her husband stood growling in front of her, and behind him great billows of smoke spiraled from her oven. Rushing across the kitchen she opened the door and, after the smoke cleared out of the oven, she pulled out- with horror- a pan with a little black piece of "crisp" in the center of it. Cocoanut cream pie--Walter's cocoanut cream pie. "Really, my dear, I should think that by the time one reaches an age ... ahem, shall we say, an age well into maturity, one would be given less to day dreaming and would be able to accept the responsibility of remembering to remove bakery from one's oven!" With these words Mr. Mitty went 43 I I �to take a nap, leaving his coat on the bannister, his galoshes in the middle of Mrs. Mitty's living room carpet, and his briefcase on the dining table- always empty but ever-present and necessary for "the correct impression." Mrs. Mitty began getting out the vacuum to clean up the mud Walter had tracked in. She recalled his explaining once to her in his paternal-professortype tone. "You see, my dear, for hundreds of years men have had statussymbols. At the time of the American Revolution men wore long powdered wigs. The more important the man was, the curlier and fancier the wig was. In old Arabia men's importance was measured by the size of their harems. Oh, even in Rome and Athens, there were status symbols for men; the sizes of their houses and the number of their slaves .... " "Oh, what can I do?" A slave looked on sympathetically and, yet, intrigued. Her mistress was so beautiful in her flowing white gown. Her hair was shiny and black and straight; her figure was given of Venus; her features were resemblant of a cross between a seal-point Siamese and the Sphinx. Men 'from all over the Mediterranean came to see and woo her. Right now she was bemoaning the fact that she had been placed in a most unfortunate predicament. The leader of the Romans was coming to visit her, and the noble Antony was coming at the same time. This she had learned from a slave's gossip. What was she to do? Caesar and Antony would surely duel. Presently she heard a horse and at the door of her tent appeared a slave who announced Antony. He strode to her, a powerful, rather handsome man. He took her in his arms and murmured his longings for her and as he drew her closer, she .... Ta rum-rum-clang-grind-rum-rum-rum-rum - She heard a grinding sound and just as she realized what she saw, the last of Walter's collection of campaign buttons, his Roosevelt/Barkley button, disappeared into the open j awed cleaner. Apparently Mr. Mitty had spread the election pins out to reorganize or catalogue them and had neglected to return them to their box. "Huh, it's about time someone devoured that 'new-dealer', anyway," muttered Mrs. Mitty. Nevertheless she carried the cleaner bag into the basement and proceeded to empty it of its contents and to sift through the dirt to find what remained of her husband's collection. "Just like a child, I say." Mrs. Mitty continued si'fting and talking to herself. "Whoever heard of a grown man ready to retire, almost, collecting campaign buttons. Might as well collect bugs or rocks or matchbook covers for all the good he derives from these old things. Can't understand why he don't do things like other men his age-work out in the yard, putter around in the garden. But no, my Walter has to collect things and clutter up my house." Seeing a pile of laundry, she decided to wash while she was· in the basement. She filled the tubs and in a few minutes she was ready to put the first load through the wringer into the first rinse-tub. "Alma! This water is two degrees too chilly! Can't you read the thermometer? Why I ever allowed Pogo to talk me into hiring a foreign maid I'll never know. Look, you can't expect me, Janyce Jaguar, the world's most talented and famous actress, to bathe in water that is so cold that she is endangered of catching a virus! Remember, I'm worth over a million dollars! There's the phone. Well, bring it in here, the cord is long enough. Hello. Darling! Today? But I can't possibly meet you today. I'm soaking right now and Pogo's due any minute to take over the travel plans to Rome. That's where OUo is shooting my next picture, you know . Well, really ! You 44 �may certainly have your old emerald back if that is the way you feel about it! Don't think you're the only man who gives me things. Why, just yesterday Tyrone sent me a Rolls ; the day before that Frankie gave me a sable cape; last week Rock presented a charming yacht to me and just before that . ... " "M y shirt! " shouted Walter. Startled, Mrs. Mitty looked down only to see the last whole piece of Walter's favorite sport shirt-the left sleeve-being devoured and chewed into shreds by the machine wringer which was obviously on the "blink"-and had been for the last few minutes, judging by the appearance of the shirt. "Pogo!" exclaimed Mrs. Mitty. " What are you doing in my boudoir?" "What?" said Mr. Mitty, startled. " 1 give up." he muttered and retreated up the stairs. And facing her pink, heart-shaped bathtub, Mrs. Mitty, the glamorou.s Adventuress, smiled her undefeated, inscrutable little smile. Wolfgang Hildesheimer-tr. Robert Iversen . "Des Sastspiel des Versicherimgsagenten," the humorous anecdote which follows, is taken from Wolfgang Hildesheimer's first published volume of stories, Lieblose Legenden (Dentsche Verlags - Anstalt, Stuttgart, 1952), a collection of satirical comments on the foibles of contemporary society, on the f~lCade behind which we often hide, and on some of our pet "hobby horses." Robert Leonard Iversen Those who have ever heard the pianist, Frantisek Hrdla, will never forget the colossal impression they received (especially when they try to forget) . On the basis of his charming temperament and his virtuosity, the noted critics of the century have compared Hrdla with Anton Rubenstein. Edward Watznik, the 104 year old "Nestor" of the composing world, once exclaimed: "When one closes the eyes, one imagines that even Liszt is listening to it!" In London, Cairo, Paris, and Williamsburg (Pa.) --everywhere that this gifted pianist has played, he has been praised with frantic applause as soon as the last tone has faded away. Then he slowly stands, modest and totally exhausted: truly a servant to the work of the composer. He bows deeply, while, as we say, a tired smile comes to the corner of his mouth. The impartial concert patron thinks him to be a genuine artist, a favorite of the Muses! Only a few, including myself, a childhood friend of his, know about his tragedy, the cause of his tired smile: Hrdla is a frustrated insurance agent! Frantisek Hrdla comes from a musically-minded family. His father was a much-sought-after music teacher, who, through his arrangements of the works of the classical composer, in four parts, has acquired much note. (His own sympohnies are, of course, forgotten today). His mother, a harpist, completely in her own right, was a daughter of Johann Nepomuk Hummel. 45 I �Scarcely after he had outgrown the cradle, young Frantisek was set on the piano stool. By the age of four he had mastered Schumann's "The Happy Farmer." Four years later he had grown into the little velvet pants of the child prodigy. This disquieting development was quickly brought to a standstill: by chance, the young Frantisek met an insurance agent, who aroused an interest in matters of insurance in the ten-year-old. Now began the conflict in Hrdla's life, a conflict which can only be judged by those whose own youthful lot was a battle between a distant idea and a father with no pity and no understanding. One may well have sympathy for the young person who had to meet the agents and statisticians secretly and who later had a guilt complex because his overly strict father had forbade any communication with representatives of such a business. Yet, as Frantisek once confessed to me, there was a time when he read Baumgartner's "Practice of the Courts in Matters Concerning Insurance" at night under the covers. He also wrote his own-by the way, quite good--essay, "Capital Reserve and the System of Tax Assessment" at this most prosperous period in his life. However, nobody with genuine sensibility long endures such a continuing claim to his power of resistance. Thus, defeated and discouraged, the young Frantisek had to direct his own fate. It was then that he met his success through the musical world, in which he has reaped nothing but praise. Had he thus given up his secret longing? Mutual friends have assured me from time to time that he still flirts with insurance affairs. Yesterday, for the first time in years, I again heard the returnee from a guest tour abroad. He played the ninth piano concert of Malinczewsky, which was just as dedicated the previous eight Hrdla concerts. He played so divinely that absolute strangers shook hands, and tears ran from my eyes, although I am a hardboiled expert. In the pause before "The Eroika," Beethoven's Third Symphony, I forced my way with my umbrella through the autograph-hunters to Hrdla's dressing-room. He was sitting, tired and exhausted among the laurels, and appeared to me as if he had a stale taste in his mouth. I kissed him on both cheeks and suggested that his playing had been a revelation. "That's the only way one could properly play Malinczewsky," I cried excitedly. "It would be nonsense to claim that this composer required no rubato and no change of tempo. The meager touch of the so-called objective piano-school .... " He wasn't listening to me but rather was watching me from the side. Was this the lurking glance of an insurance agent on a new risk? A little confusedly, I continued to talk about his rare combination of brilliant technique and sincere expression; it left him cool. I had the feeling that I'd been talking to the wind. I stood, shook his hand once, and wanted to get out of there in order to give the growing mob of autograph-hunters a clear path. Then he asked with a cautious deliberateness: "Tell me, sir, are you adequately insured?" I acknowledged rather hoarsely that I wasn't. His eyes shone; he became alert and excited. With a leap he was at the desk. He took a few policies from the drawer, and before I could say "Eroika" he had insured me against murder, accidents, hail, fog, and against everything that one can be insured against. I'll never forget it! His magnificient speaking ability and warm pathos actually came straight from the original 46 �art of piano playing. I was upset (and insured). With the policies in hand, I left. He called after me: "Send the autograph-hunters to me!" He then took a stack of policies from the drawer. He had tasted blood! Sim'ilaritiej in :Jheme and Character Between fiawthorne ~ :Jhe Scarlet oletter and melville ~ Bill,! Budd Gary Acton The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne and Billy Budd by Herman Melville are extremely complex, symbolic novels with a variety of themes. The two novels have, however, one theme in common which I am going to explore. This theme may generally be called the Unpardonable Sin, but more specifically it is the theme of the conflict between head and heart. This conflict results when head-centered characters invade the souls of heart-centered characters in order to understand or to control them. The result is evil and, more specifically, death. The heart character is an emotionally governed person. This type is most often innocent and pure, both mentally and morally. The heart character is most often innocent of intelligence. The word intelligence in terms of the head-heart relationship does not mean intelligence in terms of accumulated academic learning, but instead a prying, probing mind. 1 When I say that the heart character is not an evil character, I do not mean to say that he cannot be a corrupt character. Dimmesdale in The Scarlet Letter, for instance, is a heart character governed by his emotions, but he is as corrupt a hypocrite as one can imagine. 2 When one considers Billy Budd, one sees another aspect of the heart character, which, while very closely allied to the lack of evil intelligence in Dimme~dale, is yet different from Dimmesdale in the area of moral purity. This similarity lies, in the realm of a childlike quality. Billy Budd is almost an overgrown child. But a young seafarer of the disposition of our athletic foretopman is much of a child-man. And yet a child's utter innocence is but its 'blank ignorance, and the innocence more or less wanes as intelligence waxes. But in Billy Budd intelligence, such as it was, had advanced, while yet his simple-mindedness remained for the most part unaffected. 8 lRichard Harter Fogle, Hawthorne's Fictions; The Light And The Dark, Norman, University of Oklahoma Press, 1952, p. 108. 2Ibid., p. 108. sHerman Melville, Billy Budd and Other Tales, New York, The New American Library, 1961, p. 47. 47 I �Looking at this quotation it is possible to see just how close Dimmesdale and Billy are in their childlike innocence of evil. At first it is hard to see Dimmesdale, who is guilty of adultery and of fathering a child by another man's wife, as a childlike character, and yet on careful consideration of the story it is quite apparent from his actions and general demeanor just how childlike Dimmesdale really is. Billy Budd and Dimmesdale are also similar in their inability to recognize eviL Dimmesdale, although he has a vague feeling of evil about him, does. not recognize it in Chillingworth until it is too late, and Billy Budd does not recognize the evil in ,CJaggart until it is too late, although he too has a vague feeling of evil about him. This inability to recognize evil, a thing which is alien to their heart-centered beings, is an important factor in their violatioll by the head-centered character. Dimmesdale is definitely the heart character, while Hester leans toward the head or knowing intellect of Chillingworth, and is aptly summed up 111 the following quotation. Hester Prynne is a combination of head and heart, with a preponderance of head. Her original sin is of passion, but its consequences expose her to the danger of absolute mental isolation. The centrifugal urge of the intellect is counteracted in her by her duty to her daughter Pearl, the product of the sin and by her latent love of Dimmesdale. 4 The quotation is absolutely pregnant with the characterization of Hester and the correct placement of Pearl in the story. Pearl is pure symbol, and her only function is to reflect Hester and Dimmesdale's sin.~· Hester plays much the same role in The Scarlet Letter as Captain Vere does in Billy Budd. She is. the intermediary between Dimmesdale and Chiningworth, just as Captain Vere is the intermediary between Claggart and Billy. She and Captain Vere are also much the same in the head-heart relationship, for both are essentially a combination of head and heart with a preponderance of head. o F or all this solid base to his character there is a hint of unworldli ness in Captain Vere, recognized by his fellow officers in the nickname they gave him, "Starry Vere."7 Captain Vere is a stern man and a man devoted to the Navy, but as can be seen in the quotation, there is in him a quality that can only be described as heart-centered. Despite this quality of heart, Captain Vere has a preponderance toward head, and as a result, has learned to control this heart-centered part of him and can make the following statement to the membeTs (, f the court martial board. But the exceptional in the matter moves the hearts within you. Even -Fogle, op. cit., p. 108. 5Fogle, op_ cit., p. 114. oFogle, op. cit., p. 108. 7William Ellery Sedgwick, Herman Melville: The Tragedy 0/ Mind, Cambridge, Massachusetts, Harvard University Press, 1945, p. 235. 48 �so too is mine moved. But let not warm hearts betray heads that should be cooLs Besides his preponderance of head, Captain Vere is further controlled :by the environment he operates in. For the compassion, how can I otherwise than share it? But, mindful of paramount obligations, I strive against scruples that may tend to enervate decision. But do these buttons that we wear attest that our allegiance is to Nature? No, to the King . . . . . in receiving our commissions we in the most important regards ceased to be natural free agents. g The quotations indicate the imprisonment of the natural instinct of Captain Vere's heart by custom or institution. Hester also is dominated by the head part of her character. This can be seen in the fact that while Dimmesdale, the wholly heart-centered character, suffered emotionally and passionately, Hester emerged stronger, surer, and strengthened. She emerged thus because custom or puritan prej udices forced her into a basically head-driven mould. "When she puts on her gray cap and becomes a kind of social worker her color and passion, her indeterminate, instinctual being is curbed and controlled."lo Here then is another basic similarity between Hester and Captain V ere, for just as Vere's heart or instinctive being was controlled and curbed by British naval law and contemporary political history, so was Hester's instinctive being curbed by the mould of Puritan social worker which she was forced into by society. The similarity between Hester and Captain Vere is very striking. They are both a combination head-heart character with a preponderance of head. In essence they playa role in 'the downfall or violation of the heart character because of this dominance of head. Hester in reality seduces Dimmesdale, and this leads to his soul's violation by Chillingworth.u Captain Vere must hang Billy, even though his heart cries out against it, because his intellect tells him that not to do so could cause a mutiny among the already restless crew.12 Also it is Vere's actions of confronting Billy with Claggart, innocent though they were, that led to the whole mess. So in both instances the evil of the· head character was brought to the heart character by the intermediary head-heart character. The head character as represented by Chillingworth in The Scarlet Letter, is represented by Claggart in Billy Budd. A head character is one who aspires to be superhuman. He is a person who is governed by his intel& Herman Melville, Billy Budd and Other Tales, New York, The New American Library, 1961, p. 69. 91bid., p. 68. loRichard Chase, The American Novel and Its, Tradition, New York, Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1957, p. 77. llD. H. Lawrence, Studies in Classic American Literature, New York, Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1951, p. 97. 12Melville, Ope cit., p. 70. 49 I �lect and not his heart; in other words, he is a "cold thinker and experinlenter. The reason these head centered characters tend to be evil lies in the fact that they lack the warmth of native innocence, and therefore are cold inhuman men who cannot stop at pure intellectual knowledge but must try to know what goes on inside other men, to manipulate their lives, and to dissect their souls. In The Scarlet Letter, Chillingworth, who was originally the wronged husband, becomes a demonic, evil character once he sets his intellect to the task of understanding Dimmesdale's soul. In a word, old Roger Cbillingworth was a striking evidence of man's faculty of transforming himself into a devil, if he will only, for a reasonable space of time, undertake a devil's office. This un· happy person had effected such a transformation by devoting himself, for seven years, to the constant analysis of a heart full of torture , and deriving his enj oyment thence, and adding fuel to those fiery tortues which he analyzed and gloated over.H It is apparent in the quotation just how low Chillingworth had mnk into hellishness, but as with Claggart, he had a streak of the devil deep in his soul so that his complete evil sprang from internal sources. Calm, gentle, passionless, as he appeared, there was yet, we fear, a quiet depth of malice, hitherto latent, but active now, in this unfortunate old man, which led him to imagine a more intimate revenge than any mortal had ever wreaked upon an enemy.v; Chillingworth became Dimmesdale's companion and physician in order IO work on Dimmesdale constantly. Chillingworth analyzed and probed Dimmesdale's heart and soul: He now dug into the poor clergyman's heart, like a miner searching for gold; or rather, like a sexton delving into a grave, possibly in quest of a jewel that had been buried on the dead man's bosom, but likely to find nothing save mortality and corruption. 1a The simile in the quotation is particularly apt, for as we consider the desecration of a grave to be particularly hideous and 10athEome, so Hawthorne considered the violation of a soul even more hideous an d loathsome, and it was in his terminology the Unpardonable Sin. It is this alone that utterly demonizes and irrevocably damns ChiIlingworth. 1£ he could keep Dimmesdale from salvation and so damn his soul too, his victory would be complete, but Dimmesdale in the end foils Chillingworth and purifies himself on the scaffold of redemption, causing the following illuminating speech from Chillingworth: "Hadst thou sought the whole earth over," said he, looking darkly at the cle~gyman , "there was no one place so secret,- no high place J3 18Fogle, 0p. cit., p. lOS. HSculley Bradley, Richmond C.room Beatty, and Hudson Long, The American Tradition / n Literature, volume one, New York, W. W. Norton, and Company, Inc., 1962, 674. 15/bid., p. 652. lo/bid., p. 645. 50 �nor lowly place, where thou couldst have escaped me,-save on this very scaffold."17 So in the end the heart character, though corrupt, found salvation in repentance; something the head character, sunk into evil, could not do. Bestei', through a combination of head and heart, with a preponderance of head, also found salvation by joining Dimmesdale on the scaffold. Chillingworth, on the other hand, is beyond all hope of salvation, for he had committed the Unpardonable Sin. I s Chillingworth is also doomed to die when Dimmesdale repents. Old Roger Chillingworth knelt down beside him, with a blank dull countenance, out of which the life seemed to have departed. 19 Thus the theme that runs through The Scarlet Letter is complete. It is a theme of evil and death that result when the mind or intellect invades the realm of the heart or soul. The evil that results is worse for the violator than the violated, for the violation of another's soul is a hideous crime, far blacker than any degree of hypocrisy or lechery. When we turn to Billy Budd in order to explore the similarity of theme and character to The Scarlet Letter, a problem arises. The novels were written by two different men, and as such, the characters, sequence of events, and the events themselves are not perfectly mirrored in the works. Despite this there is an area of similarity with regard to theme and characters that is great enough to share the same basis. Melville, like Hawthorne, is concerned with the prying intellect as directed by one human being upon another. Long ago an honest scholar my senior said to me in reference to one who like himself if 1)ow no more, a man so unimpeachably respectable that against him nothing was ever openly said though among the few something was whispered, "Yes, X--- is a nut not to be cracked by the tap of a lady's fan." .... I think that to try and get into X---, enter his labyrinth and get out again, without a clue derived from some source other than what is known as knowledge of the world-that were hardly possible, at least for me. 21 Melville, in the quotation, says in essence that pure knowledge of the world or, in other words, accumulated learning both academic and worldly, is not sufficient to crack the wall isolating a person's soul, but that a spiritual insight or knowledge of human nature is. It is this spiritual insight that allows a person to understand another person's soul. 22 Claggart definitely has this spiritual insight, for he immediately sees into the depths of Billy's soul, and recognizes him as an enemy. In Melville's Billy Budd, the heart character is Billy himself. Billy and Dimmesdale are, as I have already said, much alike in their childlike ac17Bradley, op. cit., p. 730. 18Harry Levin, The Power 1960, p. 0/ Blackness, New York, Vintage Books, 75. 19Bradley, op. cit., p. 731. 21Melville, op. cit., p. 36. 22Melville, op. cit., p. 36. 51 �tions, but there is a slight difference in their characters. Billy Budd is a heart motivated character and operates much on his instincts as does Dimmesdale, but Billy has an innocence and lack of knowledge that Dimmesdale does not have, and while Dimmesdale is corrupt Billy is not. When I say that Billy is not corrupt, I do not mean to say that he is a pure, prissy puritan, whl) could never be accused of fathering a child by a girl, but that he is very much the "noble savage" who would not feel guilty about such an act. 2S While Billy may have done things that are wrong by society's standards, he is yet a good, pure being as free from the kind of knowledge that leads to evil as he is from pure academic learning. For the rest, with little or no sharpness of faculty or any trace of the wisdom of the serpent, not yet quite a dove, he possessed that kind and degree of intelligence going along with the unconventional rectitude of a sound human creature, one to whom not yet has been proffered the questionable apple of knowledge. 2 ' Billy, then, does not lack the capability to commit sin, but he does lack Dimmesdale's hypocrisy. Claggart is a head character just as Chillingworth is. He is cold, ruthless, and evil, but where Chillingworth's satanic evilness was dormant in his innermost being, Claggart's evilness is on the surface and his evil spiritual insight immediately recognizes Billy as an enemy . . . . Claggart in whom was the mania of an evil nature, not engendered by vicious training or corrupting books or licentious living but born with him and innate, in short "a depravity according to nature. "2 0 Claggart, as an evil being, is head-dominated. From the quotation we see that his evilness was more mental than moral. We see this mentality that desires to understand and is fully capable of understanding another soui. One person excepted, the master-at-arms was perhaps the only man in the ship intellectually capable of adequately appreciating the moral phenomenon presented in Billy Budd. 26 Claggart and Chillingworth are much alike in the way they set about ensnaring their victims. Both profess friendship in an attempt to gain the confidence of their subject, and while both Billy and Dimmesdale are aware of something evil about these two men, they cannot apprehend what it is. CJaggart sets out to trap Billy by setting up a number of experiments to see if he can entice Billy into an act whereby he can do away with him. The most notable trap that Claggart sets up is the one in which Billy is approached by a mysterious person in the night who offers him money to join a mutinous plot. Billy refuses, of course, because such an act is uncomprehen sible to him. This mysterious stranger was a henchman of Claggart's, as DId Donskey devined when he said: "Didn't I say so, Baby Budd?" "Say what?" demanded Billy. 23/bid., p. 16. 2qbid., p. 16. 25Melville, op. cit., p. 38. 2G/bid., p. 40. 52 �"Why, Jimmy Legs is down on yoU."27 Finally when all else fails to trap Billy, Claggart tries the direct approach. He goes directly to Captain Vere and accuses Billy of mutiny. The sudden relevation of evil is so shocking to Billy and his speech impediment so frustrating that he explodes, and with one blow kills Claggart; and so, as in The Scarlet Letter, death is the result of the violation of another human being's soul. Claggart is dead instantly, with no time for any repentance even if he would have repented, or if it would have done any good. He gets only perfunctory services before being dropped into the deep, deep sea where he will be forever lost in the dark depths. Captain Vere is now confronted with a dilemma. Should he follow the dictates of his heart and help Billy or should he follow the dictates of his head and condemn Billy? As I have said, Captain Vere was a combination head-heart character with a preponderance toward head, and so after a brief struggle, Captain Vere follows the commands of his head. "Stuck dead by an angel of God. Yet the angel must hang! ,,~ S After a short trial Billy is condemned to death. During the trial Captain Vere is completely head-dominated and says once: "Well the heart here denotes the feminine in man and hard though it be she must be ruled out. "29 Captain Vere is racked with compassionate, heartfelt feelings for Billy, but his predominance of head forces him to go through with the trial and the hanging. Captain Vere, then, is partly responsible for Billy's death just as Hester is for Dimmesdale's death. Hester achieved salvation by joining Dimmesdale in his moment of salvation. Captain Vere also achieves salvation, although Melville shows it in a much more subtle way than Hawthorne did. Not long before death, while lying under the influence of that magical drug which, soothing the physical frame, mysteriously operatt1s on the subtler element in man, he was heard to murmur words inexplicable to his attendant. - "Billy Budd, Billy Budd."3o This quotation, I believe, makes it clear that by true sorrow, Captain Vere was able to achieve salvation. There is, of course, a hint that Billy may have been Captain Vere's son, but it is a confused image, for Billy's death and subsequent idolization by the men of the ship also bears a strong Christ image. 31 Billy Budd also achieves salvation by his actions once he is condemned. Billy, as the heart character, and a pure and innocent heart character, was almost assured of salvation from the beginning, but if he had become bitter and vengeful his salvation might have been lost. Billy, however, helped by Captain Vere, achieved his salvation by his acceptance of his fate. But now lying between the two guns, as nipped in the vice of fate, Billy's agony, mainly proceeding from a generous young heart's virgin experience of the diabolical incarnate and effective in some 27Melville, op. cit., p. 46. 2sMelville, op. cit., p. 60. 29/bid., p. 69. 3o/bid., p. 85 31/bid., pp., 85-87. 53 I �men-the tension of that agony was over now. It survived not the something healing in the closed interview with Captain Vere.82 Billy's salvation, just as Captain Vere's, is completely symbolized in his last words. "God bless Captain Vere."33 Billy is buried at sea as was Claggart, but he does not go unmourned or unmarked into the water; for his loss is felt by the men of the ship, and the spot where he entered the water is marked by seabirds who drop down out of the sky to witness Billy's interment. S ' The basic similarities of the two works are, I think., apparent. In both works there are three major characters, one heart-centered, one headcentered, and one a head-heart combination with a preponderance of head. In both novels the head-centered character violates the soul of the heart character and the result is death for violator and violated. The intermediary or combination character also dies, but not from the act of violation, and onI)' after a lapse of time. The basic settings of the stories are similar in their compactness. In The Scarlet Letter, the scene is a Puritan village and its immediate environs, and in Billy Budd the setting of a ship at sea. Melville is more concerned with life than is Hawthorne and his characters are more obviously good or evil than are Hawthorne's. Despite these differences the similarities of character and theme between the two works are striking. 32/bid., p. 76. 3a/bid., p. 80. HMelville~ op. cit., p. 83. BIBLIOGRAPHY 1. Bradley, Scullery, Beatty, Richmond Croom, and Long Hudson, The American Tradition in Literature, volume one, New York, W. W. Norton and Company, Inc., 1962, pp. 557-737. 2. Chase, Richard, The American Novel and Its Tradition, New York, Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1951, pp. 67-87. 3. Fogle, Richard Harter, Hawthorne's Fiction: The Light and The Dark, Norman, University of Oklahoma Press, 1952, pp. 104-121. 4. Lawrence, Studies in Classic American Literature, New York, Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1951, 93-110. 5. Levin, Harry, The Power of Blackness, New York, Vintage Books, 1960. 6. Melville, Herman, Billy Budd and Other Tales, New York, The New American Library, 1961. 7. Sedgwick, William Ellery, Herman Melville The Tragedy of Mind, Cambridge, Massachusetts, Harvard University Press, 1945, pp. 231-249. 54 �Marie Deel In an alley a small dead bird Fallen from a flowering judas, Grey and naked, nauseating. I stepped around it, fastidiously detoured With a kind of delicate revulsion. Pretend it is not there With its queerly shut eyes. Strangely, I could not leave. I could not cry out in disgust And so I stood there looking. The sun sifted down in an oblique weave, Unreal and very cold. See its tiny curling claws-They must have grasped the air for substance. And this is the undiscovered country That my cowardice refused to meet. And this is the dream in the sleep that is death, Aware only of death and sadly Refusing to drive it away. Under the hard sun That mocks and mocks anonymous night, A cruel travesty. Idle conjecture, unpleasant fantasy. I am on the middle ground And only a few tufts of brown grass Between the cracks separate me From this unknown dead thing, an obstacle To the smugness of the young, glutted by life. (See its belly- it swells.) Shall I kick a little loose earth over it? A cat might relish its mistake. Soon the ants will swarm over The spiny wings that were too weak to support it. Foolish to venture far out on a feeble twig. It died of arrogance, I suppose, And arrogance will dispose of its remains. 55 �'/Jpon fiearing 'Gine J(leine r/acldmudit" Marie Deel A little evening music heard From far away has softly stirred Dim memories long since put aside As childish things to be denied. Warm rain, red silk, an ivory pawn Upon a teakwood board, a lawn Of darkened green where white feet sped, Forbidden books, a sleep-warmed bed. It fades, on ghostly breezes caught, Too seldom heard, too soon forgot. Marie Deel From nothingness, from void a slimy sphere Still wet with primal dew on new cooled rock Lay steaming, smothered in the atmosphere. A stinking jungle grew as though to mock The mother sun, first cause, that gave it birth, And seethed and sprawled from some misshapen stalk. And where the sullen waters met the earth And were as one, a green and muddy bed, Emerged a simple beast of unknown worth. Earth, water, sun, and vegetation wed To bring forth strange and terrifying lifeBut watch. It splits, and neither part is dead. 56 �Withdrawal Marie Deel Something is wrong. I can smell it Moist and heavy in the air. If only you'd stop staring so And tell me what it is you fear. Something has happened. Must you play The martyr under A shroud of silence? For I am Curious. I wonder. It blisters my ego that you Will not tell me ' of it. I can be discreet. Often I've left candles unlit. I am unhappy. You've withdrawn From me and you will rust In silence. Haven't you heard that The meek inherit dust? Marie Deel Peroxide virgins lift no-color eyes To neon icons high above the street And glance about and practice wanton sighs. 'T heir faces bloat, and bothered by the heat, But still resigned, they only stand and wait With hips thrust out, and contemplate their feet. Peroxide virgins meet the face of fate And draw back purple lips to feign a smile And all the while they send out silent hate. 57 �Thomas Edlun A quiet time descended down the stair And met itself returning, unaware. The house, alive with children and their fears, Sought quiet sleep--and death, perhaps- sans tears. But I climbed gently, for the time had come When voices, words, were not a hollow sum Of equally unwanted things- alone, The night went on- how tragically we moan. I cannot laugh at what I said, although The morning shines in naked warmth below, I run so fast and high above the earth And fight a struggling, groping, private birth. Thomas Edlun The night-wind purred a melancholic content And pushed the moon behind the clouds. I lay awake, composing letters never sent To nameless faces in the crowds Who hated me as much as I detested them. And very stupid, I supposed, But how important then, when aspects of the phlegm Of life had choked and reason closed. I damned the night, the hidden moon I knew to be The cause, at least, of some of this; My sickness only peopled that autumnal tree Where night-wind purred in endless bliss. 58 �(An Explanation) Terry Ford Other people move, Ironical images, What is this shadow? A flashy wrist watch Makes minutes which tocks must fit. Are snail shells crowded? The book is heavy, Full of weighty thoughts; Thoughtless leaves float well. A woman's soft hair Invites a man's softer touch. Social rules rebuke. Finals are over. Again time for food and sleep. Where's the next worry? My canoe upset And I saw a fish swim by. Mammals also swim. The arrow in flight Soars freely without fear. Few archers are left. The smell of water Makes the body cold becauseThe Frog is brother. 59 �Terry Ford In the still quiet of the hollow night My lonely mind can still recall those times, Those joyous times, when she'd recall her youth And rest her battle-battered hand on mine. I see her yet, in the harsh street light's glare, Her wide-set eyes creating dewy tears That beckoned forth my own for causing h~s. But even in the happiest of times When we would drink beneath the neon lights Her bucktoothed laughter through the stale beer stench Hinted vaguely of a daemon haunted fear. I see her yet, a thin, a slender girl, Belligerent at times, and full of fight. But laughing still with innocent delight, With childlike joy that somehow failed to die. The wasted love for Pete, who loved no one, The months on junk that brought her no relief, The alcohol that gnawed away her brain, Conspired, but schemed in vain, to kill the child. Diane K. H. Taylor In came Carnegie, Steel-maker newly made; In came libraries, free for all; In came laborers, hoping for a livelihood; Out went time-to-Iearn; the Revolution's come. Hail the little man, working for food-at-home; Hail the wealthy man, progress, gold; Hail to money-slaves, all for future now; Mourn the past-that-was; the Revolution's come. Shouts of liberty, and of "our" democracy; Shouts for capital, no labor laws; Shouts for good-for-all, automatic and untrue; Cries from workers poor, the Revolution's come. 60 �Terry Ford Well, I heard this tale from an outlaw's lips, But he swears by Christ it's true. There lived one time in this very town A man too known to you. Well, the sun still shines, and the wind still blows, and your heart still your own. So turn your face and do~'t think back. Sis,t er, now you know. The outlaw's brother worked by this man's side In a plant to the north of town. And with them both worked a pretty little girl With timid eyes so round. Well, the sun still shines, and the wind still blows, and your heart still your own. So turn your face and don't think back. Sister, now you know. This girl would sing and she would hum, She never knew an evil thought. But one day the man named Dick Approached her, and God how they fought! Well, the sun still shines, and the wind still blows, and your heart still your own. So turn your face and don't think back. Sister, now you know. Red blood was spilt and Dick sent off, Off to find another job. The outlaw's brother, who defended the girl, Sent Dick off through the mob. Well, the sun still shines, and the wind still blows, and your heart still your own. So turn your face and don't think back. Sister, now you know. IS IS IS IS Some men, respected, settled, and secure Seem to be what they're not. A friendly face can often hide An evil that can hurt a lot. Well, the sun still shines, and the wind still blows, and your heart l~ still your own. So tum your face and don't think back. Sister, Dick's not for you! 61 I �Joan Neiman Her first black dress lies In a lumpy, ugly pile. She has come such a way In such a little while. He said, love, be mine, It's such a scented night. She knew that wioked line And said he had no right. Sheer new stockings on the floor, Torn gaudy petticoats in a heap. Mother's stole hangs on the door, And how she yearns to sleep. N ow watching the darkened sky, She sits and hopes to cry. ~ Chemi&f ~ oleffer fo ~n Old cLove Joan Socknot Hypothesize a certain change in state : Consider change in entropy, compare To time ; then (given delta) integrate All increments and limit to despair. Then analyze the tautomeric form: Reaction favors alkalinity, More base than acid when the flask is warm, And flaunts a positive affinity. When catalyzed, the steric-hindrance fades, And single valence seeks the perfect bond. N ow cool not less than twenty centigrades, Release the pressure gauge to correspond. Sunnise: To plot the limit versus time, Record all products as they first sublime. 62 �Dennis Poole A bit of solid vegetation stands Immobile, heedless, carefree, resting through The whitened frozen Iowa winter. Hands Containing buried buds, are stretched up to The sky. A .rough indented bark surrounds Each twig to ward off winter blows. But who Can look upon this tree and not expound Upon, compare it with the eerie night, And wonder why it has no sight or sound, Save whining cry the wind bestows? Its height Reminds me of a fortress standing clear Atop some barren hill-lock showing might. Or possibly it holds a hidden ear And listens keenly when you're passing near. This self-same tree, when hearing words of love, Repeats to no one, keeping everything A secret; only giving clues above Our heads, by spiral stalks of new born leaves, It signifies the coming summer dews. 1) The robin hops Along the yard And chases drops Of dew and worms. 2) Rain drops sticky pine-smell through the needles. 63 �Dennis Poole Beneath the stadium, enclosed Inside a silvery defense, A locomotive lies deposed. The leaves dropping show offense By spotting its black paint. There's A golden bell, avoiding work So I ilently with kingly airs, s Serenely resting above. Plaques Adorn the tender, Who dedicated it. That was immense Began rolling that telling me A sight, arose when she first night. Men sitting proudly, swollen with Unbroken pride, formerly drove This relic. I recall the myth Surrounding it when children strove To capture it in dreams. Now it's Imp~oned on shortened railroad track, And older men remember bits Of history they can't bring back. nowhere ] oan Socknot The restless freedom of a compass seems To seize upon just one of two extremes. Magnetic poles are mystic forces fixed In space, yet somewhere opposites get mixed; A Nowhere line exists between the two Dependent axes, False and True. And yet the mind insists that instruments Must seek a purpose with some inborn sense ; Encompassed by demands to choose one goal, The needle falters under man's control. 64 �Joan Socknot The Winterspring defers to Love, and tries To supplement where paradox defects. A crystal shell of frosted light reflects The muffled world against a sun of lies. The lonesome, fearless free cries out- denies Her silent life- but shattered stillness checks A second try. The wailing wind affects Indifference, stifles frozen tears, and sighs. The season Love-protagonist- begets A wistful child whose mold of life is cast From scraps of time that others would refuse. Then Winterspring, the child, must pay the debts, Protect the loved-but-Iosers from the past, And foster apathy for those who choose. a Joan Socknot As time dissolves and forms thin rings Of filthy gray and tasteless things, The perverse hours will filter up Like ashes in a coffee cup. The lukewarm culture of a year Is tempered to be insincere. A liquid locked in one round wall Can only watch the ashes fallAnd hope the burning embers sting The saucer of remembering. 65 �War Jane Little Garrisoned by a facade of quotations The pseudo-savant scowls and hides From feeling. He does not see the enemyHe tries not to feel it, Yet its warm fingers clutch Unmistakable Encompassing Almost speechless Then the counterattack Smother with lines from Nietzsche Squelch with corrupted scripture (Whose Bible?) Silence Another victory? (He does not "know himself"). Thomas Edlun The wind blows leadenly against the doors Tonight where we have hidden from the rain. Our candle light mocks back solid floors And planes of watery nature - rooms that have lain In silence for the morning. I had peace Of its return, but now the rain warns us That it is far away. Skies don't release A single darkness; wet-revealed, timeless Solitudes of drops in silent springs, undue To us, this vision shatters storms to cut A glassine path through all our doubts; and few Have winter-splinters in their soul. The rut, The winter path, is struck open by the rain. 66 ����� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College. Through its several titles—Manuscript, Perspectives, and Kiosk—the magazine has a long history of celebrating creative writing and art on campus. It began publication in 1938 under the title of Manuscript before changing its name to Perspectives in 1953. Then in 1971 it took another name that it is known by currently: Kiosk. It is still published annually by the Morningside College English Department. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1938- Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Morningside College Library Morningside College English Department Ponder, Marcie: Digital Creator Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical PDF Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Title A name given to the resource Kiosk Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource "The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children," (The Kiosk, 2003). Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. P E R S P E ARCHIVES 810.8 P432 1963 c.2 C T I \' E S I '63 1 I ARCHIVES 810.8 P432 Perspectives (Morningside College). 11 11 111 1 11111111111 1111111 111111 1111111 1111 1111 11111111 11111111 1 3 3191 00013 4955 PERSPECTIVES VOLUME XXII SPRING 1963 NUMBER J Stall Editor ................... . .. ........................... David Ott0 Business Manager ........................................ Marie Dee! Art Consultant ............................... Mr. William Zimmermafl Faculty Advisor . .. ............... . ........ ... .... Dr. Howard Levant PERSPECTIVES is published by the students of Morningside College Sioux City, Iowa PREFACE: TO THE READER Last year, for the first time, on an experimental basis, PERSPECTIVES contained a ten page section of the year's best student painting and sculpture. The experiment was successful. This issue of PERSPECTIVES contains again a ten page section devoted to the visual arts. Moreover, through the kindness of the Student Council, we have added two further departments: a section of critical essays, and a section of translation from a foreign language. We feel that such developments indicate an unusually healthy climate in which the creative arts may flourish in the broadest, the only ultimately meaningful, sense. For it is a truism that any art tends to suffer through isolation from its peers, whereas all of the arts tend to flourish in a general creative effort. Certainly we feel that the usual departments of fiction and poetry have gained in significance through being set within a broader context of the creative mind at work. In essence, it is our hope that the range of this issue of PERSPECTIVES- the fiction, poetry, translation, criticism, painting, and sculpture--is personally enriching to you, as well as an important contribution toward the furthering of the creative life on our campus. Finally, we cannot hope to guess what Queen Victoria might have said, but we are pleased, and we trust that you are pleased. The Editorial Staff 2 Marie Deel A perplexing child, Gabrielle. To watch her sitting inert in that maple rocking chair, swallowed up in it nearly, clutching that pathetic celluloid lamb ... baffling. Her parents are convinced she's a mystic. A mystery, most assuredly, but a mystic? When I first came here my only involvement was the hospital. There is a stigma attached to women physicians no matter where they practice. But here especially I needed to prove myself, and I did of course. After that I became increasingly aware of the community outside the hospital, and a good thing, too. Here at the hospital we have the unfortunate tendency to withdraw. We have a strange self-sufficiency; even much of our food is grown by the patients on an acreage nearby. The staff, including myself, forgets that it is part of the world. So here we are, nursing our neuroses, functioning admirably enough in thel eyes of an outsider, I suppose, but forgetting that each of us has a baffling syndrome of our own and no one to help to shake it off. Sometimes I think we need a moat to detach ourselves altogether. The pitiable aspect of psychiatry is not always the patient, but often as not the psychiatrist. Doctor Locke is a good case in point. A brilliant man and a gifted healer, but, like the rest of us, a cripple of sorts. His particular cross is a fear of feeling any affection for his patients. That's not entirely fair. A fear, then, of showing any affection. There are others of this persuasion. They feel a sense of dismal failure if, in spite of themselves, they slip and evidence a manifestation of their love and pity. Pity. That was my undoing. For a very long time I had the difficulty of translating my pity into action. But I am over that now. The village is a fascinating place. Fortunately it is within walking distance of the hospital, only a mile down the road. A sociologist would find it doubly intriguing, but I enjoy it in a superficial, unscholarly way. The mountain people in this area have an affinity 'for Biblical names, and nearly everyone in the village is Hosea or Malachai or Naomi. But the village is a sad place too. Gabrielle is the only patient we have from there. Her father holds great sway over these poor, credulous people. Their ignorance is appalling. He is the prophet of the new messiah. Yes, indeed. Oh, and thafs not all. Gabrielle of the enigmatic smile has been designated his handmaiden whence he cometh. It's only natural that they practice an occult religion, but there is something terrifyingly unshakable about the fervor with which the villagers and mountain 'folk follow Gabrielle's father. As nearly as I can define it, it's a kind of fanatical fascination for the gospels, a literal acceptance of the written word thrown into a shadowy mysticism by their utter lack of perspective. From it they gain a kind of static ecstasy, a god intoxication, as the Greeks would say. But what it's done to Gabrielle is what frightens me. Such a plain little thing. Only her eyes are alive and she guards them beautifully. For a time I thought perhaps she was not quite bright. But she reacts normally to the tests we've given her; other than during one of her catatonic periods, of course. A classic manic depressive, I'd say. And now that she's been with us awhile, I see how truly alert she is. Nothing slips by 3 this one. She will sit for hours on end in that rocking chair, watching the others and gripping that lamb, often until she falls asleep. We haven't gotten her to talk, but this too will come. Doctor Locke says that when she does speak it will undoubtedly be to herald the arrival of the new messiah. Actually, I find no humor in the doctor's remark. How he can remain so detached from our people is quite beyond me. Tender, loving care has always achieved the best results so far as I can see. I've grown quite fond of Gabrielle. Doctor Locke insists that it's only stifled maternal instinct. PosEibly, but I think not. How intriguing her eyes are. Sunk in that colorless little face, they burn with such intensity. She desires communication, I feel sure, but she is not quite ready for it yet. We are patient here. We won't prod her unnecessarily. Gabrielle came to us nearly six months ago and only once has she been violent. Her father put up a dreadful fuss. Naturally his completely unreasonable performance made their parting difficult. As he left he whispered something to her and gave her the celluloid lamb. After he had gone, Amy, one of our aides, was instructed to bathe her and give her a fresh change of clothes. Gabrielle was completely docile until Amy took the lamb from her hands in order to undress her. Of course the lamb is Gabrielle's only tangible tie to her father and snatching it away is the same as wrenching her from her only connection with the past. We should have foreseen that. We are hoping that Gabrielle will eventually cease to depend so completely on the lamb as her sole comfort and companion; which will indicate, of course, that she is becoming more firmly grounded in reality. But as yet the lamh and the child are inseparable. I do wish she would relinquish it for a time at least. It really does need to be disinfected. Three months ago today was the first time Gabrielle made noticeable progress in group therapy. Doctor Locke had succeeded amazingly well in drawing out Knudsen who related a dream in which he dismembered his father. This in itself is a minor triumph, for at long last he overtly stated his filial hostility, a crucial step in curing a rather nasty Oedipus complex. At any rate, Cummings, whom we were treating for senile dementia, began to weep uncontrollably. Gabrielle left the rocking chair in which she had been sitting on the far side of the room and walked across to her. She held the celluloid lamb aloft and smiled that strange smile of hers. Cummings ceased to weep and drew Gabrielle into her lap. They sat like that for quite a long time, and Cummings began to sing to Gabrielle after a while in almost a whisper. I remember the refrain: Weep not my wanton, Smile upon my knee, When thou are old There's ~rief enough for thee. Gabrielle watched her as she sang in the breathy, tremulous monotone of the very old, and finally reached up and touched her face, softly, tentatively. Cummings was a sick old woman, and I wondered at the time if this newl~r established rapport between the two was the best thing for Gabrielle, but Doctor Locke seemed to think the relationship harmless enough. No matter. Cummings died some weeks ago and Gabrielle doesn't seem to have missed her all. at 4 It was shortly after Cummings' death that Doctor Locke called me ill for a talk. He seemed to feel that my interest in Gabrielle was possibly becoming more than I could handle. You're a fool, Locke, you're a cold inhuman fool to think that I could ever isolate myself from my patients the way you have. Oh, Gabrielle, what have they done to your poor little mind? Walking down the corridor from Doctor Locke's office, I thought how remarkably well he had bathed himself in the detached astringent atmosphere of our profession. He was swimming in it. It would drown him. Gabrielle's father is allowed to visit here twice a year. Soon he will see Gabrielle for the first time in six months, a thought which I don't relish. It may very well mean a serious relapse for Gabrielle if his behavior is consistent with his last trip here when she was committed. Pity, too, for I feel we've done well with Gabrielle. Perhaps if I speak to him and explain the difficulties involved ... but one can't reason with these people. Logic is wasted on them, they are so thoroughly unenlightened. Gabrielle is sleeping now, clasping the lamb under her blanket. Even in sleep she retains that vice-like grip on the soiled celluloid lamb. I could take it from her now and wash it. But no. Should she awaken and find her lamb missing, she would be frightened, so frightened. Today is grey and sullen. The occupational therapy people maintain that our patients react favorably to yellow clay and red tempera on a day such as this. Assuming, of course, that they react at all. When I was in college I lived for days like this, I thrived on melancholy. I would sit alone in my room and listen to cello music and write despairing verse. Oh, life in an institution is much like living behind a glass silvered on only one side. You can see the world reflected but you can't reach out and touch it and it can't see you. It makes little difference if the institution happens to be college or a mental hos pital. The same clinical atmosphere pervades and they smell much alike. Sterile. Perhaps our people would progress more rapidly if it weren't for the antiseptic odor. If only they could forget where they are, if they weren't constantly reminded by so much ungodly white and the barred windows and the softened voices and the visiting days. I often wonder what prompted me to take up psychiatry. I suppose that by helping others to re-enter the land of the living I experience a kind of vicarious vitality. To be perfectly honest, I could never achieve a real appetite for life on my own. Perhaps healing others is a sickness with me, the worst sort of escapism. Physician, heal thyself. I finished with Gabrielle a little while ago. Our sessions are so reward ing' from my end at least. I've established some degree of contact, I feel certain, but it's not enough for either one of us. Slowly, by degrees, never hurrying, never prodding, it's the only way. She let me hold her today, an· other small triumph. So painfully thin, and those tiny pale hands gripping the lamb. One day she will cast aside the lamb, reject it as an inadequate substitute for- for what? For me. Ridiculous! But is it really? Not for me as an individual, but for warmth and comfort, the sort only people can provide, not a celluloid lamb that vaguely links her with a tortured past. How I've come to love that child! 5 I There now, I 've said it. A dangerous situation, admittedly. Never become emotionally involved with your patients. Never let them depend upon you as a person. Concern yourself only with their mental and emotional regeneration. And if you do love them it must be impersonally. A contradiction in terms, to love impersonally. Perhaps unobviously would be better. Impossible. Oh, and now it's raining. Gabrielle must be sitting in the rocking chair on the rag rug near the fireplace as she has begun to do, stroking the lamb, caressing so much plastic. plastic. How real the rain is. More of a reality than I. What have I caused to grow? What have I soothed? What have I cleansed, purified, made whole '( Gabrielle must give me the lamb. It won't. do for me to take it from her. Of her own free will, she must give it to me and I will smash it to show her that it is only a hollow toy, nothing mor,e, only a hollow piece of celluloid. The lamb, Gabrielle, the damned lamb. Marie Deel I don't dislike being impoverished. For a student there can be a certain pathetic charm connected to it if he knows how to use impoverishment correctly. Everyone loves the image of a threadbare, undernourished young man, doggedly pushing his way through academia, eating saltines in his room because he hasn't the price of a meal ticket, or hocking his Smith-Corona to buy text books. Girls will give you pitying glances, and buy you coffee and ask if you don't get terribly depressed at times. At this point you have two choices. You can manage a sudden depression or you can feign a touching bravado; either will undoubtedly win you a doughnut and still more pity. Herb, that's myoid roommate, always told me I was bitter-but I don't think so. It's only that I see things in sharper focus than Herb because my stomach is always empty. Herb is constantly getting letters from his mother with money in them and often as not he will spend it on food. For myself, I prefer being glutted by knowledge. I don't live in the dorm any more. But my new room is much nicer than the one I had. Herb kept a lot of photographs around and his desk was always cluttered with letter openers and stationery and similar junk. That always annoyed me because basically I am very tidy. I remember one afternoon after classes I went back to the room to sleep but everything was in such disarray that I cleaned instead. I made Herb's bed and stacked his books and put his pencils and eraser and slide rule in his desk drawer. I was putting his soiled clothes in his laundry bag when he came in and slouched against the door-he has very poor posture--and asked what the heck I was doing. "It is obvious, Herb," I said, "that I am removing your dirty clothes from the floor and putting them where they belong." He glanced over at his desk. "What happened to my slide rule?" he demanded. 6 "In the desk drawer," I said, and I walked out. I could think of nothing else to say-I'm not used to being confronted with rudeness. It baffles me. Not long after that our already precarious friendship began to deteriorate considerably. It was simply that Herb and I were unable to talk. A problem in semantics, I guess you could say. But it wasn't that I didn't try. Herb would be reading the latest from home and I'd say, "What's that, a letter from your mom?" "It's nothing, nothing at all," he'd say, sort of crouching over his silly letter. "Well, it's got to be something," I'd reply, mustering up a jocular tone. Mter all, I had to live with the guy. "Mind your own business," he'd mutter. Herb always was jealous of my scholarship, I think. Once, about a week before final exams, Herb was almost decent to me. We had just gone to bed and I remember the room was very nearly dark but not quite. I could see Herb's black profile against the gray wall. He always slept propped up a bit so he could breath easier. Sinuses. Things had been strained so I was surprised when he asked detachedly, "How does it feel not to have any money ever?" I didn't answer right away. I was puzzling out his choice and order of words. Finally I decided he had meant to say, "How does it feel never to have money?" So I told him. I told him I was carrying on the proud tradition of the starving artist in the garret and that being poor was no problem, as long as I kept two things firmly in mind: never borrow money and don't bum cigarettes. Herb grunted , turned over, and said nothing. Sarcasm always was wasted on Herb. I suppose I'm really very content in my room off campus. Privacy is so important to the true aesthete. It's beautifully depressing with grey walls and paisley drapes. Just me and my Botticelli prints. And with the money I save, I can manage a regular meal from time to time. I saw Herb yesterday in the Commons but he pretended not to see me, I think. Strange. He knows perfectly well I didn't take his money. Marie Deel Katje climbed the steps to her flat slowly. The thin fabric of her coat hung shapelessly from narrow shoulder,s and her face was shrouded in a black scarf. Fumbling in her pocket, she drew out a single key. She turned it in the lock and the door swung open grudgingly. The room was large and ill-lit by the late afternoon light from the single window. A sofa of dusty green velour occupied one wall and a circular table stood in the center of the room. To one side was a single gas burner and a small bookcase filled with Dresden figurines and one book, the Bible. The rest of the furnishings were equally insignificant; they had been in the room for a long time and had been used by a good many people. A doorway led to the bedroom. 7 Katje placed her coat carefully on the table and lay down on the sofa. It was nearly dark now. She was alone once again, by her,self in the flat she had occupied for "five months, five months since Max had left. The war. Its cloying, death-like stench permeated even this room, there was no escaping it. In the street below people were scurrying about like ants on a wound. Katje pitied them. She pitied them for their hatred. It was later now. The water boiled wildly in the copper kettle and Katje looked into its convex surface--her nose protruded bulbously and her chin faded into oblivion. Katje poured the water into a cracked blue teapot and stood for a moment warming herself in the rising steam. She walked to the window and pulled aside the curtain. It rained. She smelled the rain, the clean mineral smell, chaste yet earthy. If only they bottled its fragrance, she thought, if only they bottled it she would bathe in it, drink it, comb it through her hair. Katje poured a cup of tea and went to the table. The room, dimly lit by the streetlight outside the window, was peacefully gray and dimensionless. The copper kettle above the burner drew the little light there was and gleamed orangey-pale. Katje sipped the sweet strong tea. It was good, so good. She thought 0.£ her father, she thought of what it had been like when they had first come to this country. She had been so small. Pastor Muller. Even she thought of her father as the Herr Pastor. He had told her stories every night at this time, stories about her mother who was dead so that she would not forget her. Stories about Nuremburg. She could still remember Nuremburg, vague memories as though seen in a dream. Her mother was with her still. A dim warmth, a red apron, a lullaby. Katj e thought of Max. She could think of Max now without the twisting pain she had felt when he was first gone. Katj e was aware of a stirring deep within her. The child. She had Max within her as the child. Katje sang softly to herself. Mude bin ich, geh zu ruh, Schliese meine Augen zu. Vater lass die Augen dein Uber meinem Bette seine Her mother had always sung that, Katje remembered. She arose from the table and went into the darkened bedroom. It smelled of cedar wood and rain from the open window. Katje undressed, closed the window, and slid between the cool sheets. She folded her hands. I thank Thee my heavenly Father, through Jesus Christ Thy dear Son, that Thou hast kept me this day; and I pray Thee that Thou wouldst forgive me all my sins where I have done wrong and graciously keep me this night. For into Thy hands I commend myself, my body and soul, and all things. Let Thy holy angel be with me that the wicked foe may have no power over me. Katje slept. Katj e moved in her sleep. She saw them entering the parsonage. Pastor Muller, they said, we have come for the Bibles. Katje moaned as her father said, You shall not burn them, you shall not! But Pastor, they said as one, they must be burnt. They are in German. The prayerbooks and hymnals also. Then you destroy them to your damnation, spat her father. He vanished with fist upraised and enraged god-like visage. It was no longer her father, but Katje's husband. It was no longer the parsonage, but the train terminal. Max, dear, dear Max, Katje moaned. He was bending toward her, Goodbye my Katje, he was saying, Katje, Katje, Katje. The people were running wildly, trampling one another, a small boy wailed for his mother, the sound of 8 the train was deafening, she could not see him, where had he gone to, she was in the midst of them, A German gone to kill the Germans, A German gone to kill the Germans, they were chanting. A German gone to kill ... a small boy wailed for his mother, their faces masked with evil smiles came closer and closer, she caught a glimpse of his olive drab uniform. She fought her way through the vast network of restraining hands, the hot fetid breath of the locomotive, the roar, the wail, he turned before her. Where his face had been was a gaping, open wound. Max! She was jarred awake by the sound of her own scream. She jerked upright in the bed. She was breathing in loud shallow gasps and her hands gripped the sheets. Her skin was damp. She left the bed and moved to the window. She sat in the sill and looked out at the wet street and wept soundlessly. Max, she whispered against the cold, foggy window, Max come home to me please. Please, please. She slipped to the floor, trembling and whimpering. Vater unser, der du bist im Himmel, geheileget werde dein Name, dein Reich komme-Max is dead. They would call soon or there would be a telegram. The child stirred beneath her heart. She stared into the dark. It rained. 5he JJarvejl !)j Read';! Patrick Detches The desert rushed past the window of the coach. Outside, the air was hot, dry, unmoving. Vision was sharp and clear for miles but all there was to see was the scorched, rippling sand. Inside, a few members of our company were dozing in the gentle, swaying rhythm of the train. Three girls sat knitting, their jaws chewing gum in tempo with the clacking 'of the needles. F our of the boys were idly playing cards in a cloud of smoke. The rest were juxtapositioned into crazily strewn patterns on the neat rows of seats- some reading, some talking. Sonja sat next to me, her fingers interlacing mine as she dozed lightly. I gazed at the broad scope of nothingness flooding past the window. White, black, pink, blue, grey- a rainbow of colored tights hung on temporary clotheslines strung from one end of the car to the other. Tote bags, dance belts, toe shoes and crumpled lunch bags littered the aisle and suit case racks. We were on our way to Albuquerque to play a five night stand in the older section of the city. We just closed in Phoenix and were looking forward to a brief one week rest before this next performance. However, this was not to be. We were asked by a committee from the Chamber of Commerce, who were sponsoring the event, if we would include another number in our repertory. The festival was almost continuous in ancient Mexico and carried over to a large extent in the present. It was the middle of August- a time when the tribes poured into Tenochtitlan in a festive mood to celebrate the fall of' the fruits. The Aztec rites to the fire god, Huehueteotl, during the same month were also certain to attract the holiday crowds. They were glorious and rollicking fun-fests of blood-letting. The people appeased the gods and their own superstitious minds by watching someone get drawn and quar- 9 tered or, even better, beheaded. The same festive spirit survived through the centuries but the dignity of human sacrifice had been reduced to animals, crops, and then to myths. It was now a time when tired farmers and laborers could laugh, sing, and dance, after food. and libations of intoxicating octli. What the committee requested was a brief ceremonial dance not to exceed fifteen minutes. They furnished. the costumes, consisting of scant loin cloths, head bands, and bright colored blankets for the boys and not much more to cover the girls. It was to be a simple repetitive number accompanied by the huehuetl and toponzatli drums and conch shell pan-pipes. The manager, regisseur, and choreographer were happy to oblige-the rest of us were not. We had looked forward to a brief rest and an opportunity to soak up some Mexican culture and tequila. Now we would have to struggle through a week of pinning together a "simple" ethnic dance, polishing it, and brushing up our regular program. It was going to be hectic. The train continued to bear down on the work and sweat to come. As the train rumbled into the station, mass confusion exploded in the coach. The tights. slippers, belts and other costume pieces were snatched up and shoved into bags and pockets or thrown over arms and shoulders. Suit cases tumbled out of the racks. Pulling, tugging and cries of possession created. a sea of arms, legs and bobbing heads. We stepped off the train into a still oven. The sun slapped against us. The metal guard railS' were hot to the touch. The heat ricocheted from the pavement. Breathing was, difficult in the dry inferno. We had one hour to get settled, to eat, and to report to the theatre. Waves of pin-curlers and unshaven faces charged on Albuquerque. In a few days these same bodies" clad in tight, wrinkled pants and loose, sloppy sweaters flopping down the street, would reappear, almost like magic, in wispy tutus and elegant costumes flying across the stage. Sonja and I checked in, had a quick cheese sandwich and chocolate malt, and walked to the theatre. Outside, it was a large humble structure of adobe brick that scaled and crumbled in the relentless sun. It was situated amidst other adobe buildings ~hurches, schools and a few houses. Now and then one could see the brash aluminum and glass of New Mexico jutting out of the aged remnants of Old Mexico. Quetzalcoatl serpents and Totonac laughing heads decorated. the marquee and the main entrance. The theatre was built on the long-buried ruins of an old festival ground of the Totonac cultures. This fact was printed on the billboards and in the program notes and it was sure to draw the people in. It gave them an a'ffinity to their ancestral way of life and a general feeling of nationalistic content. It would also fill our coffers. Inside, the air-conditioner droned under its labors to cool the old theatre from the glaring sun. A stream of hot light poured on the stage through an uncovered window up near the catwalk. The fly gallery was emptied of all its trappings. They were being renovated for the show. Prickly jute ropes dangled like broken spider webs from long black travellers suspended high in the proscenium arch. The stench of earth, from the musty, dust-coated seats in the auditorium, permeated the air. The backstage wall cracked and flaked into small pyramids. Our dressing rooms were atrocious - small, dark, dirty, and hot. We changed quickly and set to work. The rehearsals dragged on for about three days and a mutual feeling of disgust ran through the whole company. We hadn't accomplished a thing. The steady beating and the flat, discordant notes baffled us. We went through 10 the number over and over and over. Still nothing. A chorus of exaggerated sighs rose with the steam of our bodies when we were told to start from the beginning. Two of the girls retreated to the wings, the broken blisters on their feet preventing them from stamping out the incessant rhythms. The boys grunted purposely when they lifted the girls. The bright hues of our sweaters deepened as the perspiration spread from our backs and armpits. Limp, soggy sweat shirts hung from limp, soggy bodies. Listless faces weaved mechanically in and out of the intricate patterns. The choreographer snapped at us unceasingly as we stumbled into each other, crowded into sloppy circles and trudged through his carefully measured steps like amateurs. Sonja and I screamed through a heated argument. Our semi-nude bodies were slick with sweat. Then my grip on her legs gave out and she went sprawling in the midst of the whole corps. She recovered quickly and pounced on me, her fists slashing the air and frequently clipping me across the face. She drew blood. Mter we quieted down, she sulked through the ballet, touching me only when she had to. From the orchestra pit, the musicians concentrated their attention on the foreign instruments, completely ignoring the happenings on stage. The tempo in no way matched our movements. The choreographer slammed his notebook to the floor and stormed out of the theatre. We collapsed where we stood. Hollow footsteps broke the silence. A tall, red-skinned man was walking toward us from the wings. I wondered how he had slipped past the backstage doorman. Few people ever have. He carried himself tall and erect and walked ceremoniously into our midst. Shining black hair lay straight back over his head. His onyx eyes peered from narrow slits mounted on high cheekbones. A chisled nose jutted out and down from his straight brow. Faint glimmers of white, even teeth poked through his slightly parted lips. The sinewy muscles of his. angular frame ripped beneath his close-fitting white shirt and white pants. His feet were bound in brown, glossy, leather sandals. We gaped at him as he walked through our loose formation on the floor. He approached the edge of the stage and bent low from the waist, his arms clinging to his sides, and whispered to the drummer and flutist. They nodded and the figure in white stood erect again, turned, and walked to center stage. He paused. Then one of the sandaled feet stepped out to the side. His arms shot straight out from his sides, fingers stretching, reaching. Gently, he pounded his feet, first simultaneously, then alternatingly. His lanky frame swayed from side to sjde. The drums softly beat out rhythms in precise accord with the dancer. The piercing screech of the pan-pipe reverberated off the brick walls. His limbs undulated like a snake to the wail of the conch shells. The drums grew louder and more insistent. Erratic spasms threw the dancer's head back. His teeth, bared menacingly, 'were long and glimmering. Our eyes were transfixed by the pendulous being quivering with reckless abandon. Drums, flute and body were fused into a marriage of primitive ecstacy. Sonja slowly rose to her feet. She asumed the same initial stance, and her body, almost involuntarily, gently began to oscillate. Her blond hair matted to the side of her face. Beads of sweat spilled onto her forehead. Her jaws clenched, her eyes floundering in their sockets, her lips spread, she flung her head back, and lurched and fluctuated with savage beauty. The rest of us were drawn to our feet. Soon we were caught in the haze of waverII ing to and fro, side to side. The cadence pounded in our heads. Unspent energy beat down on the dark wood floor. We felt an electrifying grasp, an ancient rite. Our arms and legs cut through the still air. The drums beat louder and louder. The flute shrilled high. dissonant cadenzas. A sea of humanity waved in unison, ebbing higher and higher. Now jerking. Now stamping. Now reaching. The choreographer ran into the theatre, his eyes glazed with anger. He shouted at us. Sonja and Marcia suddenly grabbed his arms. Jerry and I lunged at his legs. We carried him to the center of the stage. The drums beat louder. The flute shattered the air. The girls pulled on his arms, stretching them out. Jerry and I lifted his legs. He was suspended above the stage floor, writhing in our grasp, desperately screaming to be let go. We swayed with his struggling body to the steady beating of the drum. The rest circled around us, their eyes fixed on the squirming body. The drums roared in our ears. The red-skinned man broke the circle and walked to the bodv we held in our tight grip. He raised his arm high in the air. The sun glinted off the short straight blade clenched in his fist. He brought his arm down with a sweeping arc. The knife plunged into the chest. He drew the dagger down, tearing open the rib cage, and exposed the palpitating heart. With the other hand he reached down and tore it loose from the arteries. He raised it high in the air .... into the sun streaming from the window. From deep in his throat a harsh benediction riveted the air, si1encing the drUIILS and flutes. We dropped the limp body and he ceased canting. The now still heart slipped fom his fingers and fell to the floor. He disappeared from our midst. Sonja is crouching low- bent over as if in pain. Her hands are clutching the sides of her face. Her mouth is open and her head is vibrating as if she might be sCfleaming. But I can't hear her. The drums are so loud. Patrick Detches "Nectar and ambrosia! Morning, noon and night! I'm sick of it!" Hera slammed her goblet into a nearby cloud. "There's nothing wrong with this batch, dear," said Zeus, sipping comfortably. "It tastes bitter!" "You think so?" "And yesterday the golden apples were tarnished. Before that .... " "Now look! If you're thinking of getting a new cook, forget it. The last time you did that we nearly got ptomaine." "Well, she was just trying something different." "Arg!" "Oh, you haven't progressed at all ! You're as dated as the Parthenon. And have you taken a good look down there lately? They may forget you're still up here ... if they haven't already." "F orget me? Forget Olympus? Hera! These radical ideas don't become you. Of course they haven't forgotten. How can they, while the Sun Chariot flashes across the sky by day, and the Moon Chariot by night, etcetera?" 12 "That just proves how stuffy you are. Look!" With an imperious gesture, Hera waved aside a curtain of mist, exposing the full view of the earth. "Well ?" "They're harnessing the rays of your precious sun to power a generator! I certainly don't see any glory being rendered to you." "Well ... ah ... I can't stand in the way of progress, can I? Besides, that's Helios' problem- not mine." "Progress, you say'? How far would they have progressed without us? Do you remember when they last offered a sacrifice to us? Do you?" "Certainly! It was ... why, just last ... ah ... no. Do you?" Zeus and Hera sat in silence. "Well, well! Don't we look contemplative!" "Helios! Come sit with us.," said Hera beckoning him to her side. "What seems to be troubling YOll two? You look as if Hades had loosed Cerberus on the heavens." "I was just talking to Zeus about that bunch down there." "Oh, that! I gave up on those people long ago. You just can't evoke any adoration from them no matter how you try. And, believe me, I've tried." "That's true," said Hera, "but doesn't it sometimes get on your nerves? I mean this complete lack of any respect. Not so much as a ripple of praise!" "Why get worked up over it, Hera? If they've neglected us this long, you don't think they're coming back to the fold now, do you?" "Helios is right. We may as well give it up as a lost cause," said Zeus. "Maybe you two will sit here and do nothing about it, but I won't. Just who do those ingrates think they are that they can discard us on a whimsey? I tell you I won't stand for it!" "Easy now, Hera," said Zeus soothingly. "You shut up!" Helios put his hand to his face to cover the small snicker he was enjoying at Zeus' expense. "And you too! You're just as disgusting as he is. Sitting there, complacent, not budging an inch. Both of you make me sick!" Hera got up quickly and stormed out of their midst. Zeus and Helios sat in embarrassed silence for awhile. After what seemed a painfully long time, Zeus spoke. "You think maybe she's right?" "What she says does carry a grain of truth." "So?" "What do you mean?" "What can we do about it?" Helios sat thinking for a moment. He got up quickly and started to leave. "I'll be right hack." Helios left Zeus and began to make the rounds of Olympus. The plan was fermenting in his mind. The pictures were vague but they pointed in one direction. The idea would not be entirely new. The gods had considered it before. But how to do it? Zeus would agree, he was sure. He would do anything to stop Hera from nagging him. The task would be simple enough but they would have to let it coincide with some event to make it look good. Helios couldn't help but think what a lovely pyre a nuclear detonation would make. 13 He talked first in committee to Hephaestus, Poseidon, and Ares. The gods of the Smiths, the Sea, and War would have to be in on the initial plans. He sent Hermes with a message through Olympus. The timing seemed right and this called for quick planning and execution. Hermes was swifter than usual, and soon Helios had his key personnel gathered about him. There was a tense murmuring of excitement rustling through the assemblage. Helios was silently thankful that Dion appeared sober. "Please let me have your attention for just a minute. This may not seem like anything of any importance to some of you, but it concerns all of us in one way or another. First, let me pose a question to one of you." Confusion and bewilderment showed on the faces of the group gathered before Helios. "Demeter--when did someone from down there offer you a field of grain ?" Demeter was perplexed. She could not quite follow the underlying query, but she thought for a moment and finally spoke. "Really, it's hard to say, Helios. What I mean is, it's been some time since I've heard the rustle of so much as a blade of grass from there. Actually, I didn't know they were still there." "Well, they are-in great numbers. And the ground has been broken and re-broken a thousand-fold since you last looked. And the same is true in your case, Pallas Athene. Battle after battle has been fought since you last blessed Theseus. There have been so many conflicts between them that it would astound you. Nations mightier and much more powerful than Greece have circled the globe in their struggles for dominance." The two women were rather disturbed upon hearing this. They felt cheated and neglected. "The same is true with all of you. Ares! Such wars there have been! What did you receive from all this? Nothing! The whole lot of you! You have sat back and let all this pass you by. Well, take a look. Take a good, long look at what has been taking place down there. And we've let them go on completely ignoring us. Not so much as a lowly goat has had its throat cut for our sake." The gods and goddesses became indignant and angry at what Helios was telling them. Shouts for revenge rose in chorus through the gathering. Hera stood in the back of the crowd looking at Helios and gently smiling to herEelf. Zeus was pacing back and forth in front of his throne. He was· curious as to what Helios was up to and irritable at Hera's behavior. He looked up and saw a host of the deity coming to him en masse with Helios at their head. They came and stood him. Helios advanced forward a few steps. "What's going on here? Helios, what is it?" "We have just had a little conference, Zeus, and we are all in accord. So if you'll just sit down we'll explain it to you." Zeus mounted his throne and gazed out at those gathered before him. "Since none of us have actually received any of that which is due to us from those peoples on earth, why should we tolerate such behavior from that motley collection of ungrateful indolents?" "Yes .... " "All they are doing is causing unrest in the house of the Cloud Gatherer and serving no useful purpose." 14 "True ... I can agree with you on that," said Zeus, thinking of Hera, "but what did you have in mind?" "Eliminate them," said Helios, casually. "What good are they? What have they done to make you smile with favor upon them? Have they or have they not disregarded you completely for the last two thousand years or so? Can you sit back and not feel slighted at such carryings-on? I tell you, Zeus, something must be done and quickly. We won't even receive honorable mention in the histories in time. We mean absolutely nothing to these people. They're like little children who have suddenly discovered an uncle, and have forsaken their parents for another's favors. I say get rid of them. It's too late to try and redeem them at this time!" "You realize, of course, that you're talking about annihilating a planet of peoples?" "So what? They care nothing for us. Why should we care anything about them?" "Yes, I suppose you're right. How do you plan to go about it?" Captain Ralph Linton had just come on duty in the ready room. He had picked up a copy of True and he was thumbing through the pages. The sharp clanging of the bell started him quickly and methodically out of his seat. He grabbed his helmet and check-off list from the shelf and he was running down the flight line to his waiting jet. The slim, dart-like craft taxied down the runway and was airborne in seconds. He juxtapositioned his ship in formation with other identical crafts. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as his instructions were monitored to him through his earphones. This was not a practice alert. The enemy had declared total war. Arthur Hall The summons blared out of the wall speaker: "Doctor Benson, report to Superior Tarus immediately!" Dropping his pencil on his notes, Doctor Benson looked up from his work. His face reflected his annoyance at the interruption. Loudspeakers were meant for outdoor political rallies, not for quiet laboratories. But this was the new order under these brazen, alien overlords. What could be in Tarus' simple mind? He'd just held his weekly staff meeting yesterday. WelL it can't be put off; when they order anyone to report immediately, it is best to go do it. After scooping up his notes and tucking them into an inside coat pocket, he trudged down the hallway and up the stairs to the Superior's office. His knock on the doorframe was acknowledged with a grunt, so he stepped into the room, opened the gate on the low fence, and confronted Tarus. "You sent for me?" he asked. Superior Tarus' massive upper torso seemed to almost overflow his small desk as he remained huddled in silence over a paper he pretended to be studying. He would let Benson stand there a while since he hadn't shown the proper respect towards a Superior. Benson had always rubbed him the wrong way. 15 "I say," Dr. Benson repeated, "Did you want to see me?" It was an effort for the older man to remain civil after this deliberate, rude treatment by a young bully. "You heard the order to report to me, or you wouldn't be here," Tarus growled without looking up. "But I suppose you're in a hurry to get back to puttering around with that invention of yours." Tarus was one of the more arrogant Superiors. He enj oyed his position of authority over his captive staff of scientists who were much more intelligent than he was. "As a matter of fact," Dr. Benson replied, "I need every available minute to complete my project by the arbitrary deadline you picked out of thin air." At this bit of criticism, Tarns raised his massive head and stared at the Doctor through large, unblinking eyes. Benson had butted heads with him before. The sight of the red-headed Doctor only infuriated him further. "That's enough out of you!" he screamed. The back of his thick neck turned scarlet. Charging straight to the point, he continued with shrill, angry authority, "Your time doesn't matter any more. Your replacement takes over in the morning." "But," Dr. Benson objected, "I had another week until the deadline." He knew there was no real hope that Tarus would reconsider. "In the morning!" Tarus roared as he banged a clod of a fist on the desk. "We've let you fool around down there long enough; now we'll put someone in there who will produce." Tarus went back to pawing through papers. "That's all, Doctor." The title was added sarcastically. Dr. Benson turned without a word and passed back through the gate. Tarus bellowed after him, "Tomorrow I won't be bothered by you; no one will!" On his way back to the laboratory~ Dr. Benson reviewed the situation. These aliens had infiltrated the society of his small country. After bulling their way into power, they established an aristocratic rule and named themselves the Superiors. They took complete control of everything, including research. When they learned that he was developing a mind reading machine, they conscripted him to continue the project, for such a machine would enable them to ferret out all opposition. The chief opposition to their plan for complete subjugation of all men in F'redoma was a secret underground organization; the Libers. They were very difficult to deal with, for few of them knew each other and none of them knew who their real leader was. It was a good thing the Superiors didn't have the perfected mind reader, else they would find out quickly that Dr. Benson was this anonymous, troublesome leader. He had submitted to their authority for the past two years so that he could complete his machine and turn it against the Superiors. This new development changed his plans; the time schedule must be moved up. To do it, he'd have to work all night to install the final circuits which he had developed in utmost secrecy. Early the next morning, the new man came in just as Dr. Benson made the last adjustment. "DoctoT Benson, my name is Peterson; I've been assigned to take over your project." The young man seemed to be almost apologetic about it. "I was told yesterday afternoon that I was being relieved today," Dr. Benson answered, "But I didn't know that you were to be my replacement." He had seen Peterson before and had talked to him on infrequent occasions but that was the extent of their relationship up to that time. He certainly 16 didn't know Peterson well enough to be sure of his political leanings; however, he knew that the fellow was a brilliant and promising scientist. With a slight air of defeat, he added: "It looks as if the Superiors chose a good man." He had no doubt that Peterson would succeed for the project was completed. "I don't think for a moment that 1 can replace you, Doctor," Peterson replied with guarded admiration. "Most of what 1 know about the subject came from your reports." This was true, yet Peterson had also studied the device on his own and had noticed that one vital circuit had never been mentioned. The machine wou1d never work without it. Had it been left out of the reports deliberately or was it that Dr. Benson had never developed it? -- "I've worked all night on the final adjustments," Dr. Benson said. "I was about to try the machine one last time." "Then you have only made adjustments?" Peterson asked, "You didn't add any new circuits?" "No, 1 didn't add new circuits," Dr. Benson replied. It wasn't really a lie; he had developed the secret circuit long ago. Peterson studied the Doctor's weary, stony face for some clue to his inner thoughts. Quite sure that there could be no harm in letting the old man have his last chance, Peterson offered, "Well, go ahead and give it another try." "Thank you, Peterson," Dr. Benson said and then added, "You could be of real service to me if you would put this extra headset on to help me evaluate the machine's per'formance. I'd be interested in knowing what you think of it." Peterson adjusted the wide, metallic device to his head while Dr. Benson donned the master thought helmet and turned the mind reading machine's power on. At this moment the wall speaker blared out, "Doctor Benson, report to the detention office in five minutes." The old Doctor ignored the announcement as he watched the power needle rise slowly across the dial to the "ready" position. He pressed the master switch to the "read" position. The reception indicator blinked. Dr. Benson suddenly wheeled on Peterson and charged, "So! You hope it never works, you traitor!" "I didn't say that!" Peterson denied. The accusation caught him off guard. "I know you didn't say it," Dr. Benson explained, trying to prime Peterson's mind. Peterson's face revealed the realization that the machine was working for the reception indicator blinked at his very thoughts. Benson's reading my mind right now, he thought, he'll expose me any second. Backing away from the console, he made a move to rip off the headset. The "hostile thought" light was already on. Dr. Benson had anticipated this sort of reaction and had quickly pressed the master switch all the way down to the unmarked "control" position. The strong thought went through the Doctor's mind as he turned again to Peterson: A Liber should stop and consider all the facts before he does anything. P eterson's hand froze on the headset as he complied with the Doctor's mental order. At the same time, he knew that he had been exposed and this set off a chain reaction of thoughts; anxiety, doubt, and wonder raced through his brain. The reception indicator blinked furiously with alarm. 17 I Dr. Benson smiled kindly yet with satisfaction. The machine not only read men's minds, he thought, but my secret modifications give it the capability of projecting thoughts for control. The closed circuit between us provides the final test. 1 regret that 1 had to put you to such a mental strain but time was short and 1 had to be sure of you. Now if you will take the head· set off, we can work together to get the machine on the air and use it against the Superiors. Peterson took the headset off. "Congratulations, Doctor!" he exclaimed. "You did give me a bad time there for awhile, because 1 didn't know f or sure which side you were on until just now." "I know," Dr. Benson agreed as he bent back over the control console. "However, there is no time for discussion. Turn on the transmitter." "Of course," Peterson replied as he took the necessary action. " When is the moment of truth? " he asked enthusiastically. "Right away, son, right away!" Dr. Benson spun the wave-Iengtll tuner to the lower order of the scale, adjusting it to the freque ncy of Superior Tarus' brain. JJ. ms. Jerimiah Joan Neiman Lt. Colonel Whitey Ratsman unbuckled the restrammg seat belt and stepped out of the reclination seat. He reveled briefly in the familiar sensation of weightlessness, and then moved over to the control panel. All lights go. Whitey checked each listing and punched the corresponding signal switches. "Baby's riding smooth as ether tonight. Good dependable ship. Yes sir, every bit as good as any of those the Russo-Americans could orbit. Like a second home to me now. You, too, huh, Metchine? Should be, we spend most of our time here." Metchine swung out of his alloy pressure-protection chamber and pushed a button on the wall. The take-off rocket broke sharply and then died. Metchine raised his gloved hand, moved his eyeless head up and down, and squeaked, "Yes, Seir." "Okay, buster, let's run the tests." Metchine rolled over to the green wall, released the magnets, and part of the wall gave way. It folded into the ceiling of the master room. Whitey moved away from the panel and helped Metchine move the revealed cages up to the counters. He then began to assemble the equipment while Metchine arranged the white mice and rats in the proper sequence. This was a very important step in the studies and he felt safer letting Metchine do it. Metchine would set up the lists and establish the control rats precisely right. Control is the password of a successful orbitman. Without the control his tests would be worthless. The tests took over an hour per set, and at the end of the run Whitey was disgusted with the results. Five of the rats had been unable to react positively to the stimuli even under terra conditions. 18 "They're useless baggage now, Metchine. Put them out." Metchine carefully selected the deficient rats and removed them from their cages. He placed them in the decomposition chambers. The rays whirred for a few seconds and then automatically ejected the gases out through the exhaust funnels. "Set the course for that small formation we passed back about an hour ago." "Yes, Seir." "We needed those five rats to get the proper control on the tests we're making. Maybe there will be some species on the formation that we could use just as well." "Wheat do wee have to leose?" "Rudder Rockets!" "Right." The ship cruised for fifty-five minutes and then the anti-gravity ascillators took over and H. M. S. lerimiah began to orbit slowly around the old planet. Whitey was in the upper observation dome, waiting to see if there was any sign of life on the rock, and Metchine was in the rear section checking the landing equipment. "All right, insert the landing tube," Whitey blared into the microphone. "Let her fall." Metchine took the cream colored cylinder and inserted it into the atomic reactor. There was a slight jar as the computer began to lower the ship towards the strong gravital pull. Whitey took the escalators into the lower observation dome and prepared to enjoy the landing. This was the favorite time for most of the orbitmen. The computer took over the responsibility of the ship, and the captain could relax. Once the tape was placed in the brain nothing could change the order, and the orbitmen were powerless until the ship reached a solid object and switched off of brain control. "Mighty strange planet here. Has an unusual orbit, and I've never seen such smooth terrain. It's completely grey with no sign of vegetation; it looks almost like a glass-isotope substance. But I guess there's a whole lot in the 01' galaxy you and I've never seen, huh? Shaped like an egg. Suppose the Russo-Americans ran some tests on it? Humped it up? Ha! The Prime Minister'd get a vibration out of that one. Better get in the compartment, Metchine, boy." Metchine whirred away and Whitey sat down in the reclination seat in the lower dome. He wanted to see this landing. He'd had land duty since last fall, and this was his first solo in nine months. The rotary engines plunked on and the ship eased up, and de-acceleration began. The shop cut speed to a minimum. The egg loomed larger and larger until it covered the dome. Whitey could feel himself falling and delighted in the sensation. It aways started that way just when they should be about ready to make contact. Then the center of the planet cracked open. Like a huge hand unfolding its fingers. The jags threw a shadow over the dome, and the last thing he saw was the red Abandon Ship sign flashing frantically on the wall. Large hand. Large hands, reaching, reaching out of the sky. Little hands. Racking up and down his back. Quickly. Slyly. Little fingers with dinner rings beckoning to him. Index fingers holding smoking cigarettes . . . cigars . . . pipes. The smoke begins to curl. Around the feet, 19 over then ens, And the chest. It envelopes the head, eyes, teeth. Whirling, whirling ... and it begins to, slow and thin. It floats away and comes back. Thins, deepand then begins to disappear completely until there is only blackness. then, slowly, light. The cage was twelve feet high with a circumference of about fifty feet. The bars were vertically placed, and crossed at the center top. Whitey lay in the corner. He was lying on a soft, spongy mat fastened to the floor of the cage. It appeared to be a sort of bed and covered half of the floor. The only other object in the cage was a plastic container in the corner. Whitey decided it was useless. A large lock hung on the only door. It was composed of the same grey glasslike substance as the cage and ship. Four feet tall and three feet wide, it was too heavy for Whitey to budge. "Bet that key would be a goodie. Me Grand nanny would never believe me. Must be some husky guy what carries that, huh?" His head began to pound again and he sat down in the same corner. The cage began to shimmy and the sponge tossed Whitey about, jarring him one way and then another. A tiny grey face peered through the top of the cage. A clawlike hand extended from the thorax of the being and held a large key. The key was raised to an even level with the lock. A slight twist of the claw removed the lock completely, and the door swung open. When Whitey dared look at the being's eyes he sensed immediately that the species had not mastered the art of telepathy as had the orbitmen. For he could surmise what the grey skinned vertebrae was thinking, but the other did not seem to comprehend his thoughts. He realized that this would probably be his only weapon. The gentleness of the grasp surprised him, but the jerky movements of the animal jarred him sharply and he could not move at all, so cleverly was he held. The creature's brain patterns were a conglomeration of past experiences and recurring glimpses of some strange creature, probably one of the females . of the species. So Whitey took a survey of his surroundings. They descended to a lower level of th~ craft. This space was full of large grey boxes and some cages similar to the one he had been in earlier. Each cage had its own temperature control and atmospheric pump. Most of the cages were full. There were animals from all over the galaxy. A two-headed mascetonian from Venus crockled at Whitey as they passed the cage, fluttered its tails, and lay down on the cage floor in a fit of laughter. A twelv~ inch protozoa from Sun I swam around in the red acid solution Whitey knew to be its natural habitat. And a white rat from Terra sputtered at him from one of the grey boxes. . The being's brain waves altered sharply as he lowered himself beside one of the boxes. "Oh, an empty one. Here, now, down you go. Now see if you are :s mart enough to find your dinner." . He stood up and trudged away to the other rooms. The box was hexagonally shaped and very roomy. The walls were about fifteen feet apart and every surface was crystal smooth. Three doors led ' a~ay 20 : ;: ' : ', 1 from the area where Whitey had been placed. Two doors were three feet wide and one door was two feet wide. He entered the first two and found only twisting corridors with dead ends. When he entered the third door he wa's extremely hungry and glad to see bread and butter on the table. He gobbled all of the food. When he returned to the outer chamber he found a bed on the floor which was exactly like the one he had slept on before. As he began a search for a place to relieve himself he understood why the plastic container was in the corner, and the spongy mat looked good. When Whitey awoke the grey man was making strange patterns and vibrations. He sat very still and concentrated on the brain waves. After a few moments he began to make something out of them. "Oho Ho Ho. Oho Yo Yo. Jay. Jay. Ba Ba. Galinthians. Yah! Galinthians." "I'll be," thought Whitey, "sounds like my school song." He realized he was on a Galinthian Ship. He had heard about the Galinthians. Everyone had heard about them. They were a race from a distant galaxy which had discovered a new form of energy that enabled them to journey to any of the universes. Of course some people denied that they even existed. Called the tales about them "ghost" stories. But now Whitey was sure that they did exist. He had heard that they would travel from one galaxy to another, studying the inhabitants and testing their intelligence. When they found a mentally alert race they would enslave them and use them to work in their plants. Whitey stared at the doors ahead of him. They had been shifted and the two foot door was now between the other two. He knew that his breakfast would be behind the middle door. But the Galinthians did not know that he knew it. And that was what they were after. They want to know if he had enough knowledge to open the middle door this time. And tomorrow what would they set before him? A shock system perhaps. And the light tests or series of locks and puzzles to test his mechanical ability. "And then? They will go to Terra and enslave them all. We'll be machines." "Perhaps there is a way. If they found that I was not intelligent at all they would destroy only me and let the rest survive. Not all of us. It is worth a try. The other way is hopeless. I'm no martyr, but I'm dead either way.'~ He stood up, threw back his shoulders and marched toward the left door humming a dirty song he had learned in orbitman's school. He made certain in every test he tried to show no insight into the problems. None at all, only coincidence and a little habitual trial and error sense. The waves kept beating: "You must have some intelligence. You made that creature. Try ,again. Come on. Please." : Mter a long succession of .tests, during what Whitey surmised to be a week, the being picked him out of the latest maze and shook him. "Fool thing. You'll be of no use to us. All this time just wasted." He trudged over to the square object which contained absolutely nothing, and placed Whitey inside. He shuffled over to a control panel, sighed, and started the decompositions chambers. He grunted, pioked up a microphone, and issued the final command. 21 "T0 headquarters. Alert." "Rayo, go ahead." " Tests are finished. All done. Negative. Absolutely no intelligence discovered. This last one was no good either. Destroying galaxy immediately per plan." Nine . . . Eight. . Seven . . . Six . . . Five . . . Four . . . Three .. . Two ... One ... The rays whirred for a few seconds, then automatically ejected the gases out through the exhaust funnels. David Otto I'm glad to have my rope. If it wasn't for this, I don't know how I'd get along. Everybody tries to boss me around but no one succeeds because I tell them where to go. But when I do that, I get mad. The only thing I can be happy with is my rope. It will do what I tell it to. It will do a double loop with a twist in it, or anything. I hate cars. They are always trying to boss me around too. On my way home today I saw a car that looked at me just like those bullheads used to when I would go fishing. He said, "You scroungy rat; get off the streets. " Then he just stood there and looked at me. I wasn't afraid. I just stared back and then walked on down the street. But he made me so mad. That's wh y I'm playing with my rope. But it's time to go to work I hate work. I guess I don't hate work ; ies the people I have to work with. Have you ever seen a doughnut machine? I hate the one I work with. He just stands there for five hours and spits dough nuts at me. And I have to keep putting dough in so he can keep spitting them at me. Sometimes I don't put any dough in and he just stands there and makes funny faces. That is really funny. But I can't get caught because I am supposed to always have dough in it. That doughnut machine is so dumb. He always spits them at me but misses and they always fall way down deep into the grease. Then the grease throws them back at me, but he isn't strong enough to lift them very high, so they just float around. It's kind of funny because that machine and grease have been trying to get me for over a month. But I still get mad because the motive is there. They would get me if they could. The worst thing is that after all this I have to clean him. When he spits he splatters, and so after he is all done for the day I give him a sort of bath. The other job I have at work is making chocolate coating. That is just as bad because the mixer I run hates me too. Actually, all four of the mixers hate me, but I never get close enough to the others for them to get a good look at me. But my mixer not only growls, he grinds his hands together, hoping to catch me. I can stop him by pulling out the plug, but I can't get caught at that either. When he gets especially loud (yesterday he wasn't too bad after I pulled out his plug a time or two), I get frustrated and want 'my 22 rope even more. Every night when I leave I go right home, get my rope and go to bed. My rope and I get along real well. I just learned another thing: never go to the bathroom while at work. I just did and I almost didn't get out. When I flushed the toilet it opened up its mouth with a roar and sucked. I could feel the air rushing by me, trying to suck me along with it right into that toilet. Of course, I didn't fall. I am strong, but I think you can see the problems I have. I hate that toilet. And it hates me, but I am stronger than it. I just get mad. I wish I could bring my rope to work. One of the things I really like is to sleep. I wish I could sleep more than nine hours a day, but I can't. Of course, I take my rope to bed with me. I practice tying all kinds of knots. I tie a sailor's knot around the bed post, and a square knot, and a slip knot. That's the one I like best. I tie that around the bedpost and when I get real mad I pull real hard and squeeze the bedpost. But he ne:ver says anything. And then I hate myself for doing that because the bed is so nice to me. I can really sleep good in my bed. You know what I like? Nylon fishing line; the black kind. I like plain wire hangers for clothes too. And dirt; I love to pile dirt on top of plant=, and things. Today's work was the worst yet. After the toilet tried to swallow me, that doughnut machine burned me. He still didn't hit me with his spit, but I burned my hand. And then the mixer growled so that I couldn't hear anything else. I couldn't even think. When I was cleaning him up, I happened to think of something (incidentally, I forgot to mention, I really like water too. I really like water) : What would happen if I didn't come to work anymore? Those machines would go insane. The doughnut machine wouldn't have anyone to spit at or even anyone to feed it. The mixer wouldn't have anyone to plug him in. That's what I'll do. I just won't be around for these machines to pick on. I'll go downstairs and throw my rope up over the rafters. Then I'll tie it and make a slip knot. I can stand on a chair so that I can put the slip knot over my head and then kick that chair out from under me. That will squeeze my neck and I love to squeeze things when I'm mad. I'll show those machines. David Otto "Good afternoon, Mr. Welsh." I cannot figure out how a man so young can leave for the golf course or wherever he goes every day at three. I'm here in the morning at least an hour before he gets here. And to top it all off, he must be twenty years younger than I am. I wish old man Smith would be content with pushing that buzzer once. After all, this thing will only go so fast. . .. And here is another example. Smith leaves the office every day at three, and everyone knows that he is a millionaire. They say that he doesn't have a normal day if he doesn't buy at least a thousand dollars worth of stocks. But everything he touches seems to turn to money. I just don't .... 23 "Hello, Mr. Smith. . .. One it will be." Smith is always telling me that if I ever want to buy some stocks, Smith and Sons is the place to go. I think he says that to make me m ad. He probably thinks that I don't have any savings and couldn't buy if I wanted to. "Here's number one, Mr. Smith. And I'll let you know if I want any of those stocks. " Why doesn't he just shut up about those stocks? I would buy them if I wanted to, but I would rather put my money in the bank where it earns interest. After all, I'm not one to just throw money away. That's proven by the fact that I saved over two hundred dollars last year. And besides that I am paid up on my thousand dollar life insurance policy. That's the difference between AI and myself. We both run elevators from 8 :00 until 6 :00, but when Al is done he goes out to spend his m oney in a bar. Not me. I go to the bar too, but I work. With my new j ob at Penny's on Sunday, I can save even more money. I would think AI could see that. All you have to do is be willing to put forth a little energy and you can save money. 'Hello, Mrs. Ramlet. One?" Even the secretaries don't work to five. And they don't work Saturaays either. How come they all seem to have so much money? " Good night, Mrs. Ramlet. Did you forget something, Mr. Smith,( Sure, I'll take you back up." ·'Do you have any quick money makers today ? " I wish I hadn't asked him that. I know he will tell me again how I am missing my golden opportunity to double my money in a short time. Boy, he burns me. And he always says, "This is the way I made my money in a short time." Sure it is! I know that his father was in this same business. You don't make money by paying one-hundred thirty dollars for a suit and thirty dollars for shoes and fifteen dollars for a hat. "Okay, Mr. Smith, I'll wait." I sure wish he would just forget the stock business when he is around me. If I could afford to lose a little money, I would play the stock market, but I can't. I know some people have made money at this .... but a lot have lost money too. "Get it, Mr. Smith? Good." Elevator, go fast! Fast! Get this goof off here before he starts telling me what to do with my money again. I hate people like him. I know what to do with my money. I've done all right so far. He doesn't even know how to make money. He has had all his given to him. "Good night." He makes me mad! If he had to work for his money he wouldn 't throw it around like he does. Anyone who's worked his own way up as I have, knows that you have to work hard and save your money. You can't throw it around like you throw sweeping compound on the floor. You have to give it out as if you were giving away a part of yourself. That's how to make money. 24 -.A- Cefacean Amy Russell Leaping gracefully, body slightly arched and fins pointed outward in a continual waving movement, the torpedo-shaped porpoise snapped the fish out of Dr. Steller's hand. The old man studied the animal carefully. Its smooth, hairless body shone in the spring sunshine. The slipperiness of the water made the upper, black side an ebony blue and the whiteness of the underneath seemed a clear ice color. Rays of sun penetrated the smooth skin and bounced off with reflections, skipping over the waves each time the porpoise leapt high above the water for a piece of herring. With each plunge, the animal's short, beakless muzzle with a blowhole between the eyes on top of its head, split the water, and the doctor examined it carefully. And, with each plunge, it made a low puffing, hissing noise, letting the air out of its lungs. The wind rippled the cold water, just beginning to warm in the early spring. Holding out the last o'f the herring, the doctor bent over and clicked off the recorder. Then, clutching the recorder in one hand and the bucket in the other, the old m an slowly climbed the steps of his cottage. Once up the bank, he looked down at the swimming animal. He felt almost like a cetacean himself. For years now, hours each day, he had devoted his study and teaching to the porpoise. He had made a definite conclusion. It was the most intelligent animal next to man himself, and the doctor wondered if it wasn't more intelligent at times. Later in the afternoon, he would give it the daily lessons. Swimming alongside the animal, feeling the closeness of its velvety damp body, he would communicate with it. In the quiet of his library, he set up the recorder, opened the window to let the river smell and wind fill the room, and, adjusting all dials on the recorder, slowly and steadily as he had done numerous times for the past years, he clicked on the machine. The wheels revolving on the tape barely moved. He had set it back a little over ten times the speed of a natural human voice and had found it quite satisfactory to understand what others, thought just a hissing, annoying noise. Slowed down considerably, the words were clear and precise as any. At first it was just a phrase or two and maybe sentence fragments, but after years of recording his own voice and speeding it up on the recorder to the pace the porpoise hissed, he was able. to get through to it. Once it understood him, he taught it math, science and all the medical knowledge he knew himself. The cetacean could figure the problems the doctor gave it over the rapidly playing recorder, and with the answers slowed down he was able to interpret them. Dr. Stellers had had old associates from his past come in numerous times to listen, but, unable to understand the squealing tape, they would leave in confusion and with the convinced idea that he was losing his mind over the porpoise. After several attempts to convince others, Dr. Steller kept track of the recordings and scribbled notes of the advancement of his well-trained animal, filling notebook after notebook with his progress. Today he felt successful. The animal was in a good mood and they had been spending some time on the space age and science. The porpoise 25 I seemed to enjoy this very much. He kept in touch with the world problems, the struggle against communism; and with its mathematical mind, the porpoise seemed to be able to figure things out much better than the old man himself. The doctor listened to the first several phrases. As the tape wound continuously around the wheel to about the middle of the tape, he jotted down the voice, discovering the porpoise was not only answering the questions given him in the last session, but was trying to tell the doctor something. Rerunning the tape over and over, the man, coughing from swimming in cold water and working tirelessly into the night, jotted down a mathematical formula the cetacean had given him. The following weeks were spent questioning and testing the formula. In the end the doctor came to believe in it. lt was a chilled autumn evening when the doctor gave in. Putting on his swimming clothing, he walked to the bank without the recorder. He could see no other way. The porpoise had worked it out like a genius and he couldn't begin to contradict him. Diving in the river, he swam around hunting for it. Reaching out, he felt the slippery, hairless body and patted it. Without the recorder, they could talk in the hissing voice of the cetacean. Amy Russell She sat down beside the coffin. The man opened the lid. She shut her eyes. "If you need me, I will be in the next room," said the man. She heard the soft swish of his shoes as he crossed the room. There was a pause, then the quiet closing of a door. Slowly, she forced her eyes open. He looked alive. Sleeping. She could almost see his chest rise and decline as it did as he breathed in his. afternoon nap. His hands were folded in the usual fashion of the dead. That was strange. He never folded his hands like that, even in sleep. She had decided on his gray suit with specks of orange-ish pink through it. It was ugly, but it was the only suit he liked and he had picked it out. At Krig's Men's Store. That was back in 1938. He thought it was handsome. Several had commented on its! simplicity and elegance. He always itched whenever he wore it. She recalled one time in church how he had wiggled, [ cratched, and crossed and uncrossed his legs a dozen times because of the s suit. But he liked it. And the tie. lt was black. That she had bought new. Several of the neighbors had sent sympathy cards with money. She went to town the following afternoon and purchased a four dollar tie. With tax included, four dollars and eight cents. Plain black. With the money left she bought his gray socks. The usual heavy work socks he wore to the yards. She could have used a pair he had, but with money left over she felt she should really buy something for him. She wondered if they remembered to take the price tag off. It was on the bottom of one sock and rather small. They could have missed it easily. 26 She looked around the room. Noone was there. She looked at the door the man had gone out of. It was still closed. She leaned over the coffin and quickly untied his right shoe. The had told her they didn't usually leave the shoes on, but she had insisted. They were his good shoes. She had shined them until they looked real nice. Slipping the shoe off, she lifted the heavy foot to check. The price tag was gone. Sighing with relief, she replaced the shoe and tied it tightly, then loosened it a little. When he had gotten so he couldn't bend over, she would hold his foot on her lap and tie his shoe. Usually she got it too tight, so she loosened it and smoothed the sock. She sat and examined his white hair. She looked more closely. She noticed several dark hairs on top that hadn't turned. He always put lots of Wildroot on his hair each morning. That darkened it and made him feel much younger. She wondered why they had parted his hair on the left side. He always parted it close to the middle, but a trifle to the right. Never on the left side. Looking around again, she opened her purse. Taking out her long COIlli she combed his hair all forward and, after three tries, to make sure the part was straight, she smoothed it back. She put her comb back. Moving his head around to the position it had been in, she noticed his cowlick stood up. She wet her finger and pressed it down. It flipped back up. She opened her purse again and got her small size Avon spray net. Holding the hairs down, she sprayed them. The sticky spray held the cowlick neatly in place. She felt much better. She straightened his head. She didn't care for the pillow under his head. A deep red, flat pillow. It didn't look comfortable. She wondered if they would mind if she brought his white pillow he took naps on-the one with th~ brown embroidery she had worked on the nights he worked late. He liked it. It was soft and clean and not so drab as the red felt one they had placed under his head. He usually wadded it up right under the nape of his neck so he wouldn't wake with a headache. She would have to remember to ask the man if it was okay that she brought the pillow. It looked like they had put a dark make-up on his, face and neck. She leaned closer. Some had collected around his nose. She didn't like that. It was too dark. He was always pale, except in the winter when his cheeks and forehead chapped roughly from outdoor work. She pulled her handkerchief from her bosom and wet it, dabbing around his nose. It smeared a little so she wet it some more and tried to even it. She brushed the excess around his eyelids and forehead. It looked blotchy. She rubbed over it again and stuck her handkerchief back in her bosom. She leaned back in the chair and sighed. She glanced at the big bouquets of flowers. Chrysanthemums, roses, iris and carnations. One had a long blue ribbon with gold trim around the edges. The gold inscription said, "We love you, Grandpa." She sighed again. Her hands felt damp. Glancing at her watch, she stood up. She had a hair appointment. She was going to try her very hardest to hold up well at the funeral in the morning. 27 I 5omorrow and 5omorrow and 5omorrow Virginia Wads ley Restlessly, she picked up the pipe from the little coffee table and hit it in her cupped left hand, just as she had seen him do so many times. Glancing over at the mantel, she once again realized how long the day was. Maybe the old clock was running down. But she knew better than that. She put the pipe back in place and walked into the den, rubbing a speck of dust off the antlers over the mantel as she went by. Yes, that was a proud pair of antlers. He had always been able to get the best. Oh, there's the phone. Maybe it's him. "Hello." "Hello, Helen? This is Marge and I'm getting up a little card party next Tuesday at my house. Will you be able to come?" What they won't do to dig up gossip! I know they're all just dying to hear my story. But if they think they're going to get it out of me this way they've got another think coming. "Oh, I'm sorry, Marge. But I just can't come then." "I'm sorry too." I imagine. "Do you have other plans?" "Yes,"-not to come to your party. "I'll have to go now as I'm terribly busy." "Well, bye. Maybe you can come next time." I wouldn't count on it. I'll never understand why they can't keep their noses out of my businessl And besides, the doctor said to take it easy for . a while anyway. As she returned to the den, she looked out the front door and noticed the paper lying on the step. Hmm, it's rather early today. She picked it up and placed it by the leather chair where it would wait for him to come home. She shuffled through the magazine rack but didn't see anything interesting. They can't even print anything decent these days, and his old sports magazines bore me to tears. What's the world coming to? With an empty feeling of despair she wilted down into his chair and wept. Suddenly she looked up, blew her nose, and wiped her eyes. What on earth am I crying about? The doctor said that I'd have some depressed times but it'll be all over in a couple of years. Get a hold on yourself, lady. I just wish he wouldn't always go on such long hunting trips. She examined her red eyes in the mirror, unable to avoid seeing the tiny wrinkles and the graying roots. But by the time she reached their bedroom she felt much better. Why, this new make-up really makes the wrinkles disappear! And I'll call Pat tomorrow for a touch-up job on my hair. Now, I'll work on his socks. Goodness knows, he will need them for the pheasant season. And I can watch "Queen for a Day" while I'm doing. it. Finally, the rays of sunlight began to slant in the window and she got up to start supper. He's going to love these ribs. They always were his favorite. Tonight's going to be special. And she began to hum a little tune. Time passed, the tune got less cheerful, then it stopped. The house be- 28 gan to get dark and chilly. I guess· this isn't the night. Depression set in once again as she choked down a few bites by herself. She moved back into the den, not even bothering to light a fire as she went by the fireplace. Tonight the comfort of his gunrack, his geese picture, and his bearskin rug was gone as she sank down into his chair to waste away another dismal evening. I know I used to be more attractive but I'm not really old yet. The doctor said I'd be a new woman in a few years. Tears were once again streaming down her cheeks. But he'll be back. I know. He'll come back to me. Maybe tomorrow. :lite (jreening Spring Karen Wolff We had a place down by the river that we figured we had discovered. We got to it by going through the unused part of the cemetery, across the railroad tracks, and through a willow thicket. It was a shaded clearing- flat and grassy and all enclosed with trees and vines so that it was private and secret. Margaret and I had come across it one day in our tenth summer. We were so pleased with it, we vowed never to tell anyone else about it. We went there a couple of times a week that first summer and spent whole days. We'd take sack lunches and pretend we were the only people left in the whole world; or that we had run away and outwitted the sheriff and everyone who came looking for us. Some days we'd just talk the way girl friends do. When fall came, we borrowed the family rakes and cleaned the place up properly so it would be ready for winter, and then we sadly paid our last respects until the next spring. . The next summer was perfectly glorious. We fixed the place up with orange crate benches and tables. We even went to the Book and Thimble Club's white elephant sale, and for ten cents we bought a dilapidated old love seat which we lugged out there. During the winter we kind of forgot about the place, what with the snow and school and all. But one day toward the end of April, I remembered it again. The snow was nearly gone, and whenMr. Richards opened the classroom window the soft breezes came in with the smell of the slowly warming earth, and I was near crazy I wanted to be out there so badly. When the bell finally sounded, I hurried outside, and, not seeing Margaret anywhere, I ran home and changed into my jeans and a sweatshirt and phoned Margaret. "She's not home yet," her mother said. "She's probably down at the drugstore with the kids." I thanked her, hung up, and sprinted out of the house before Mom found some work for me to do. At the drugstore, I spotted her ~itting in a booth with a bunch of older kids. They were laughing and talking. When I remembered my faded jeans, I got embarrassed. But I wanted to go out there so badly, I just went ahead and squeezed in beside her. I never doubted for a minute that Margaret would jump up and go with me. 29 I "Hi," she said. "What are you doing in that get-up." That kind of threw me because Margaret liked to scrounge around in old sloppy clothes as well as I did. But I ignored it. _ "Hey, Margaret. Let's go out to the place. It's such a nice day." I said it in an undertone because, for some reason I didn't understand, I didn't want the others to hear. She looked at me like I was sick or something. "What do you want to go out there for?" she asked. "It's too wet. Besides, there's nothing to do out there." Then somebody started talking to her and she turned her back on me. I could 'feel my face burning and I eased myself out of the booth and left the drugstore hoping no one was noticing. I just couldn't understand Margaret. We'd always done everything together, but now that I thought about it, it did seem like Margaret had changed. She was always fussing with her hair and worrying about how she looked, and as far as I could see she looked the same as she always had. Anyway, I was so mad, I just decided to go out there without her. I walked fast because it was getting late and it would be dark in an hour or so. All the way out, the tears kept stinging my eyes and I kept thinking how Margaret had let me down. And I didn't even notice how the new green things were starting to sprout and how soft and lovely everything smelled. When I finally got there, I discovered that there was still some snow left because the place was so protected, and where the snow was gone the ground was mud with little rivulets of water running and dripping all over the place. The bad leg on the loveseat had finally given way and it was tipped crazily on its side with a pile of dirty wet snow covering one end of it. I sloshed around there for a while and tried to get excited about cleaning and fixing it up when it dried out. I tried to think about the long summer days we'd spent there, but somehow I just couldn't get in the mood. Finally I gave it up and decided to go home. My feet were wet and cold and the sun was nearly down. Besides, I had my Latin to do. 30 -'I WAS A BIG MAN YESTERDAY" . "THE KING" -Drew Miller "LANDSCAPE" Carol J oransen M arybelle Jepson "STARVATION" ;SPRING" Avis Willer' Richard Jacobi - "CORN" Paul Corbin · "IOUGLIOUS EVIL" R. R. De Vries "BIRD" "CONDOR" John King Duane Cole "POOCH" Avis. Willer "WESLEY BUDDHA" Robert Frey "ROOTS OF FIRE" "FRUIT UPSET" Avis Willer Beverly Frazier "ARIA DA CAPO "LANDSCAPE" Celia Bird Bean · I" T om Edlund ",RETICULITERNES FLAVIPES" Avis Willer "DECADENCE" "DECADENCE ( CLOSED) "SEASCAPE" Beverly Frazier (OPEN) Avis Willer "DOVE OF PEACE" Paul Corbin I '''TRINITY OF THOuGHT" "COMMUNITY" R. R. De Vries R. Kitterman Karen Wolff A hot dry wind blew ceaselessly across the flats of western South Dakota and raised small whorls of dust as it whipped around the corners of Ike's truck stop. A person could stand on that bleak crossroad and listen to the zing of the electrical power lines and once in a while a meadowlark. Every minute or so a car would pass by on the highway, and when it was gone the big, desolate emptiness returned and the inside of your mouth felt dry and dusty. Out back, Addie Pine finished cramming the leavings from the noon meal into the garbage can and slammed on the lid harder than she needed to. She straightened up, wiped the grease and sweat from her face with her grimy apron, and headed for the back door. She felt cross on account of the heat and the dust, but, mostly, on account of the ever-present wind. "Good thing today's Saturday," she thought. "Tomorrow I can stay home." She waved her fat, white arms to shoo the flies off the screen door and went back inside the cafe. The kitchen was stifling hot and had the rancid smell of countless orders of French fries and greasy, tasteless gravy. Addie went out into the front part and sat down on a stool. She was running the place alone today because Ike had taken his wife into Rapid City for a shopping trip. There hadn't been much business today and she hated not having anyone to talk to. Even Ike was better than no one. She liked it best when the place filled up with truckers. They laughed and kidded and called her "Tiny" for all her one hundred and eighty pounds. She laughed, too, even at their stories. It was just two-thirty by the clock over the counter. Two and a half hours before Ike would relieve her. She knew she ought to get up and clean the place a little. The buzzing flies made her drowsy and her dress stuck to her back, making her feel wet all over, and she just didn't want to move. Pretty soon it would be time for people to start coming in for something cold to drink or a cup of coffee. Mostly they would be tourists or truckers. Webster, the little town she lived in, was set back from the highway a half mile or so but the two hundred odd souls who lived there weren't about to go a half mile on a day like this for a cup of Addie Pine's coffee. Not for anything. She reached up and pulled down a sticky fly paper from the ceiling. It was covered with upwards of a hundred flies, their glistening bodies now held motionless by that sticky sweetness that was their undoing. She tossed it in the waste basket and poured herself a cup of coffee. The screen door slammed behind her and she got into her car and headed reservation came in. "Hello, boys," said Addie. "Hi, Addie. Give us a beer will ya?" They disappeared into the darkness of the adj oining room which was the bar. Addie followed them. They sat down at a small table and waited while she drew two foaming glasses of beer for them. 41 "Startin' pretty early for Saturday night, aren't you?" she asked. She worried a little becaue Ike wasn't there. He'd be back at four but she knew that those young bucks would be ready for hell-raising before then. She went back into the cafe and stared out the window into the dust and heat of the horizon fifteen miles away. The vast emptiness began working on her again. It always did by the end of the week. On Monday things didn't seem so bad, but by the end of the week the loneliness got to her and it seemed harder and harder to face the weekend alone. She wondered what she'd do with her day off, knowing well enough that she'd do exactly as she'd done every Sunday for the last couple of years since her Ma died. Quietly, desperately, she prayed that something would happen to change it, that something would drive that terrible ache away. But nothing would change. For a moment resentment and frustration seethed within her; then she relaxed and her face became placid. Why fight it? She was like a fly caught on the sticky paper. A carload of tourists came in and ordered iced tea. It was getting noisier in the bar. She kept watching the clock, wishing Ike would come out a little early. It took Ike to manage the place come Saturday night. At last the familiar dusty blue car drove up. "Hi, Addie. How's it going?" "OK, Ike. I'm glad you're back though." She gestured toward the bar with her head. "Well, I'll go write your check and then you can go," he said. She hung up her apron and got her purse, wishing all the time that she wouldn't do what she was going to do. "Say, Ike. You'd better deduct the usual from the check." He returned presently from his office with the check and a bottle wrapped up in a paper sack. "Take it easy now," he said. "See you Monday." The screen door slammed behind her and she got into her car and headed for town and home. The back door of her house was open and she let herself into the coolness of the big, old kitchen. Ike often asked her why she continued to live in that big house all by herself. She couldn't tell him why, but she knew she'd never be able to leave it. She set the bottle on the refrigerator and went into the bathroom to draw her bath. She undressed slowly and sank her huge body into the delicious coolness of the water. With her head back and her eyes shut she let her thoughts wander, and whenever she did that, she ended up knowing the feeling of the aching void within her. She soaked a while, then climbed out, put on a wrapper and went to the kitchen for something to eat. All the time she fought the emptiness, but when she'd eaten she knew it was hopeless, and the time had come. Slowly, as if in a trance, she went to the refrigerator and took down the bottle. She unwrapped it, neatly folded the sack, and set the bottle on the table. She went to the cupboard and gave great thought to which glass she would use. At last she selected a large one with red flowers painted on it. She sat down at the table and very deliberately opened the bottle. Her thoughts began to move faster and faster until they were racing through her head in wild disorder. The yen for the stuff came on with blinding intensity. She poured a glass and gulped it down in huge mouthfuls. And the round ball of fire in her gullet burned and seared her delicate insides, and in a 42 moment, the hole, the enormous void, began to close; and whenever it quit burning and hurting, she swallowed more and more and the tortured hours passed quickly. When the dawn came and the red ball of the sun, that parching heat, appeared on the horizon, she gave a low moan and slumped on the table. When she awoke it was late afternoon. The sky was hazy with dust and the sun burned hot and the rushing of the wind was still there. She got to her feet and her head throbbed and she wanted water. She retched violently a couple of times but then with great relief she knew it was all over for another week. By and by she began to feel better. Anne L. Stephens "Thirteen cannons, two hundred men- all lightly armed- planning to cut through Racheal's Creek at the northwest corn~r of the Caven place four miles north of town at dawn Tuesday, sir." The speaker was a slight woman with curly brown hair forming tight maverick ringlets around her face and drawn in a soft bun at the nape of her neck. She had a pixie-type nose and a spontaneous childlike mouth. Her face was young and perceptive; however, a stable maturity shone in her elfin, blue eyes. She was dressed in a dark cape with the hood carelessly pushed back. "Hmm, we hadn't expected the Yanks to come this way so soon. I've sent the bulk of my troops east of us to Magnolia to help General Davis." The humid summer air of July 1863 hung heavily and caused the little tent which contained the girl and the officer to be almost stifling. It seemed almost an eternity of silence, broken only by the hum of the flies gliding lazily from desk to lamp and back, before either one spoke again. Presently the general turned around, his fingertips, pressed together, and his brow furrowed in concentration. "I shall issue orders directly, ma'm. Why don't you go to the canteen and get some food before you prepare to return to Baltimore? You undoubtedly have been extremely instrumental in helping us to avoid complete disaster. At least they won't have the element of surprise on their side. The Confederacy can never thank you for all you've learned and passed on to us through your daring escapades among the Yankee soldiers, behind enemy lines. You will, however, be the recipient of" .... "What is that smell? Have you got something burning? Where is all that black smoke coming from?" "Hm? " said Mrs. Mitty. She blinked her eyes and viewed the present situation. Her husband stood growling in front of her, and behind him great billows of smoke spiraled from her oven. Rushing across the kitchen she opened the door and, after the smoke cleared out of the oven, she pulled out- with horror- a pan with a little black piece of "crisp" in the center of it. Cocoanut cream pie--Walter's cocoanut cream pie. "Really, my dear, I should think that by the time one reaches an age ... ahem, shall we say, an age well into maturity, one would be given less to day dreaming and would be able to accept the responsibility of remembering to remove bakery from one's oven!" With these words Mr. Mitty went 43 I I to take a nap, leaving his coat on the bannister, his galoshes in the middle of Mrs. Mitty's living room carpet, and his briefcase on the dining table- always empty but ever-present and necessary for "the correct impression." Mrs. Mitty began getting out the vacuum to clean up the mud Walter had tracked in. She recalled his explaining once to her in his paternal-professortype tone. "You see, my dear, for hundreds of years men have had statussymbols. At the time of the American Revolution men wore long powdered wigs. The more important the man was, the curlier and fancier the wig was. In old Arabia men's importance was measured by the size of their harems. Oh, even in Rome and Athens, there were status symbols for men; the sizes of their houses and the number of their slaves .... " "Oh, what can I do?" A slave looked on sympathetically and, yet, intrigued. Her mistress was so beautiful in her flowing white gown. Her hair was shiny and black and straight; her figure was given of Venus; her features were resemblant of a cross between a seal-point Siamese and the Sphinx. Men 'from all over the Mediterranean came to see and woo her. Right now she was bemoaning the fact that she had been placed in a most unfortunate predicament. The leader of the Romans was coming to visit her, and the noble Antony was coming at the same time. This she had learned from a slave's gossip. What was she to do? Caesar and Antony would surely duel. Presently she heard a horse and at the door of her tent appeared a slave who announced Antony. He strode to her, a powerful, rather handsome man. He took her in his arms and murmured his longings for her and as he drew her closer, she .... Ta rum-rum-clang-grind-rum-rum-rum-rum - She heard a grinding sound and just as she realized what she saw, the last of Walter's collection of campaign buttons, his Roosevelt/Barkley button, disappeared into the open j awed cleaner. Apparently Mr. Mitty had spread the election pins out to reorganize or catalogue them and had neglected to return them to their box. "Huh, it's about time someone devoured that 'new-dealer', anyway," muttered Mrs. Mitty. Nevertheless she carried the cleaner bag into the basement and proceeded to empty it of its contents and to sift through the dirt to find what remained of her husband's collection. "Just like a child, I say." Mrs. Mitty continued si'fting and talking to herself. "Whoever heard of a grown man ready to retire, almost, collecting campaign buttons. Might as well collect bugs or rocks or matchbook covers for all the good he derives from these old things. Can't understand why he don't do things like other men his age-work out in the yard, putter around in the garden. But no, my Walter has to collect things and clutter up my house." Seeing a pile of laundry, she decided to wash while she was· in the basement. She filled the tubs and in a few minutes she was ready to put the first load through the wringer into the first rinse-tub. "Alma! This water is two degrees too chilly! Can't you read the thermometer? Why I ever allowed Pogo to talk me into hiring a foreign maid I'll never know. Look, you can't expect me, Janyce Jaguar, the world's most talented and famous actress, to bathe in water that is so cold that she is endangered of catching a virus! Remember, I'm worth over a million dollars! There's the phone. Well, bring it in here, the cord is long enough. Hello. Darling! Today? But I can't possibly meet you today. I'm soaking right now and Pogo's due any minute to take over the travel plans to Rome. That's where OUo is shooting my next picture, you know . Well, really ! You 44 may certainly have your old emerald back if that is the way you feel about it! Don't think you're the only man who gives me things. Why, just yesterday Tyrone sent me a Rolls ; the day before that Frankie gave me a sable cape; last week Rock presented a charming yacht to me and just before that . ... " "M y shirt! " shouted Walter. Startled, Mrs. Mitty looked down only to see the last whole piece of Walter's favorite sport shirt-the left sleeve-being devoured and chewed into shreds by the machine wringer which was obviously on the "blink"-and had been for the last few minutes, judging by the appearance of the shirt. "Pogo!" exclaimed Mrs. Mitty. " What are you doing in my boudoir?" "What?" said Mr. Mitty, startled. " 1 give up." he muttered and retreated up the stairs. And facing her pink, heart-shaped bathtub, Mrs. Mitty, the glamorou.s Adventuress, smiled her undefeated, inscrutable little smile. Wolfgang Hildesheimer-tr. Robert Iversen . "Des Sastspiel des Versicherimgsagenten," the humorous anecdote which follows, is taken from Wolfgang Hildesheimer's first published volume of stories, Lieblose Legenden (Dentsche Verlags - Anstalt, Stuttgart, 1952), a collection of satirical comments on the foibles of contemporary society, on the f~lCade behind which we often hide, and on some of our pet "hobby horses." Robert Leonard Iversen Those who have ever heard the pianist, Frantisek Hrdla, will never forget the colossal impression they received (especially when they try to forget) . On the basis of his charming temperament and his virtuosity, the noted critics of the century have compared Hrdla with Anton Rubenstein. Edward Watznik, the 104 year old "Nestor" of the composing world, once exclaimed: "When one closes the eyes, one imagines that even Liszt is listening to it!" In London, Cairo, Paris, and Williamsburg (Pa.) --everywhere that this gifted pianist has played, he has been praised with frantic applause as soon as the last tone has faded away. Then he slowly stands, modest and totally exhausted: truly a servant to the work of the composer. He bows deeply, while, as we say, a tired smile comes to the corner of his mouth. The impartial concert patron thinks him to be a genuine artist, a favorite of the Muses! Only a few, including myself, a childhood friend of his, know about his tragedy, the cause of his tired smile: Hrdla is a frustrated insurance agent! Frantisek Hrdla comes from a musically-minded family. His father was a much-sought-after music teacher, who, through his arrangements of the works of the classical composer, in four parts, has acquired much note. (His own sympohnies are, of course, forgotten today). His mother, a harpist, completely in her own right, was a daughter of Johann Nepomuk Hummel. 45 I Scarcely after he had outgrown the cradle, young Frantisek was set on the piano stool. By the age of four he had mastered Schumann's "The Happy Farmer." Four years later he had grown into the little velvet pants of the child prodigy. This disquieting development was quickly brought to a standstill: by chance, the young Frantisek met an insurance agent, who aroused an interest in matters of insurance in the ten-year-old. Now began the conflict in Hrdla's life, a conflict which can only be judged by those whose own youthful lot was a battle between a distant idea and a father with no pity and no understanding. One may well have sympathy for the young person who had to meet the agents and statisticians secretly and who later had a guilt complex because his overly strict father had forbade any communication with representatives of such a business. Yet, as Frantisek once confessed to me, there was a time when he read Baumgartner's "Practice of the Courts in Matters Concerning Insurance" at night under the covers. He also wrote his own-by the way, quite good--essay, "Capital Reserve and the System of Tax Assessment" at this most prosperous period in his life. However, nobody with genuine sensibility long endures such a continuing claim to his power of resistance. Thus, defeated and discouraged, the young Frantisek had to direct his own fate. It was then that he met his success through the musical world, in which he has reaped nothing but praise. Had he thus given up his secret longing? Mutual friends have assured me from time to time that he still flirts with insurance affairs. Yesterday, for the first time in years, I again heard the returnee from a guest tour abroad. He played the ninth piano concert of Malinczewsky, which was just as dedicated the previous eight Hrdla concerts. He played so divinely that absolute strangers shook hands, and tears ran from my eyes, although I am a hardboiled expert. In the pause before "The Eroika," Beethoven's Third Symphony, I forced my way with my umbrella through the autograph-hunters to Hrdla's dressing-room. He was sitting, tired and exhausted among the laurels, and appeared to me as if he had a stale taste in his mouth. I kissed him on both cheeks and suggested that his playing had been a revelation. "That's the only way one could properly play Malinczewsky," I cried excitedly. "It would be nonsense to claim that this composer required no rubato and no change of tempo. The meager touch of the so-called objective piano-school .... " He wasn't listening to me but rather was watching me from the side. Was this the lurking glance of an insurance agent on a new risk? A little confusedly, I continued to talk about his rare combination of brilliant technique and sincere expression; it left him cool. I had the feeling that I'd been talking to the wind. I stood, shook his hand once, and wanted to get out of there in order to give the growing mob of autograph-hunters a clear path. Then he asked with a cautious deliberateness: "Tell me, sir, are you adequately insured?" I acknowledged rather hoarsely that I wasn't. His eyes shone; he became alert and excited. With a leap he was at the desk. He took a few policies from the drawer, and before I could say "Eroika" he had insured me against murder, accidents, hail, fog, and against everything that one can be insured against. I'll never forget it! His magnificient speaking ability and warm pathos actually came straight from the original 46 art of piano playing. I was upset (and insured). With the policies in hand, I left. He called after me: "Send the autograph-hunters to me!" He then took a stack of policies from the drawer. He had tasted blood! Sim'ilaritiej in :Jheme and Character Between fiawthorne ~ :Jhe Scarlet oletter and melville ~ Bill,! Budd Gary Acton The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne and Billy Budd by Herman Melville are extremely complex, symbolic novels with a variety of themes. The two novels have, however, one theme in common which I am going to explore. This theme may generally be called the Unpardonable Sin, but more specifically it is the theme of the conflict between head and heart. This conflict results when head-centered characters invade the souls of heart-centered characters in order to understand or to control them. The result is evil and, more specifically, death. The heart character is an emotionally governed person. This type is most often innocent and pure, both mentally and morally. The heart character is most often innocent of intelligence. The word intelligence in terms of the head-heart relationship does not mean intelligence in terms of accumulated academic learning, but instead a prying, probing mind. 1 When I say that the heart character is not an evil character, I do not mean to say that he cannot be a corrupt character. Dimmesdale in The Scarlet Letter, for instance, is a heart character governed by his emotions, but he is as corrupt a hypocrite as one can imagine. 2 When one considers Billy Budd, one sees another aspect of the heart character, which, while very closely allied to the lack of evil intelligence in Dimme~dale, is yet different from Dimmesdale in the area of moral purity. This similarity lies, in the realm of a childlike quality. Billy Budd is almost an overgrown child. But a young seafarer of the disposition of our athletic foretopman is much of a child-man. And yet a child's utter innocence is but its 'blank ignorance, and the innocence more or less wanes as intelligence waxes. But in Billy Budd intelligence, such as it was, had advanced, while yet his simple-mindedness remained for the most part unaffected. 8 lRichard Harter Fogle, Hawthorne's Fictions; The Light And The Dark, Norman, University of Oklahoma Press, 1952, p. 108. 2Ibid., p. 108. sHerman Melville, Billy Budd and Other Tales, New York, The New American Library, 1961, p. 47. 47 I Looking at this quotation it is possible to see just how close Dimmesdale and Billy are in their childlike innocence of evil. At first it is hard to see Dimmesdale, who is guilty of adultery and of fathering a child by another man's wife, as a childlike character, and yet on careful consideration of the story it is quite apparent from his actions and general demeanor just how childlike Dimmesdale really is. Billy Budd and Dimmesdale are also similar in their inability to recognize eviL Dimmesdale, although he has a vague feeling of evil about him, does. not recognize it in Chillingworth until it is too late, and Billy Budd does not recognize the evil in ,CJaggart until it is too late, although he too has a vague feeling of evil about him. This inability to recognize evil, a thing which is alien to their heart-centered beings, is an important factor in their violatioll by the head-centered character. Dimmesdale is definitely the heart character, while Hester leans toward the head or knowing intellect of Chillingworth, and is aptly summed up 111 the following quotation. Hester Prynne is a combination of head and heart, with a preponderance of head. Her original sin is of passion, but its consequences expose her to the danger of absolute mental isolation. The centrifugal urge of the intellect is counteracted in her by her duty to her daughter Pearl, the product of the sin and by her latent love of Dimmesdale. 4 The quotation is absolutely pregnant with the characterization of Hester and the correct placement of Pearl in the story. Pearl is pure symbol, and her only function is to reflect Hester and Dimmesdale's sin.~· Hester plays much the same role in The Scarlet Letter as Captain Vere does in Billy Budd. She is. the intermediary between Dimmesdale and Chiningworth, just as Captain Vere is the intermediary between Claggart and Billy. She and Captain Vere are also much the same in the head-heart relationship, for both are essentially a combination of head and heart with a preponderance of head. o F or all this solid base to his character there is a hint of unworldli ness in Captain Vere, recognized by his fellow officers in the nickname they gave him, "Starry Vere."7 Captain Vere is a stern man and a man devoted to the Navy, but as can be seen in the quotation, there is in him a quality that can only be described as heart-centered. Despite this quality of heart, Captain Vere has a preponderance toward head, and as a result, has learned to control this heart-centered part of him and can make the following statement to the membeTs (, f the court martial board. But the exceptional in the matter moves the hearts within you. Even -Fogle, op. cit., p. 108. 5Fogle, op_ cit., p. 114. oFogle, op. cit., p. 108. 7William Ellery Sedgwick, Herman Melville: The Tragedy 0/ Mind, Cambridge, Massachusetts, Harvard University Press, 1945, p. 235. 48 so too is mine moved. But let not warm hearts betray heads that should be cooLs Besides his preponderance of head, Captain Vere is further controlled :by the environment he operates in. For the compassion, how can I otherwise than share it? But, mindful of paramount obligations, I strive against scruples that may tend to enervate decision. But do these buttons that we wear attest that our allegiance is to Nature? No, to the King . . . . . in receiving our commissions we in the most important regards ceased to be natural free agents. g The quotations indicate the imprisonment of the natural instinct of Captain Vere's heart by custom or institution. Hester also is dominated by the head part of her character. This can be seen in the fact that while Dimmesdale, the wholly heart-centered character, suffered emotionally and passionately, Hester emerged stronger, surer, and strengthened. She emerged thus because custom or puritan prej udices forced her into a basically head-driven mould. "When she puts on her gray cap and becomes a kind of social worker her color and passion, her indeterminate, instinctual being is curbed and controlled."lo Here then is another basic similarity between Hester and Captain V ere, for just as Vere's heart or instinctive being was controlled and curbed by British naval law and contemporary political history, so was Hester's instinctive being curbed by the mould of Puritan social worker which she was forced into by society. The similarity between Hester and Captain Vere is very striking. They are both a combination head-heart character with a preponderance of head. In essence they playa role in 'the downfall or violation of the heart character because of this dominance of head. Hester in reality seduces Dimmesdale, and this leads to his soul's violation by Chillingworth.u Captain Vere must hang Billy, even though his heart cries out against it, because his intellect tells him that not to do so could cause a mutiny among the already restless crew.12 Also it is Vere's actions of confronting Billy with Claggart, innocent though they were, that led to the whole mess. So in both instances the evil of the· head character was brought to the heart character by the intermediary head-heart character. The head character as represented by Chillingworth in The Scarlet Letter, is represented by Claggart in Billy Budd. A head character is one who aspires to be superhuman. He is a person who is governed by his intel& Herman Melville, Billy Budd and Other Tales, New York, The New American Library, 1961, p. 69. 91bid., p. 68. loRichard Chase, The American Novel and Its, Tradition, New York, Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1957, p. 77. llD. H. Lawrence, Studies in Classic American Literature, New York, Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1951, p. 97. 12Melville, Ope cit., p. 70. 49 I lect and not his heart; in other words, he is a "cold thinker and experinlenter. The reason these head centered characters tend to be evil lies in the fact that they lack the warmth of native innocence, and therefore are cold inhuman men who cannot stop at pure intellectual knowledge but must try to know what goes on inside other men, to manipulate their lives, and to dissect their souls. In The Scarlet Letter, Chillingworth, who was originally the wronged husband, becomes a demonic, evil character once he sets his intellect to the task of understanding Dimmesdale's soul. In a word, old Roger Cbillingworth was a striking evidence of man's faculty of transforming himself into a devil, if he will only, for a reasonable space of time, undertake a devil's office. This un· happy person had effected such a transformation by devoting himself, for seven years, to the constant analysis of a heart full of torture , and deriving his enj oyment thence, and adding fuel to those fiery tortues which he analyzed and gloated over.H It is apparent in the quotation just how low Chillingworth had mnk into hellishness, but as with Claggart, he had a streak of the devil deep in his soul so that his complete evil sprang from internal sources. Calm, gentle, passionless, as he appeared, there was yet, we fear, a quiet depth of malice, hitherto latent, but active now, in this unfortunate old man, which led him to imagine a more intimate revenge than any mortal had ever wreaked upon an enemy.v; Chillingworth became Dimmesdale's companion and physician in order IO work on Dimmesdale constantly. Chillingworth analyzed and probed Dimmesdale's heart and soul: He now dug into the poor clergyman's heart, like a miner searching for gold; or rather, like a sexton delving into a grave, possibly in quest of a jewel that had been buried on the dead man's bosom, but likely to find nothing save mortality and corruption. 1a The simile in the quotation is particularly apt, for as we consider the desecration of a grave to be particularly hideous and 10athEome, so Hawthorne considered the violation of a soul even more hideous an d loathsome, and it was in his terminology the Unpardonable Sin. It is this alone that utterly demonizes and irrevocably damns ChiIlingworth. 1£ he could keep Dimmesdale from salvation and so damn his soul too, his victory would be complete, but Dimmesdale in the end foils Chillingworth and purifies himself on the scaffold of redemption, causing the following illuminating speech from Chillingworth: "Hadst thou sought the whole earth over," said he, looking darkly at the cle~gyman , "there was no one place so secret,- no high place J3 18Fogle, 0p. cit., p. lOS. HSculley Bradley, Richmond C.room Beatty, and Hudson Long, The American Tradition / n Literature, volume one, New York, W. W. Norton, and Company, Inc., 1962, 674. 15/bid., p. 652. lo/bid., p. 645. 50 nor lowly place, where thou couldst have escaped me,-save on this very scaffold."17 So in the end the heart character, though corrupt, found salvation in repentance; something the head character, sunk into evil, could not do. Bestei', through a combination of head and heart, with a preponderance of head, also found salvation by joining Dimmesdale on the scaffold. Chillingworth, on the other hand, is beyond all hope of salvation, for he had committed the Unpardonable Sin. I s Chillingworth is also doomed to die when Dimmesdale repents. Old Roger Chillingworth knelt down beside him, with a blank dull countenance, out of which the life seemed to have departed. 19 Thus the theme that runs through The Scarlet Letter is complete. It is a theme of evil and death that result when the mind or intellect invades the realm of the heart or soul. The evil that results is worse for the violator than the violated, for the violation of another's soul is a hideous crime, far blacker than any degree of hypocrisy or lechery. When we turn to Billy Budd in order to explore the similarity of theme and character to The Scarlet Letter, a problem arises. The novels were written by two different men, and as such, the characters, sequence of events, and the events themselves are not perfectly mirrored in the works. Despite this there is an area of similarity with regard to theme and characters that is great enough to share the same basis. Melville, like Hawthorne, is concerned with the prying intellect as directed by one human being upon another. Long ago an honest scholar my senior said to me in reference to one who like himself if 1)ow no more, a man so unimpeachably respectable that against him nothing was ever openly said though among the few something was whispered, "Yes, X--- is a nut not to be cracked by the tap of a lady's fan." .... I think that to try and get into X---, enter his labyrinth and get out again, without a clue derived from some source other than what is known as knowledge of the world-that were hardly possible, at least for me. 21 Melville, in the quotation, says in essence that pure knowledge of the world or, in other words, accumulated learning both academic and worldly, is not sufficient to crack the wall isolating a person's soul, but that a spiritual insight or knowledge of human nature is. It is this spiritual insight that allows a person to understand another person's soul. 22 Claggart definitely has this spiritual insight, for he immediately sees into the depths of Billy's soul, and recognizes him as an enemy. In Melville's Billy Budd, the heart character is Billy himself. Billy and Dimmesdale are, as I have already said, much alike in their childlike ac17Bradley, op. cit., p. 730. 18Harry Levin, The Power 1960, p. 0/ Blackness, New York, Vintage Books, 75. 19Bradley, op. cit., p. 731. 21Melville, op. cit., p. 36. 22Melville, op. cit., p. 36. 51 tions, but there is a slight difference in their characters. Billy Budd is a heart motivated character and operates much on his instincts as does Dimmesdale, but Billy has an innocence and lack of knowledge that Dimmesdale does not have, and while Dimmesdale is corrupt Billy is not. When I say that Billy is not corrupt, I do not mean to say that he is a pure, prissy puritan, whl) could never be accused of fathering a child by a girl, but that he is very much the "noble savage" who would not feel guilty about such an act. 2S While Billy may have done things that are wrong by society's standards, he is yet a good, pure being as free from the kind of knowledge that leads to evil as he is from pure academic learning. For the rest, with little or no sharpness of faculty or any trace of the wisdom of the serpent, not yet quite a dove, he possessed that kind and degree of intelligence going along with the unconventional rectitude of a sound human creature, one to whom not yet has been proffered the questionable apple of knowledge. 2 ' Billy, then, does not lack the capability to commit sin, but he does lack Dimmesdale's hypocrisy. Claggart is a head character just as Chillingworth is. He is cold, ruthless, and evil, but where Chillingworth's satanic evilness was dormant in his innermost being, Claggart's evilness is on the surface and his evil spiritual insight immediately recognizes Billy as an enemy . . . . Claggart in whom was the mania of an evil nature, not engendered by vicious training or corrupting books or licentious living but born with him and innate, in short "a depravity according to nature. "2 0 Claggart, as an evil being, is head-dominated. From the quotation we see that his evilness was more mental than moral. We see this mentality that desires to understand and is fully capable of understanding another soui. One person excepted, the master-at-arms was perhaps the only man in the ship intellectually capable of adequately appreciating the moral phenomenon presented in Billy Budd. 26 Claggart and Chillingworth are much alike in the way they set about ensnaring their victims. Both profess friendship in an attempt to gain the confidence of their subject, and while both Billy and Dimmesdale are aware of something evil about these two men, they cannot apprehend what it is. CJaggart sets out to trap Billy by setting up a number of experiments to see if he can entice Billy into an act whereby he can do away with him. The most notable trap that Claggart sets up is the one in which Billy is approached by a mysterious person in the night who offers him money to join a mutinous plot. Billy refuses, of course, because such an act is uncomprehen sible to him. This mysterious stranger was a henchman of Claggart's, as DId Donskey devined when he said: "Didn't I say so, Baby Budd?" "Say what?" demanded Billy. 23/bid., p. 16. 2qbid., p. 16. 25Melville, op. cit., p. 38. 2G/bid., p. 40. 52 "Why, Jimmy Legs is down on yoU."27 Finally when all else fails to trap Billy, Claggart tries the direct approach. He goes directly to Captain Vere and accuses Billy of mutiny. The sudden relevation of evil is so shocking to Billy and his speech impediment so frustrating that he explodes, and with one blow kills Claggart; and so, as in The Scarlet Letter, death is the result of the violation of another human being's soul. Claggart is dead instantly, with no time for any repentance even if he would have repented, or if it would have done any good. He gets only perfunctory services before being dropped into the deep, deep sea where he will be forever lost in the dark depths. Captain Vere is now confronted with a dilemma. Should he follow the dictates of his heart and help Billy or should he follow the dictates of his head and condemn Billy? As I have said, Captain Vere was a combination head-heart character with a preponderance toward head, and so after a brief struggle, Captain Vere follows the commands of his head. "Stuck dead by an angel of God. Yet the angel must hang! ,,~ S After a short trial Billy is condemned to death. During the trial Captain Vere is completely head-dominated and says once: "Well the heart here denotes the feminine in man and hard though it be she must be ruled out. "29 Captain Vere is racked with compassionate, heartfelt feelings for Billy, but his predominance of head forces him to go through with the trial and the hanging. Captain Vere, then, is partly responsible for Billy's death just as Hester is for Dimmesdale's death. Hester achieved salvation by joining Dimmesdale in his moment of salvation. Captain Vere also achieves salvation, although Melville shows it in a much more subtle way than Hawthorne did. Not long before death, while lying under the influence of that magical drug which, soothing the physical frame, mysteriously operatt1s on the subtler element in man, he was heard to murmur words inexplicable to his attendant. - "Billy Budd, Billy Budd."3o This quotation, I believe, makes it clear that by true sorrow, Captain Vere was able to achieve salvation. There is, of course, a hint that Billy may have been Captain Vere's son, but it is a confused image, for Billy's death and subsequent idolization by the men of the ship also bears a strong Christ image. 31 Billy Budd also achieves salvation by his actions once he is condemned. Billy, as the heart character, and a pure and innocent heart character, was almost assured of salvation from the beginning, but if he had become bitter and vengeful his salvation might have been lost. Billy, however, helped by Captain Vere, achieved his salvation by his acceptance of his fate. But now lying between the two guns, as nipped in the vice of fate, Billy's agony, mainly proceeding from a generous young heart's virgin experience of the diabolical incarnate and effective in some 27Melville, op. cit., p. 46. 2sMelville, op. cit., p. 60. 29/bid., p. 69. 3o/bid., p. 85 31/bid., pp., 85-87. 53 I men-the tension of that agony was over now. It survived not the something healing in the closed interview with Captain Vere.82 Billy's salvation, just as Captain Vere's, is completely symbolized in his last words. "God bless Captain Vere."33 Billy is buried at sea as was Claggart, but he does not go unmourned or unmarked into the water; for his loss is felt by the men of the ship, and the spot where he entered the water is marked by seabirds who drop down out of the sky to witness Billy's interment. S ' The basic similarities of the two works are, I think., apparent. In both works there are three major characters, one heart-centered, one headcentered, and one a head-heart combination with a preponderance of head. In both novels the head-centered character violates the soul of the heart character and the result is death for violator and violated. The intermediary or combination character also dies, but not from the act of violation, and onI)' after a lapse of time. The basic settings of the stories are similar in their compactness. In The Scarlet Letter, the scene is a Puritan village and its immediate environs, and in Billy Budd the setting of a ship at sea. Melville is more concerned with life than is Hawthorne and his characters are more obviously good or evil than are Hawthorne's. Despite these differences the similarities of character and theme between the two works are striking. 32/bid., p. 76. 3a/bid., p. 80. HMelville~ op. cit., p. 83. BIBLIOGRAPHY 1. Bradley, Scullery, Beatty, Richmond Croom, and Long Hudson, The American Tradition in Literature, volume one, New York, W. W. Norton and Company, Inc., 1962, pp. 557-737. 2. Chase, Richard, The American Novel and Its Tradition, New York, Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1951, pp. 67-87. 3. Fogle, Richard Harter, Hawthorne's Fiction: The Light and The Dark, Norman, University of Oklahoma Press, 1952, pp. 104-121. 4. Lawrence, Studies in Classic American Literature, New York, Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1951, 93-110. 5. Levin, Harry, The Power of Blackness, New York, Vintage Books, 1960. 6. Melville, Herman, Billy Budd and Other Tales, New York, The New American Library, 1961. 7. Sedgwick, William Ellery, Herman Melville The Tragedy of Mind, Cambridge, Massachusetts, Harvard University Press, 1945, pp. 231-249. 54 Marie Deel In an alley a small dead bird Fallen from a flowering judas, Grey and naked, nauseating. I stepped around it, fastidiously detoured With a kind of delicate revulsion. Pretend it is not there With its queerly shut eyes. Strangely, I could not leave. I could not cry out in disgust And so I stood there looking. The sun sifted down in an oblique weave, Unreal and very cold. See its tiny curling claws-They must have grasped the air for substance. And this is the undiscovered country That my cowardice refused to meet. And this is the dream in the sleep that is death, Aware only of death and sadly Refusing to drive it away. Under the hard sun That mocks and mocks anonymous night, A cruel travesty. Idle conjecture, unpleasant fantasy. I am on the middle ground And only a few tufts of brown grass Between the cracks separate me From this unknown dead thing, an obstacle To the smugness of the young, glutted by life. (See its belly- it swells.) Shall I kick a little loose earth over it? A cat might relish its mistake. Soon the ants will swarm over The spiny wings that were too weak to support it. Foolish to venture far out on a feeble twig. It died of arrogance, I suppose, And arrogance will dispose of its remains. 55 '/Jpon fiearing 'Gine J(leine r/acldmudit" Marie Deel A little evening music heard From far away has softly stirred Dim memories long since put aside As childish things to be denied. Warm rain, red silk, an ivory pawn Upon a teakwood board, a lawn Of darkened green where white feet sped, Forbidden books, a sleep-warmed bed. It fades, on ghostly breezes caught, Too seldom heard, too soon forgot. Marie Deel From nothingness, from void a slimy sphere Still wet with primal dew on new cooled rock Lay steaming, smothered in the atmosphere. A stinking jungle grew as though to mock The mother sun, first cause, that gave it birth, And seethed and sprawled from some misshapen stalk. And where the sullen waters met the earth And were as one, a green and muddy bed, Emerged a simple beast of unknown worth. Earth, water, sun, and vegetation wed To bring forth strange and terrifying lifeBut watch. It splits, and neither part is dead. 56 Withdrawal Marie Deel Something is wrong. I can smell it Moist and heavy in the air. If only you'd stop staring so And tell me what it is you fear. Something has happened. Must you play The martyr under A shroud of silence? For I am Curious. I wonder. It blisters my ego that you Will not tell me ' of it. I can be discreet. Often I've left candles unlit. I am unhappy. You've withdrawn From me and you will rust In silence. Haven't you heard that The meek inherit dust? Marie Deel Peroxide virgins lift no-color eyes To neon icons high above the street And glance about and practice wanton sighs. 'T heir faces bloat, and bothered by the heat, But still resigned, they only stand and wait With hips thrust out, and contemplate their feet. Peroxide virgins meet the face of fate And draw back purple lips to feign a smile And all the while they send out silent hate. 57 Thomas Edlun A quiet time descended down the stair And met itself returning, unaware. The house, alive with children and their fears, Sought quiet sleep--and death, perhaps- sans tears. But I climbed gently, for the time had come When voices, words, were not a hollow sum Of equally unwanted things- alone, The night went on- how tragically we moan. I cannot laugh at what I said, although The morning shines in naked warmth below, I run so fast and high above the earth And fight a struggling, groping, private birth. Thomas Edlun The night-wind purred a melancholic content And pushed the moon behind the clouds. I lay awake, composing letters never sent To nameless faces in the crowds Who hated me as much as I detested them. And very stupid, I supposed, But how important then, when aspects of the phlegm Of life had choked and reason closed. I damned the night, the hidden moon I knew to be The cause, at least, of some of this; My sickness only peopled that autumnal tree Where night-wind purred in endless bliss. 58 (An Explanation) Terry Ford Other people move, Ironical images, What is this shadow? A flashy wrist watch Makes minutes which tocks must fit. Are snail shells crowded? The book is heavy, Full of weighty thoughts; Thoughtless leaves float well. A woman's soft hair Invites a man's softer touch. Social rules rebuke. Finals are over. Again time for food and sleep. Where's the next worry? My canoe upset And I saw a fish swim by. Mammals also swim. The arrow in flight Soars freely without fear. Few archers are left. The smell of water Makes the body cold becauseThe Frog is brother. 59 Terry Ford In the still quiet of the hollow night My lonely mind can still recall those times, Those joyous times, when she'd recall her youth And rest her battle-battered hand on mine. I see her yet, in the harsh street light's glare, Her wide-set eyes creating dewy tears That beckoned forth my own for causing h~s. But even in the happiest of times When we would drink beneath the neon lights Her bucktoothed laughter through the stale beer stench Hinted vaguely of a daemon haunted fear. I see her yet, a thin, a slender girl, Belligerent at times, and full of fight. But laughing still with innocent delight, With childlike joy that somehow failed to die. The wasted love for Pete, who loved no one, The months on junk that brought her no relief, The alcohol that gnawed away her brain, Conspired, but schemed in vain, to kill the child. Diane K. H. Taylor In came Carnegie, Steel-maker newly made; In came libraries, free for all; In came laborers, hoping for a livelihood; Out went time-to-Iearn; the Revolution's come. Hail the little man, working for food-at-home; Hail the wealthy man, progress, gold; Hail to money-slaves, all for future now; Mourn the past-that-was; the Revolution's come. Shouts of liberty, and of "our" democracy; Shouts for capital, no labor laws; Shouts for good-for-all, automatic and untrue; Cries from workers poor, the Revolution's come. 60 Terry Ford Well, I heard this tale from an outlaw's lips, But he swears by Christ it's true. There lived one time in this very town A man too known to you. Well, the sun still shines, and the wind still blows, and your heart still your own. So turn your face and do~'t think back. Sis,t er, now you know. The outlaw's brother worked by this man's side In a plant to the north of town. And with them both worked a pretty little girl With timid eyes so round. Well, the sun still shines, and the wind still blows, and your heart still your own. So turn your face and don't think back. Sister, now you know. This girl would sing and she would hum, She never knew an evil thought. But one day the man named Dick Approached her, and God how they fought! Well, the sun still shines, and the wind still blows, and your heart still your own. So turn your face and don't think back. Sister, now you know. Red blood was spilt and Dick sent off, Off to find another job. The outlaw's brother, who defended the girl, Sent Dick off through the mob. Well, the sun still shines, and the wind still blows, and your heart still your own. So turn your face and don't think back. Sister, now you know. IS IS IS IS Some men, respected, settled, and secure Seem to be what they're not. A friendly face can often hide An evil that can hurt a lot. Well, the sun still shines, and the wind still blows, and your heart l~ still your own. So tum your face and don't think back. Sister, Dick's not for you! 61 I Joan Neiman Her first black dress lies In a lumpy, ugly pile. She has come such a way In such a little while. He said, love, be mine, It's such a scented night. She knew that wioked line And said he had no right. Sheer new stockings on the floor, Torn gaudy petticoats in a heap. Mother's stole hangs on the door, And how she yearns to sleep. N ow watching the darkened sky, She sits and hopes to cry. ~ Chemi&f ~ oleffer fo ~n Old cLove Joan Socknot Hypothesize a certain change in state : Consider change in entropy, compare To time ; then (given delta) integrate All increments and limit to despair. Then analyze the tautomeric form: Reaction favors alkalinity, More base than acid when the flask is warm, And flaunts a positive affinity. When catalyzed, the steric-hindrance fades, And single valence seeks the perfect bond. N ow cool not less than twenty centigrades, Release the pressure gauge to correspond. Sunnise: To plot the limit versus time, Record all products as they first sublime. 62 Dennis Poole A bit of solid vegetation stands Immobile, heedless, carefree, resting through The whitened frozen Iowa winter. Hands Containing buried buds, are stretched up to The sky. A .rough indented bark surrounds Each twig to ward off winter blows. But who Can look upon this tree and not expound Upon, compare it with the eerie night, And wonder why it has no sight or sound, Save whining cry the wind bestows? Its height Reminds me of a fortress standing clear Atop some barren hill-lock showing might. Or possibly it holds a hidden ear And listens keenly when you're passing near. This self-same tree, when hearing words of love, Repeats to no one, keeping everything A secret; only giving clues above Our heads, by spiral stalks of new born leaves, It signifies the coming summer dews. 1) The robin hops Along the yard And chases drops Of dew and worms. 2) Rain drops sticky pine-smell through the needles. 63 Dennis Poole Beneath the stadium, enclosed Inside a silvery defense, A locomotive lies deposed. The leaves dropping show offense By spotting its black paint. There's A golden bell, avoiding work So I ilently with kingly airs, s Serenely resting above. Plaques Adorn the tender, Who dedicated it. That was immense Began rolling that telling me A sight, arose when she first night. Men sitting proudly, swollen with Unbroken pride, formerly drove This relic. I recall the myth Surrounding it when children strove To capture it in dreams. Now it's Imp~oned on shortened railroad track, And older men remember bits Of history they can't bring back. nowhere ] oan Socknot The restless freedom of a compass seems To seize upon just one of two extremes. Magnetic poles are mystic forces fixed In space, yet somewhere opposites get mixed; A Nowhere line exists between the two Dependent axes, False and True. And yet the mind insists that instruments Must seek a purpose with some inborn sense ; Encompassed by demands to choose one goal, The needle falters under man's control. 64 Joan Socknot The Winterspring defers to Love, and tries To supplement where paradox defects. A crystal shell of frosted light reflects The muffled world against a sun of lies. The lonesome, fearless free cries out- denies Her silent life- but shattered stillness checks A second try. The wailing wind affects Indifference, stifles frozen tears, and sighs. The season Love-protagonist- begets A wistful child whose mold of life is cast From scraps of time that others would refuse. Then Winterspring, the child, must pay the debts, Protect the loved-but-Iosers from the past, And foster apathy for those who choose. a Joan Socknot As time dissolves and forms thin rings Of filthy gray and tasteless things, The perverse hours will filter up Like ashes in a coffee cup. The lukewarm culture of a year Is tempered to be insincere. A liquid locked in one round wall Can only watch the ashes fallAnd hope the burning embers sting The saucer of remembering. 65 War Jane Little Garrisoned by a facade of quotations The pseudo-savant scowls and hides From feeling. He does not see the enemyHe tries not to feel it, Yet its warm fingers clutch Unmistakable Encompassing Almost speechless Then the counterattack Smother with lines from Nietzsche Squelch with corrupted scripture (Whose Bible?) Silence Another victory? (He does not "know himself"). Thomas Edlun The wind blows leadenly against the doors Tonight where we have hidden from the rain. Our candle light mocks back solid floors And planes of watery nature - rooms that have lain In silence for the morning. I had peace Of its return, but now the rain warns us That it is far away. Skies don't release A single darkness; wet-revealed, timeless Solitudes of drops in silent springs, undue To us, this vision shatters storms to cut A glassine path through all our doubts; and few Have winter-splinters in their soul. The rut, The winter path, is struck open by the rain. 66  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Perspectives: Volume 22, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Kiosk Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Perspectives contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Deel, Marie: Author Detches, Patrick: Author Hall, Arthur: Author Neiman, Joan: Author Otto, David: Author Russell, Amy: Author Wadsley, Virginia: Author Wolff, Karen: Author Miller, Drew: Artist Jepson, Marybelle: Artist Joransen, Carol: Artist Willer, Avis: Artist Jacobi, Richard: Artist Corbin, Paul: Artist De Vries, R. R.: Artist Peters, Karen: Artist Gleason, Betty: Artist Husk, Betty: Artist Frey, Robert: Artist King, John: Artist Cole, Duane: Artist Bean, Celia Bird: Artist Frazier, Beverly: Artist Edlund, Tom: Artist Kitterman, R.: Artist Wolff, Karen: Author Stephens, Anne L.: Author Iverson, Robert: Translator Hildesheimer, Wolfgang: Author Acton, Gary: Author Ford, Terry: Author Taylor, Diane K. H.: Author Neiman, Joan: Author Socknot, Joan: Author Poole, Dennis: Author Little, Jane: Author Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1963 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-12-11 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-11 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Otto, David: Editor Deel, Marie: Business Manager Zimmerman, William: Art Consultant Levant, Dr. Howard: Faculty Advisor Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical 72 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kiosk Manuscript Perspectives student publications http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/eaee1133e2dc1f9421a881b9a921cf65.pdf 140b0f87bdf11a8d779a6e9737936dfb Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Perspectives: Volume 29, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Kiosk Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource This PDF file of the Perspectives contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ponder, Marcie Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2013-01-13 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-12-11 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-11 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF 4.22 MB 44 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Perspectives-Vol29-No01_KDC_1970_01-01_01.pdf Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger PDF Text Text / ~ ;., ------ --_.--------_.---------------- --- ------------ . ." ". " _- , , ,// -------------------- . . , ...../ I ��PERSPECTIVES 1970 Editorial Board Marcia Decker Randall Jo Gates Linda Hellyer Jane Newell Cover Design and Art Consultant Stan Nelson Advisor A.To Gasque 1 �'. , " ,, 2 �Good-bye Mro Mizdin The snow had been white, in fact it had been quite pretty to look at when the sun was not too brighto But it had been a week since the last snowfall~ and the graying slush in thw street showed the paths of the few cars that had passed that morningo Mizdin turned from the window; his wife came from the bathroom, ,her robe open, the limp, cloth belt sliding along the floor beside her. "Don't kids make angels anymore?" Mizdin askedo "What?" "Snow-angels~ you know." The steam on the pane where he had stood slowly shrank awayQ "You fall down on your back and move your arms and Ip.gso" Mizdin's wife, after a polite pause in recognition of his question~ walked into the Kitchen, plugged the coffee in and :retired agai_ to the bathroomo Mizdin sauntered into n the kitchen and stood before the coffee~ waitingo He took out two slices of bread and dropped them into the toastero "I suppose kids do still make snow-angels," he thought The coffee burbled once, then twice, then steadilyo Mizdin pulled the cord from the wall, poured two cups and set them on the tableo "Come to think of it9" he thought, "you hardly ever see any kids on Merrick Street anywayo" His wife came into the kitchen and sat at the edge of the table Mizdin looked up from his coffee . "You look good in beige." "Thank you.. Did you put any toast in?" "Yeah "Sorry I got up late. You don't mind making your own breakfast, do you?" "No." But Mizdin did mind. He never fixed his own meals, and it irritated him a little to hear her asko "Have you seen the paperboy?" 0 0 0 " 3 �ill just got up." HTf he can't bring the morning 'paper earlier we might c '3 tJell get the evening." The toaster sp~ango Mizdin daydreamingly gazed into the wall; his t~ife's lips turned a little and she went to "he counter. "Oh •••• lt's burnt." "What do you think?" "What do you mean what do I think? I think it's burnt !" "I mean about the paper." "Oh.e •• 1 don't care. You know I hardly read it anyway." Mizdin's wife put some bread in the toaster and poured another cup of coffee and sat down again. "What did you turn the toaster up for?" "I didn't know I did." "Oh God, it's late. I've got to go. Eat my toast, ,;7ill you?' "My honor." "Say, are you going to work this morning?n "Yeah, I suppose I'll go." Mizdin had not gone to work for two daysG He had called his office Monday an~ said that he had not been feeling well. But he didn't plan to go today either, and he could tell she was aware of it. "You're lazy, you know that? Just lazy." Mizdin got up from the table and poured another cup of coffee. His wife went out to get her coat. He took the toast and sat down again. "Good-by~ Mr. Mizdin." The door closed quietly behind hero She always called him Mr. Mizdin when she was irritated with him. He could never understand quite why • . Mizdin finished his coffee and called hi.s. office to say he wouldn't be in, let the phone dowr. and 'went into the bathroom. Sunlight deeped through the translucent· windows, scattered about the bathroom and showed through' the' plastic shower 4 �curtains, .drops of water still hugging in the folds; Mizdin stood fot A moment looking at himself in the mirror above the sink, turned the water on, first the hot, then adjusting the cold gave himself a quick, almost embarrased smile and sank his head und'e r the warm stream. "Goodbye ·Mr. Mizdin." His wife's remark rankled in his mind ' as he lathered the shampoo "Why does she have .to be such a bitch sometimes?" he thought. "It was good for a while, when we first married." 'Mizdin tucked his head again under the warm water, the soapy lather sliding across his cheeks~ tickling down over his nose and into his nostrilo The water turned cold and Mizdin, surprised and swearing, struck his head on the faucet, the soapy water trailing down into his half-open eyeso He rubbed the irritation with a towel and an epitaph and waited for the upstairs tenant to turn off the water, and then finished rinsing his hairo He stood by the door briskly rubbing his scalp" "We should have had kids, things would have been different." Mizdin heard the shower above him and then the upstairs tenant hummingo He turned on the cold water in the bathtub and then quickly turned on the cold water in the sink and flushed the toilet. The humming hit one high note and hushed. Mizdin waited a moment until the hunnning began again, repeated the proced\lre ~ and chuckli! ng low in his throat went into the bedroom to dress. He left the house and walked towards the bus stop; the weather was warming, the ice along the curbs was beginning to melt. A low groan of power, a moment of protest, and the pod broke away, leaving only Mr. Mizdtn hurrjing across the street from the dark, stale fumeso "J-'orning." I r Gamornin, Pastor ~" Mizdin slurred.. as he entered the sl,op, his shoescreaking the planker floor. Pastor, as Mizdin had initiated to calling the slight Tagalog, was one of those men who mysteriously maintain 0 5 �.,' a four-day beard. He had rationed himself in his bookstore since Mizdin could remember. His tight face, the skin stretched curiously down from his forehead, was of such spontaneous familiarity as ' to ' spark some saLutation .from nearly everyone who came into his shop. "Beautiful morning out, isn't it?Pastor, bent over a bended stack of tabloids, slipped his fingers under the slack, danced his hands and broke the bande "Yes, yes.ooit's still some cold, you know, but ' it's soon till springo" He shovedthe ··papers against the wall, lifted a few to the counter top and looked at the ' girl on ' the cover. "Zeus!" He stretched his eyes and cupped his hands in front of his chest. "Just your size," said Mizdin, and for a moment they laughed. Mizdin bought two newspapers and walked . to a small cafe where he sometimes ate -breakfast on Saturdays, his wife not working ~weekends and sleeping into the early -afternoon. ' He ordered two eggs over easy, sausage and toast , orang~ juice ancl 'coffeee "Will that be all?" the waitress ' asked, 'unfolding in a slow piroutte, but not so reflexive'asto ' excuse ' reply~ ' "Yeso" He watched her walk . to the kitchen, then back . to the booth where she had been- sitting by the window reading~ She was attractive, and young ., ' perhaps,· Mizdin guessed, twenty-three or twenty-four. Her light hair ~urled about the crown of her head, a loosened strand lay s~ftened . against her tan, mellow complexion. Mizdin watched ~..:.'- from across the tin ! room~ loved her for a moment. -The sun slipped through t he slanted blinds, hazed her to a subtle image, and Mizdin oegan to read the news. Mizdin finished his breakfast. The waitress, who had finished reading and was waiting to serve his check, came towards him. "Will that be all, sir?" "Could I have some more coffee?" She laid the check on the corner of the table and went 6 �back to the kitchen; and Mizdin~ ~atcbing her, decided that he woul leave now, leave the coffee, leave t he city, leave his wife~ whom he wondered had he really marriedc He hurried to a depo t. asked about the next bus, and was told he had an hour to wait. He decided to go say good-bYE. that he was· going away for awhile; but he would not l, teli him .that he was not coming back. He walked along the sidewalk and stood at the corner waiting for the traffic light to changec The traffic had pushed the snow towards the curb, over the sidewalk, and now it had melted smooth. Mizdin watched two boys across the street sliding off the curb. Behind them he could see Pastor sitting by the window, smiling A bus pulled close to the curb in front of Mizdin and a few people got off, walking away and talking loudlyo The bus began to pull away; Mizdin turned to the shouting passengers now walking across the street, he grappled with his feet, tore his hands from his pockets, and gripping a "- ":he CurD felt the p~ ~ at weight crushing his bowels, tel: the tires tearing at his skin, twisting muscle frum muscle, felt, bUL Jid not taste, the warm mass rise to his mouth. T. R. Dillard 0 Serenity I remember ly~ng against your shoulder believing there was nothing but peace in this world. Laura Larson 7 �Birth Softly merging, sweetness and desire, black and white come together. Separation, love is quenchedo *** I am free floating over the misty, ,shrouded hills, tall with brown grass" I am infinite beauty.. So glorious this world, and I am its embodiment. Rising, falling, the swell of the earth trembles beneath the weightless feet which bear my swollen bodyo The landscape changes; whiteness engulfs me. Yet up again, down again, I goo Free, I am peaceo Dreams of nothingness. Life is empty; life is complete. Does it exist? "Here I am!" I cryo Doer death embrace me? It is so quiet, yet I know of lifeo Agony, pure, simple, rends my body into portions_. Ti'Vf"·.r.'I~ : minuscule cell cries out in this pain-pleasure. Detacl1ed ~"; fro"in:" the world by the pain, I am thp. world. Pain surrounds me, buries me, suffocates meo Voices: "Move over now, here." "I can't, I can'to Wait, can't you ,'wait?" The pain, always the crashing paino "Quit screaming Quiet down!" "Push, there now, push,," "One, two, pushe",.one, two, push." "That's better, better, better ••• " The crescendo of pain and then dea f h-peace arrives. Oblivion and yet I wake up alive. "Here you are. Isn't she a fine, healthy baby? Such long, dark hair." "My baby, my baby! She's so beautiful, so lovely, so black, so black •••• " And the pain returns, as the world exacts its terrifying price. Janet Huffman 0 8 �Initiation Into Manhood Up before the crow of the cock To bed before the moon climbs high. Push-ups, sit-ups, on the hard cruel rock; Help me God, they're making me die. They think they've taught me how to kill, The VC's kin will have to cry M l's, chemicals, my new formed skill! Help me God, they're making me die. Escape before they "program" desire. Canada, Sweden, we can only try. "Kill a Cong for Christ"--Closer--Fire!! Help me God, they're making me die. Computer tape attack plans, but who does the deed? Have we who are forced no right to defy? Love, Peace, Brotherhood, all meaningless creed? Help me God, they're making me die. Dave Baldwin The Stage Is Set There's an inevitable tomorrow waiting in the wings The present hours must ~ow take their bows While the exploding foOtlights die and the audience in sterile repose Await the ascent of the velvet veil, sure to take its flight. For tomorrow, not today, do ;:: he crickets wail their Arias It is for the ensuing day that we render our solemn requiem. Monsell Laury 9 �were i wiser i would realize that sun and sand won't make a summer-nor colored leaves an autumn. i walked those stubborn tracks alone once-thinking not of riches or fara~y p~aces-­ as -might be expected-kn.2wJng me-~ but, rather, of standing beside the clearest of streams; . waiting ••• praising my ability to be happy-so free and alone-searching for an answer in the wild ocean. touching the sun; loving the wind. trusting once more. were i wiser i would leave behind all dreams grasping instead with my clear mind re~lity-­ conforming, understanding-to a degree. were i wiser i would go back 10 �five years or ten i would go back even now to view the mountain worthy of another climbo •• to watch the game as a spectator cheering from the balcony's third row-unseen-void of bruises contact defeat 0 "walk the gravel road at noon-leave the midnight journey to one whose step is sturdy." love a sister her song her promise though it be hesitant weak hypocritical j neveroo.sometimeso.~oftenoo. erase the bitterness build on past dreams hopes goals. recreate the once beautiful? were i wiser ••• were i less wise ••• Chris Stanley 11 . �Atnatory Poems Editor's Note: Although the usual practice of Perspectives is to publish only original works of students of Morningside College, in this case we have decided to ignore our . usual policy and print this poem, which is the product of the research of Monte Knepper and .Mary Considine into the Miscelany of one John C. Libby, an ancestor of Mi~s . Considine. As the book was in very poor condition when discovered by the researchers in a ·remote portion of the Libby ancestral Manse, it took many days of careful . restoration to put these poems into their present state. Miss Considine and Mr. Knepper have, however, in their restorations attempted to maintain Libby's original flavor. Poe~:115 I ffind sith mye mystresse to my bed Has crept and rested wyth . me the whol nyght And taken many plesurs with me ther, Very straunge to tel, she nowe faynnes innosens Euen to ignor mye glad atentione. Though you blushe and fflutter wythyovr ffan As tho the mysterys of louing,you Kenn not anymor than the ioungest chylde, Everyon who can rede with simpathye Nowe mye poem, can kno the bloom of vovr chekes Is the oonly floower of yovr garden. Then apper you as ffalse: to the", me. Oct. 3~, 1569 as 12 �I Do Not Ask I do not ask that life be a bed of roses 9 Where I can lie and sleep all day, I only ask that the thorns are not poisonous To end my mortal breath when I kneel and pray. I do not ask for the strength of ' Hercules, To enable me to ' throw my · sor,r ows to infinityo I only ask that the strength from God I lease Will endure life's striving struggles till eternityo I do not ask for a health that is immune to sickness, So to enjoy the sunshine, the breeze and the rainb ~~o ! only ask that I've a spark of life in times of wealness To flicker, to fade and perhaps even to glowo I do not ask for the ability to push others along, Wisdom to understand the mysteries of lifeo I only ask that I know what is right and wrong When I choose my faith, my profession and my wife. I do not ask that my wife's beauty be pre-eminent, A beauty that would put Venus to shame I only ask that her love for me be permanent Till in heaven she hears me call her name. 0 I do not ask for power to bend the will of men, Power to suppress, abuse and to rule with an iron rod. I only ask that I be made weak and humble to understand How it feels to be pushed, pressed and taught the need for Goda I do not ask that the mountains be brought within my reach, And the rivers of my life be made shallowo I only ask that I be taught to walk, run, swim, and leap To overcome life's challenges and not to go where the winds blowo I do not ask for the riches of a king, To buy all the comforts that life have conceived. I only ask that someday' an angel will bring Me a chariot as a vindication for what I have believedo David Wong 13 �long' bicycle rides in the summer .evening . and he all tired .and sleeping on his stomach the blankets over his head you wondered he didn't suffocate.g. bowing to the road at each dip but taut through each turn (he turning the wheel ever so slightly) the sloping fenders mirrored the sunoo. - and he lay there naked next to · her and knew he had not been good but · she knew it was the first time for him there ·but still ought to. be more ••• las~edonly a few minutes and one of the enemy seen running into the tall gra~s just as the sky greyed with light was shot and walking behind a pyramid of sandbags he there vomited and cried~Qo and pressing against her . flesh felt a thousand promises and slept wholly undisturbed and waking found hero •• sitting naked , just a little fat for her age snug in the sides of her favorite overstuffed chair 14 �with life in her -lap turned the pages and clucking her toungue wondered how is that pronounced and tossing-to the carpet life's current issue finished the last chapter of dr. bhuzwald's book of orgasms and he leaving stopped midway on the stairway the snow falling lightly tickling his senses and in the darkness shrugged with the chill of her warm loins Te R. Dillard You and I We take a walk in the fields you and I Interlaced hands with alternating pressures to show Awareness for each other. We need not words you and I Interlocked eyes with deep understanding to show Our love Kris Parent 15 �My Honest Feelings and Opinions on the -'-Racial Problem" ' or Living in Bliss At this time, fellow white conservatives, I shall endeavor to honestly and -most-point-blankedly-express'myviews and deepest feelings in the area of our country's racial problem (in order to clear the air -f present falsetto undertones) This being such a nontrov€rsial -topic, I will, needless to say, encounter some opposit.l.on, uti", \t1hen ,.tag .oi-0tnt:!:c U~t.:i. .. his eyes these HCommie mongrels" will be dealt with accordingly. Now, the basic factor which presents itself at this time to our present society, I believe, seems -to turn in the direction of the guidance of the populace towards the empiricle station of fluber-actionary technique That is to say that the technique in question, which is really a tool, tends to plurgerate and demopolate the' popul"ce into this general direction. Despite the fa.ct that this is one of the few tools which presents itself at this time which can be used to combat the problem at hand; it is basically reiterated to the relative cause So, in order that we may furtner 1l101:i.\'';i.ze the problem and technique, we must also nurture an attitude towards the cue, whereby we may more clearly and less inadvertently develop an understanding of what is in progresso In conclusion--so what--of all , this? Of all this I properly resolve three key brain-muddlers (1) the ~y is usually blue in ~ood weather, (2) fish usually die out of water; (3) toy lire engines usually get broken. As I stated previously, I do anticipate some opposition to my views, etc., but I overlook these trivialities because I believ~ that these~ my true and embedded feelings, are shared w1th a majority of my fellow citizens, who, like me, are conservative in their thoughts on the issue in general. Harry Davis 0 .;J 0 0 16 ��I I I! �������the year - fter the love before a embers glowing brightly in the shadows of my mind. and fire, gentle, of my youth. love it like that! ,it comes ~~ i ~0~S " burning b~ightly. then, dying-leaving only embers Kris Lischefska 0 Up and Down up and down in and through over and out i screw you up and through over and in down and out is this sin in and up over and out through and down love no doubt Down and over through and up in and out let up sup this is life this is love T. Bear �Soul Singer A sad, sweet, tragic wail A wild joy, a leaden sorrow. Sad soul singer, send that spi~it down a hundred steps to a sodden cellar. There the spirilt- digs ,its own grave and lies down. Lie down spirit. Glad soul singer, send'the'dipping,' screaming, diving,deiirious song to the sky. Drive the'darkness' into the corners for a few minutes; command the light~" Wail, soul singer, wail It's your ~mulet against the night. Petp.T 'Far 1o v To Sharon, on Becoming 21 Life, If you were a match I would take you in my hand And boldly strike you-I'd gaze into your fire .bright potential With awe ••• Then, I'd smile in silent wonder. With you, I would ignite the dark, cold world And spread your fleeting glow Until your flaming yellow-blue Would disappear in orange, c ri1lls on , red ••• Cold, charred black ••• Then I'd smile again, still wondering ••• I'd let you burn, Life. If you aren't to be 'lived Then what are you for? Susan Mallison 2t> �Easy Rider bloody flag and gasoline firecraker sparks soared into free American,' ~ir --what so proudly hailed as Blownapart's last screaming-hit the ground and bit the ground of (phallic-finge~ ~alute choaked-throat why) the home of the brave Randall Jo Gates from Show/Me Bigot I once knew a man so prejudiced he wouldn't use pepper. He died last week-A spade dug his grave. ToR. Dillard 27 �Yet Reuben Through the brisk fall air the 'bells of the small church in the local village sent forth a somber toll of ' three chimes which reached Reuben Leighton as he stood near the barn of his Nebraska farm.. Cupping his hand above his eyes to shade them from the rays of the drooping sun, he looked off to the west towards the country schoolhouse seated in the valley less than a mile awayo "She'll be home ' quickly today," mused Reuben to himself .. "Why there's nearly three full hours of daylight left. Three long hours for her to spend cuttin" corn in the south fort Yo There she is now Look at her scratchin' a t her 01' starched petticoats; they must be a plague for a girl of thirteen~ Especially a girl of thirteen who'd trade a whole week of school for just one day of workin' in the fields . " The four daughters who had been born to , Reuben had each, demoralized him i n , turn as 'his , hopes for a son had fad~do Little wonder that he had been amazed 'at Sa1bah's love ' for ' the farm and her eagerness :' to "carry ,the load :- he had , expected a male offspring 'to bear.; , As she entered , the ' yard with her ' rusty , dinner bucket in hand, tattered books in a cloth bag round her neck, ,he wondered when the hard " tight bud of a tomboy frame ,which was even now , showing signs of future promise ' would soften into a blossom of womanhood. Bounding down the quivering steps of the weathered clap-board farmhouse, Sarah soon dispelled his t houghts for another dayo Biboveralls which had quickly replaced the disliked long dress, ' beaten straw hat set juantily to the side' of her ' ~hort brown locks, now tied roughly in a tight round bun--no, Sarah was still Sarah, yet 'Reuben was unsure of his pleasure. Though each stroke of the razor-sharp corn knives brought the end nearer, the rows loo~d long aheado Reub~n on the left, Sarah on the right, their progress reccydt!d by the steady ringing through the chilled air of dusk as 0 0 28 0 0 �the crack of each blow went a tall stalk tumbling, then to be soon used in building the pyramid shocks which would dot the rolling hills. No sound from the right. Realizing Sarah had stopped, her father turned slowly toward her and his heart clutched by the white look of fear on her facee She stared in horror at the twisting, slithering snake, then wheeled, and fell; her first step had sent her foot into a small depression, her second had brought her legs crumpling beneath her as she pitched forward on her face, arms flung before her, corn knife in hand. The short drive into town had seemed like a nightmarish trip through hell for Reuben. The white lather of sweat on the horses as he beat them into a frenzy, the creaking and swaying of the buckboard, the moans and whimpers of the twisted form lying covered behind him on the wagon bed. It all seemed so long ago as he sat in a befuddled daze in the office of "Doc" Ho Bowland, the destination of that frantic race. The voice of the graying "Doc" pegan to register on Reuben"s mind, saying, "Be grateful she's alive, Reuben. You could well be over at Digger Delbert's by all rights. Sure, the damage is permanent; you don't get a slash from temple to chin and expect to ever erase it '. She won't be much to look at, but she'll be there." A blossom drifted from Reuben Leighton's mind. The bruised fruit ' which took its ' place might well be resigned to cling to the ' old tree for years--yet Reuben was unsure of his pleasure. Lindsay Eckerman 29 �On Biafra In the heart of the ancient fortress vassals bow~d today No matter wnat · the effort they couldn t t " ha"ve things their way C~n th~ flesh cleave the bone again? Will the stoned graves know of the contracts of peace? They asked so little and yet so much~ "Give me an ounce of freedom and a ray of hope; These things . the armour cannot trample." Monse11 Laury A Thousand Flakes of Snow From a thousand flakes of snow I pick but one, and oh So fair A stunning beauty, she is' !so ·$ oJtly fragile in the cold night air 0 . 0 I wish to wa,rm,. her in my grasp Only she a droplet would become; To mQtch the thousand tears I'd gasp At loss of her, my only one. Bruce Hanson 30 �Protestanalogy Why do they lock the door? To keep you away from the tempting world? What happens when there is a need to go? And there is a need to goo Pound your clenched fist on the locked door It won't help You'll cry from pain and hurt Your hands will bleed from attempts to let you . out You're locked in.o • ••• out from the beauty time When you could see earth And not the world with innocence tempted and hurt With enthusiasm utilized for destruction Forced passion for cheap thrills You can't see the earth Without it's complications to make it world Hands that search for innocence only bleed You are locked up away from innocence You must learn corrupt jon hate cruelty ' dirt You are not wise until you know this Then they give you the key But then you'll use it to get in away from'that beauty time of innocence Julia Drummond 31 �John pulled a weed growing near the Peace Rose and straightened up to rest his aching back. . He thought longingly of the rocking chair in the deep shade of the west porch as he wiped his forehead with the faded blue sleeve of his work shirt. He remembered the names of only a few of ~he roses but he couldn't forget how Ollie had saved and scrimped with their small bu4get for months in order ~o send for this one after she had seen one over at the county fair. That had -been a ,good ,day • . .Their .younges.t, .Julia, ,and . , . her husband had driven 'o ver from Newton early' enough to take· her parents, to the fair .. Of course, Ollie. hadn't been able to do much walking, as her trouble with ~er heart had started by then. But they went through the fine .arts building and.sat . down where they .could visit ,with ,many old friends. Ollie ' had seen the new rose in the flower exhibits and by asking around, she had found where to send for-t·t · and how · much it · cos·t ·. · Now the rose grew here in this home garden. The blossoms were perfect and 'John resented it. How could it be so alive, so vigorqos, when the one who had so wanted it to bloom here was sleeping over the hill under that heavy gray stone. John told himself that he had done the best he could for Ollie. Hadn't he bought this little place, only three "rooms with a small yard, thp very week old Doc had told him Ollie must cut down, . not do .'so much, never climb stairs. The home across on the ther side of Danbury stood without a buyer for many months. He had dug holes and set out Ollie's flowers, carting box after box of roots until the old place had finally sold. He watered and staked at her direction, did everything she wanted done--even if flowers had always seemed impractical to him. Out on the homestead when he was a boy, they had never had enough water ~o spare for anything that wasn't edible. Ha had always said the vegetables were just as pretty as the flowers, anyway. For sure they had tasted good and were ' such a relief from th~ salt meat,beans and rice of late wint ~r and early spring. They had all laughed over anyone's f ooli 3hness to spend any time on work tha~ didn't give macerial benefits. 32 < �Gradually after he married Ollie, she had sh9WTI him how a woman could get a pleasure from ;. €e\i·:;tflowt .. He had tolerated her desires because of the happy home she made and the gar times she and the young ones were always surprising him with. He remembered the time' he came home with the news his job had been cut to four days a week instead of six and what did she do but pop corn and plan that they could all work together on the garden and a hen houseQ They did, too, and managed to have enough to live on during those hard ,days. John started for the rocker on the porch, but noticed a rock in the rock pile had slipped and was crushing some of the green chicks of , the plant calJed a mother hen. Ollie wouldn't nave let mt -go so ~e went to -tpe .: shed to get a cY9wbar to pry t~e rock in~o its own placeo 'c bnld hardly. resist jabbing plants but afterward he could almost hear Ollie's "thank you, John." So he fell to weeding again. "Dang flowers," he thought, "not worth a thing." But he knew how to care for their needs; the years he had spent raising most of the family's food had taught him that muche His greatest satisfaction had been to take a prize-worthy c~~~-to the kitchen where Ollie turned it into wonderful mea.ls. Didn't seem to be any pol.nt to raising the vegetable garden this yp ~ r; he had let it go to graS50 What good was the best roa3ting ear without Ollie to admire it? The weeding among the roses was done finally and John slowly made his way into the kitchen to heat up a can of soup for his lunche "I'll have to get at those things on the north side this afternoon," he thought; but instead he sat and smoied without picking up the disheso They would soon be in bloom-he did..u.:.J;" iJltend to ,see their bronz~_Jices at allo He woul(.~wee~ ~em today ~-~ ~~t the mowing done over there tomorrow and he wouldn't gP Dack to that side of the house 'till after the frost had ' ~11ed everything down to the ground. 33 0 He �Because last year that was where he had found her--his Ollie, l ying on the ground with her arm still cradling a chrysanthemum bouquet. The look on her face had been surprise and pain. He had carried her to the bedroom and the flowers had gone along~ blocking his view both of her and where he was going. When he laid her down they spilled over her, the bed, and his feet. Impatiently, he brushed them away. She started to whisper, "Take careo ••••• ," then a heavy breath had shuddered through her and she was gonec No, he wouldn't look at those ugly bronze spikes, but he would "take careo" Her love .had .gone .into , the garden·,· she· had always given more strength than she could afford to keep all those plants looking nices So he kept it up, too, hating all the living things out there for their ability to seem the same as always. Marcia Decker The Kite I took a piece of paper And with wood and string I built a fragile kite. I poured my skill, My heart and my soul Through its delicate frame, And with anxious hands I hurled my kite Into the swirling sky. What are the hopes of man But kites in the wind? Encouraged only by a breeze Of hope and love, Man casts hi~ 4eep.est desires Into a raging sea Of sky and cloud; There they soar-Or are dashed upon the earth. Robert Birkby 34 �Blindmanis Bluff Someone put a blindfold on me Made me spin like a top faster and faster forever and ever Faster around and then they turned me loose and told me to spin where I mighto But I can't see where I'm going Or feel where I am And somehow I think The world and I Are spinning in opposite directions. Merilynn Knowles Springtime o take a breath of springtime. o smell the automobilesQ The scent of the cattle at slaughter time Is like nothing else one feels. The beautiful vision of chemical smoke, And the flavor of library paste As you sip your tall cool glass Of refreshing industrial waste Are the results of living "high on the hogo" Don't you love the glorious fragrance of smog? William Weinmann 35 �" ••• and at length came out the same door Where in I went~ and only this I know I came lIke water; like wind I go. --Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam The church began to fill with early evening gloom, a gloom surrounding beginnings and endings a An old man sat in thf quiet not moving. Three long days ago one of the important things in his life had gone. Ceased, Left a hole. The preacher had intoned the passing. Many old women ha~ wept. Now they were gone. And nothing was lefto . The old man sat gazing fixedly. Steady heartbeats marked the passing of time. At last he arose shaking his head and walked slowly between the pp~so At the Go)r he stopn~d and looked around at the little federa,)":ed church Which was built •• ahe could not remember when. Finally he went out into the cold clear autumn wonde1:'i ng at ·himselfo Later in the rusty dull~green pick-I,,') he looked, as if for the first time, at the fields through - which the road took him. The sun was going when he pulled .into the farm ·' Yard. He closed the creaking door of the truck and stood looking for a moment at all the things that had seemed permanent to him. Then walked out past the barn along the path to the fields. 36 �The sun was -gone, but the glow remained; the darkening sky was clear blue. He left the path and walked out across the furrows and the stubble thinking of seasons, remembering harvests. He stood a lone time transfixed, His eyes on the far horizon, Hearing only the sound of his breathing, Steady heartbeats marking the passing of time, Something strugglingo •• inside ••• unti1 the light was gone. He sighed. He shook his head not sadly but with a little shrug and walked back to the house in the gloom. Peter Farley 37 �"Give me two cards, BillG" Two cards, I said o God, that bastard would cheat his own grandmothero "Thank you, Williamo How are the wife and kids?" Well you ought to knowQ "Hey~ they're fine , Jacko Betty said you dropped by last n i ght ~ Here are your two cardso Got openers?" " Sure do." Ha! If you onl y knew" You might say I dropped by last night. "How's that hand, Pete?" You going to bluff you way into the money again tonight? "Well I've seen better hands, but I'll keep what I have." You bet I'll keep what I have! "Glad you coul d make it on such short notic e~ Harold." We real ly had to scratch the barrel bottomo "Gosh yes , I love to play poker . I pl ay it a l l the time. Can I have f our ca rds ?" I wonder wha t t hey have" "Well , Harold," Oh Jes us! "tonight we're pl aying a new game, gues s we f orgot to t ell you o" Dumb shit! "You can only get three at the most." "Oh, wel l , I'll take three then I hope that's enough Gol ly, I've go t one ace, an' a two ••• if only two's were wilda Maybe I'll get three aces. "O.K., Jack, open fer up." "Twenty for a looko" I ought to give you twenty "You think you'll make it, Pete?" "Twenty, huh? I don't knowo" You sure made it last nighte I wonder if Jack "I'll see you twenty and raise you the same." "You gotta go forty to stay in the game, Harold." "You don't mean forty dollars, Jack?" Oh golly, I can't •• Goh·heck, I'll make a sale this week. "Yeah, forty." Looks like a good night. "Well, I don't carry that- much money with me.o.can I write you out an IOU? I do have a good hand." I'll bet! "O.K., I'll see the forty and call. How's the job, Bill?" Ha-"Well, business is a little slow. I've got a pair of kings. Betty said you're doing wello" Among other things 0 0 0 0 38 f �Go to hell. "Yeah, I just got the franchise on that restaurant chain. It'll supplement my selling What you got, Pete?" "Looks like a good night, four eights. Is that good enough, Harold? I hear you're in for an advancement, Bill." Rub it in, Pete. "Well, not this time. They think I should stay in my territory and develop the potential there What do you have\! Harold?" "Well, if only two's were wild. I have an ace and a two and three fives." The other three together, Oh Jesus! "That's teo bad, Harold I have three deuces. You got it again, Peteo" And againo "I got it again. I just can't break a streak of bad lucko Can -I write -you an IOU, Pete?" "Sure, Harold. Looks like you'll be selling for me- this week You're deal, Bill." "We'll play the same _ gam~. this hand. I understand you won that trip tn Florida. You taking the family with you, Jack? ' "Yeah, I got . it .again, but the _ (ids have to stay in school ~o Betty will stay here with themo" 0 0 0 0 Doug Johnson 39 ���� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College. Through its several titles—Manuscript, Perspectives, and Kiosk—the magazine has a long history of celebrating creative writing and art on campus. It began publication in 1938 under the title of Manuscript before changing its name to Perspectives in 1953. Then in 1971 it took another name that it is known by currently: Kiosk. It is still published annually by the Morningside College English Department. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1938- Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Morningside College Library Morningside College English Department Ponder, Marcie: Digital Creator Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical PDF Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Title A name given to the resource Kiosk Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource "The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children," (The Kiosk, 2003). Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. / ~ ;., ------ --_.--------_.---------------- --- ------------ . ." ". " _- , , ,// -------------------- . . , ...../ I PERSPECTIVES 1970 Editorial Board Marcia Decker Randall Jo Gates Linda Hellyer Jane Newell Cover Design and Art Consultant Stan Nelson Advisor A.To Gasque 1 '. , " ,, 2 Good-bye Mro Mizdin The snow had been white, in fact it had been quite pretty to look at when the sun was not too brighto But it had been a week since the last snowfall~ and the graying slush in thw street showed the paths of the few cars that had passed that morningo Mizdin turned from the window; his wife came from the bathroom, ,her robe open, the limp, cloth belt sliding along the floor beside her. "Don't kids make angels anymore?" Mizdin askedo "What?" "Snow-angels~ you know." The steam on the pane where he had stood slowly shrank awayQ "You fall down on your back and move your arms and Ip.gso" Mizdin's wife, after a polite pause in recognition of his question~ walked into the Kitchen, plugged the coffee in and :retired agai_ to the bathroomo Mizdin sauntered into n the kitchen and stood before the coffee~ waitingo He took out two slices of bread and dropped them into the toastero "I suppose kids do still make snow-angels," he thought The coffee burbled once, then twice, then steadilyo Mizdin pulled the cord from the wall, poured two cups and set them on the tableo "Come to think of it9" he thought, "you hardly ever see any kids on Merrick Street anywayo" His wife came into the kitchen and sat at the edge of the table Mizdin looked up from his coffee . "You look good in beige." "Thank you.. Did you put any toast in?" "Yeah "Sorry I got up late. You don't mind making your own breakfast, do you?" "No." But Mizdin did mind. He never fixed his own meals, and it irritated him a little to hear her asko "Have you seen the paperboy?" 0 0 0 " 3 ill just got up." HTf he can't bring the morning 'paper earlier we might c '3 tJell get the evening." The toaster sp~ango Mizdin daydreamingly gazed into the wall; his t~ife's lips turned a little and she went to "he counter. "Oh •••• lt's burnt." "What do you think?" "What do you mean what do I think? I think it's burnt !" "I mean about the paper." "Oh.e •• 1 don't care. You know I hardly read it anyway." Mizdin's wife put some bread in the toaster and poured another cup of coffee and sat down again. "What did you turn the toaster up for?" "I didn't know I did." "Oh God, it's late. I've got to go. Eat my toast, ,;7ill you?' "My honor." "Say, are you going to work this morning?n "Yeah, I suppose I'll go." Mizdin had not gone to work for two daysG He had called his office Monday an~ said that he had not been feeling well. But he didn't plan to go today either, and he could tell she was aware of it. "You're lazy, you know that? Just lazy." Mizdin got up from the table and poured another cup of coffee. His wife went out to get her coat. He took the toast and sat down again. "Good-by~ Mr. Mizdin." The door closed quietly behind hero She always called him Mr. Mizdin when she was irritated with him. He could never understand quite why • . Mizdin finished his coffee and called hi.s. office to say he wouldn't be in, let the phone dowr. and 'went into the bathroom. Sunlight deeped through the translucent· windows, scattered about the bathroom and showed through' the' plastic shower 4 curtains, .drops of water still hugging in the folds; Mizdin stood fot A moment looking at himself in the mirror above the sink, turned the water on, first the hot, then adjusting the cold gave himself a quick, almost embarrased smile and sank his head und'e r the warm stream. "Goodbye ·Mr. Mizdin." His wife's remark rankled in his mind ' as he lathered the shampoo "Why does she have .to be such a bitch sometimes?" he thought. "It was good for a while, when we first married." 'Mizdin tucked his head again under the warm water, the soapy lather sliding across his cheeks~ tickling down over his nose and into his nostrilo The water turned cold and Mizdin, surprised and swearing, struck his head on the faucet, the soapy water trailing down into his half-open eyeso He rubbed the irritation with a towel and an epitaph and waited for the upstairs tenant to turn off the water, and then finished rinsing his hairo He stood by the door briskly rubbing his scalp" "We should have had kids, things would have been different." Mizdin heard the shower above him and then the upstairs tenant hummingo He turned on the cold water in the bathtub and then quickly turned on the cold water in the sink and flushed the toilet. The humming hit one high note and hushed. Mizdin waited a moment until the hunnning began again, repeated the proced\lre ~ and chuckli! ng low in his throat went into the bedroom to dress. He left the house and walked towards the bus stop; the weather was warming, the ice along the curbs was beginning to melt. A low groan of power, a moment of protest, and the pod broke away, leaving only Mr. Mizdtn hurrjing across the street from the dark, stale fumeso "J-'orning." I r Gamornin, Pastor ~" Mizdin slurred.. as he entered the sl,op, his shoescreaking the planker floor. Pastor, as Mizdin had initiated to calling the slight Tagalog, was one of those men who mysteriously maintain 0 5 .,' a four-day beard. He had rationed himself in his bookstore since Mizdin could remember. His tight face, the skin stretched curiously down from his forehead, was of such spontaneous familiarity as ' to ' spark some saLutation .from nearly everyone who came into his shop. "Beautiful morning out, isn't it?Pastor, bent over a bended stack of tabloids, slipped his fingers under the slack, danced his hands and broke the bande "Yes, yes.ooit's still some cold, you know, but ' it's soon till springo" He shovedthe ··papers against the wall, lifted a few to the counter top and looked at the ' girl on ' the cover. "Zeus!" He stretched his eyes and cupped his hands in front of his chest. "Just your size," said Mizdin, and for a moment they laughed. Mizdin bought two newspapers and walked . to a small cafe where he sometimes ate -breakfast on Saturdays, his wife not working ~weekends and sleeping into the early -afternoon. ' He ordered two eggs over easy, sausage and toast , orang~ juice ancl 'coffeee "Will that be all?" the waitress ' asked, 'unfolding in a slow piroutte, but not so reflexive'asto ' excuse ' reply~ ' "Yeso" He watched her walk . to the kitchen, then back . to the booth where she had been- sitting by the window reading~ She was attractive, and young ., ' perhaps,· Mizdin guessed, twenty-three or twenty-four. Her light hair ~urled about the crown of her head, a loosened strand lay s~ftened . against her tan, mellow complexion. Mizdin watched ~..:.'- from across the tin ! room~ loved her for a moment. -The sun slipped through t he slanted blinds, hazed her to a subtle image, and Mizdin oegan to read the news. Mizdin finished his breakfast. The waitress, who had finished reading and was waiting to serve his check, came towards him. "Will that be all, sir?" "Could I have some more coffee?" She laid the check on the corner of the table and went 6 back to the kitchen; and Mizdin~ ~atcbing her, decided that he woul leave now, leave the coffee, leave t he city, leave his wife~ whom he wondered had he really marriedc He hurried to a depo t. asked about the next bus, and was told he had an hour to wait. He decided to go say good-bYE. that he was· going away for awhile; but he would not l, teli him .that he was not coming back. He walked along the sidewalk and stood at the corner waiting for the traffic light to changec The traffic had pushed the snow towards the curb, over the sidewalk, and now it had melted smooth. Mizdin watched two boys across the street sliding off the curb. Behind them he could see Pastor sitting by the window, smiling A bus pulled close to the curb in front of Mizdin and a few people got off, walking away and talking loudlyo The bus began to pull away; Mizdin turned to the shouting passengers now walking across the street, he grappled with his feet, tore his hands from his pockets, and gripping a "- ":he CurD felt the p~ ~ at weight crushing his bowels, tel: the tires tearing at his skin, twisting muscle frum muscle, felt, bUL Jid not taste, the warm mass rise to his mouth. T. R. Dillard 0 Serenity I remember ly~ng against your shoulder believing there was nothing but peace in this world. Laura Larson 7 Birth Softly merging, sweetness and desire, black and white come together. Separation, love is quenchedo *** I am free floating over the misty, ,shrouded hills, tall with brown grass" I am infinite beauty.. So glorious this world, and I am its embodiment. Rising, falling, the swell of the earth trembles beneath the weightless feet which bear my swollen bodyo The landscape changes; whiteness engulfs me. Yet up again, down again, I goo Free, I am peaceo Dreams of nothingness. Life is empty; life is complete. Does it exist? "Here I am!" I cryo Doer death embrace me? It is so quiet, yet I know of lifeo Agony, pure, simple, rends my body into portions_. Ti'Vf"·.r.'I~ : minuscule cell cries out in this pain-pleasure. Detacl1ed ~"; fro"in:" the world by the pain, I am thp. world. Pain surrounds me, buries me, suffocates meo Voices: "Move over now, here." "I can't, I can'to Wait, can't you ,'wait?" The pain, always the crashing paino "Quit screaming Quiet down!" "Push, there now, push,," "One, two, pushe",.one, two, push." "That's better, better, better ••• " The crescendo of pain and then dea f h-peace arrives. Oblivion and yet I wake up alive. "Here you are. Isn't she a fine, healthy baby? Such long, dark hair." "My baby, my baby! She's so beautiful, so lovely, so black, so black •••• " And the pain returns, as the world exacts its terrifying price. Janet Huffman 0 8 Initiation Into Manhood Up before the crow of the cock To bed before the moon climbs high. Push-ups, sit-ups, on the hard cruel rock; Help me God, they're making me die. They think they've taught me how to kill, The VC's kin will have to cry M l's, chemicals, my new formed skill! Help me God, they're making me die. Escape before they "program" desire. Canada, Sweden, we can only try. "Kill a Cong for Christ"--Closer--Fire!! Help me God, they're making me die. Computer tape attack plans, but who does the deed? Have we who are forced no right to defy? Love, Peace, Brotherhood, all meaningless creed? Help me God, they're making me die. Dave Baldwin The Stage Is Set There's an inevitable tomorrow waiting in the wings The present hours must ~ow take their bows While the exploding foOtlights die and the audience in sterile repose Await the ascent of the velvet veil, sure to take its flight. For tomorrow, not today, do ;:: he crickets wail their Arias It is for the ensuing day that we render our solemn requiem. Monsell Laury 9 were i wiser i would realize that sun and sand won't make a summer-nor colored leaves an autumn. i walked those stubborn tracks alone once-thinking not of riches or fara~y p~aces-­ as -might be expected-kn.2wJng me-~ but, rather, of standing beside the clearest of streams; . waiting ••• praising my ability to be happy-so free and alone-searching for an answer in the wild ocean. touching the sun; loving the wind. trusting once more. were i wiser i would leave behind all dreams grasping instead with my clear mind re~lity-­ conforming, understanding-to a degree. were i wiser i would go back 10 five years or ten i would go back even now to view the mountain worthy of another climbo •• to watch the game as a spectator cheering from the balcony's third row-unseen-void of bruises contact defeat 0 "walk the gravel road at noon-leave the midnight journey to one whose step is sturdy." love a sister her song her promise though it be hesitant weak hypocritical j neveroo.sometimeso.~oftenoo. erase the bitterness build on past dreams hopes goals. recreate the once beautiful? were i wiser ••• were i less wise ••• Chris Stanley 11 . Atnatory Poems Editor's Note: Although the usual practice of Perspectives is to publish only original works of students of Morningside College, in this case we have decided to ignore our . usual policy and print this poem, which is the product of the research of Monte Knepper and .Mary Considine into the Miscelany of one John C. Libby, an ancestor of Mi~s . Considine. As the book was in very poor condition when discovered by the researchers in a ·remote portion of the Libby ancestral Manse, it took many days of careful . restoration to put these poems into their present state. Miss Considine and Mr. Knepper have, however, in their restorations attempted to maintain Libby's original flavor. Poe~:115 I ffind sith mye mystresse to my bed Has crept and rested wyth . me the whol nyght And taken many plesurs with me ther, Very straunge to tel, she nowe faynnes innosens Euen to ignor mye glad atentione. Though you blushe and fflutter wythyovr ffan As tho the mysterys of louing,you Kenn not anymor than the ioungest chylde, Everyon who can rede with simpathye Nowe mye poem, can kno the bloom of vovr chekes Is the oonly floower of yovr garden. Then apper you as ffalse: to the", me. Oct. 3~, 1569 as 12 I Do Not Ask I do not ask that life be a bed of roses 9 Where I can lie and sleep all day, I only ask that the thorns are not poisonous To end my mortal breath when I kneel and pray. I do not ask for the strength of ' Hercules, To enable me to ' throw my · sor,r ows to infinityo I only ask that the strength from God I lease Will endure life's striving struggles till eternityo I do not ask for a health that is immune to sickness, So to enjoy the sunshine, the breeze and the rainb ~~o ! only ask that I've a spark of life in times of wealness To flicker, to fade and perhaps even to glowo I do not ask for the ability to push others along, Wisdom to understand the mysteries of lifeo I only ask that I know what is right and wrong When I choose my faith, my profession and my wife. I do not ask that my wife's beauty be pre-eminent, A beauty that would put Venus to shame I only ask that her love for me be permanent Till in heaven she hears me call her name. 0 I do not ask for power to bend the will of men, Power to suppress, abuse and to rule with an iron rod. I only ask that I be made weak and humble to understand How it feels to be pushed, pressed and taught the need for Goda I do not ask that the mountains be brought within my reach, And the rivers of my life be made shallowo I only ask that I be taught to walk, run, swim, and leap To overcome life's challenges and not to go where the winds blowo I do not ask for the riches of a king, To buy all the comforts that life have conceived. I only ask that someday' an angel will bring Me a chariot as a vindication for what I have believedo David Wong 13 long' bicycle rides in the summer .evening . and he all tired .and sleeping on his stomach the blankets over his head you wondered he didn't suffocate.g. bowing to the road at each dip but taut through each turn (he turning the wheel ever so slightly) the sloping fenders mirrored the sunoo. - and he lay there naked next to · her and knew he had not been good but · she knew it was the first time for him there ·but still ought to. be more ••• las~edonly a few minutes and one of the enemy seen running into the tall gra~s just as the sky greyed with light was shot and walking behind a pyramid of sandbags he there vomited and cried~Qo and pressing against her . flesh felt a thousand promises and slept wholly undisturbed and waking found hero •• sitting naked , just a little fat for her age snug in the sides of her favorite overstuffed chair 14 with life in her -lap turned the pages and clucking her toungue wondered how is that pronounced and tossing-to the carpet life's current issue finished the last chapter of dr. bhuzwald's book of orgasms and he leaving stopped midway on the stairway the snow falling lightly tickling his senses and in the darkness shrugged with the chill of her warm loins Te R. Dillard You and I We take a walk in the fields you and I Interlaced hands with alternating pressures to show Awareness for each other. We need not words you and I Interlocked eyes with deep understanding to show Our love Kris Parent 15 My Honest Feelings and Opinions on the -'-Racial Problem" ' or Living in Bliss At this time, fellow white conservatives, I shall endeavor to honestly and -most-point-blankedly-express'myviews and deepest feelings in the area of our country's racial problem (in order to clear the air -f present falsetto undertones) This being such a nontrov€rsial -topic, I will, needless to say, encounter some opposit.l.on, uti", \t1hen ,.tag .oi-0tnt:!:c U~t.:i. .. his eyes these HCommie mongrels" will be dealt with accordingly. Now, the basic factor which presents itself at this time to our present society, I believe, seems -to turn in the direction of the guidance of the populace towards the empiricle station of fluber-actionary technique That is to say that the technique in question, which is really a tool, tends to plurgerate and demopolate the' popul"ce into this general direction. Despite the fa.ct that this is one of the few tools which presents itself at this time which can be used to combat the problem at hand; it is basically reiterated to the relative cause So, in order that we may furtner 1l101:i.\'';i.ze the problem and technique, we must also nurture an attitude towards the cue, whereby we may more clearly and less inadvertently develop an understanding of what is in progresso In conclusion--so what--of all , this? Of all this I properly resolve three key brain-muddlers (1) the ~y is usually blue in ~ood weather, (2) fish usually die out of water; (3) toy lire engines usually get broken. As I stated previously, I do anticipate some opposition to my views, etc., but I overlook these trivialities because I believ~ that these~ my true and embedded feelings, are shared w1th a majority of my fellow citizens, who, like me, are conservative in their thoughts on the issue in general. Harry Davis 0 .;J 0 0 16 I I I! the year - fter the love before a embers glowing brightly in the shadows of my mind. and fire, gentle, of my youth. love it like that! ,it comes ~~ i ~0~S " burning b~ightly. then, dying-leaving only embers Kris Lischefska 0 Up and Down up and down in and through over and out i screw you up and through over and in down and out is this sin in and up over and out through and down love no doubt Down and over through and up in and out let up sup this is life this is love T. Bear Soul Singer A sad, sweet, tragic wail A wild joy, a leaden sorrow. Sad soul singer, send that spi~it down a hundred steps to a sodden cellar. There the spirilt- digs ,its own grave and lies down. Lie down spirit. Glad soul singer, send'the'dipping,' screaming, diving,deiirious song to the sky. Drive the'darkness' into the corners for a few minutes; command the light~" Wail, soul singer, wail It's your ~mulet against the night. Petp.T 'Far 1o v To Sharon, on Becoming 21 Life, If you were a match I would take you in my hand And boldly strike you-I'd gaze into your fire .bright potential With awe ••• Then, I'd smile in silent wonder. With you, I would ignite the dark, cold world And spread your fleeting glow Until your flaming yellow-blue Would disappear in orange, c ri1lls on , red ••• Cold, charred black ••• Then I'd smile again, still wondering ••• I'd let you burn, Life. If you aren't to be 'lived Then what are you for? Susan Mallison 2t> Easy Rider bloody flag and gasoline firecraker sparks soared into free American,' ~ir --what so proudly hailed as Blownapart's last screaming-hit the ground and bit the ground of (phallic-finge~ ~alute choaked-throat why) the home of the brave Randall Jo Gates from Show/Me Bigot I once knew a man so prejudiced he wouldn't use pepper. He died last week-A spade dug his grave. ToR. Dillard 27 Yet Reuben Through the brisk fall air the 'bells of the small church in the local village sent forth a somber toll of ' three chimes which reached Reuben Leighton as he stood near the barn of his Nebraska farm.. Cupping his hand above his eyes to shade them from the rays of the drooping sun, he looked off to the west towards the country schoolhouse seated in the valley less than a mile awayo "She'll be home ' quickly today," mused Reuben to himself .. "Why there's nearly three full hours of daylight left. Three long hours for her to spend cuttin" corn in the south fort Yo There she is now Look at her scratchin' a t her 01' starched petticoats; they must be a plague for a girl of thirteen~ Especially a girl of thirteen who'd trade a whole week of school for just one day of workin' in the fields . " The four daughters who had been born to , Reuben had each, demoralized him i n , turn as 'his , hopes for a son had fad~do Little wonder that he had been amazed 'at Sa1bah's love ' for ' the farm and her eagerness :' to "carry ,the load :- he had , expected a male offspring 'to bear.; , As she entered , the ' yard with her ' rusty , dinner bucket in hand, tattered books in a cloth bag round her neck, ,he wondered when the hard " tight bud of a tomboy frame ,which was even now , showing signs of future promise ' would soften into a blossom of womanhood. Bounding down the quivering steps of the weathered clap-board farmhouse, Sarah soon dispelled his t houghts for another dayo Biboveralls which had quickly replaced the disliked long dress, ' beaten straw hat set juantily to the side' of her ' ~hort brown locks, now tied roughly in a tight round bun--no, Sarah was still Sarah, yet 'Reuben was unsure of his pleasure. Though each stroke of the razor-sharp corn knives brought the end nearer, the rows loo~d long aheado Reub~n on the left, Sarah on the right, their progress reccydt!d by the steady ringing through the chilled air of dusk as 0 0 28 0 0 the crack of each blow went a tall stalk tumbling, then to be soon used in building the pyramid shocks which would dot the rolling hills. No sound from the right. Realizing Sarah had stopped, her father turned slowly toward her and his heart clutched by the white look of fear on her facee She stared in horror at the twisting, slithering snake, then wheeled, and fell; her first step had sent her foot into a small depression, her second had brought her legs crumpling beneath her as she pitched forward on her face, arms flung before her, corn knife in hand. The short drive into town had seemed like a nightmarish trip through hell for Reuben. The white lather of sweat on the horses as he beat them into a frenzy, the creaking and swaying of the buckboard, the moans and whimpers of the twisted form lying covered behind him on the wagon bed. It all seemed so long ago as he sat in a befuddled daze in the office of "Doc" Ho Bowland, the destination of that frantic race. The voice of the graying "Doc" pegan to register on Reuben"s mind, saying, "Be grateful she's alive, Reuben. You could well be over at Digger Delbert's by all rights. Sure, the damage is permanent; you don't get a slash from temple to chin and expect to ever erase it '. She won't be much to look at, but she'll be there." A blossom drifted from Reuben Leighton's mind. The bruised fruit ' which took its ' place might well be resigned to cling to the ' old tree for years--yet Reuben was unsure of his pleasure. Lindsay Eckerman 29 On Biafra In the heart of the ancient fortress vassals bow~d today No matter wnat · the effort they couldn t t " ha"ve things their way C~n th~ flesh cleave the bone again? Will the stoned graves know of the contracts of peace? They asked so little and yet so much~ "Give me an ounce of freedom and a ray of hope; These things . the armour cannot trample." Monse11 Laury A Thousand Flakes of Snow From a thousand flakes of snow I pick but one, and oh So fair A stunning beauty, she is' !so ·$ oJtly fragile in the cold night air 0 . 0 I wish to wa,rm,. her in my grasp Only she a droplet would become; To mQtch the thousand tears I'd gasp At loss of her, my only one. Bruce Hanson 30 Protestanalogy Why do they lock the door? To keep you away from the tempting world? What happens when there is a need to go? And there is a need to goo Pound your clenched fist on the locked door It won't help You'll cry from pain and hurt Your hands will bleed from attempts to let you . out You're locked in.o • ••• out from the beauty time When you could see earth And not the world with innocence tempted and hurt With enthusiasm utilized for destruction Forced passion for cheap thrills You can't see the earth Without it's complications to make it world Hands that search for innocence only bleed You are locked up away from innocence You must learn corrupt jon hate cruelty ' dirt You are not wise until you know this Then they give you the key But then you'll use it to get in away from'that beauty time of innocence Julia Drummond 31 John pulled a weed growing near the Peace Rose and straightened up to rest his aching back. . He thought longingly of the rocking chair in the deep shade of the west porch as he wiped his forehead with the faded blue sleeve of his work shirt. He remembered the names of only a few of ~he roses but he couldn't forget how Ollie had saved and scrimped with their small bu4get for months in order ~o send for this one after she had seen one over at the county fair. That had -been a ,good ,day • . .Their .younges.t, .Julia, ,and . , . her husband had driven 'o ver from Newton early' enough to take· her parents, to the fair .. Of course, Ollie. hadn't been able to do much walking, as her trouble with ~er heart had started by then. But they went through the fine .arts building and.sat . down where they .could visit ,with ,many old friends. Ollie ' had seen the new rose in the flower exhibits and by asking around, she had found where to send for-t·t · and how · much it · cos·t ·. · Now the rose grew here in this home garden. The blossoms were perfect and 'John resented it. How could it be so alive, so vigorqos, when the one who had so wanted it to bloom here was sleeping over the hill under that heavy gray stone. John told himself that he had done the best he could for Ollie. Hadn't he bought this little place, only three "rooms with a small yard, thp very week old Doc had told him Ollie must cut down, . not do .'so much, never climb stairs. The home across on the ther side of Danbury stood without a buyer for many months. He had dug holes and set out Ollie's flowers, carting box after box of roots until the old place had finally sold. He watered and staked at her direction, did everything she wanted done--even if flowers had always seemed impractical to him. Out on the homestead when he was a boy, they had never had enough water ~o spare for anything that wasn't edible. Ha had always said the vegetables were just as pretty as the flowers, anyway. For sure they had tasted good and were ' such a relief from th~ salt meat,beans and rice of late wint ~r and early spring. They had all laughed over anyone's f ooli 3hness to spend any time on work tha~ didn't give macerial benefits. 32 < Gradually after he married Ollie, she had sh9WTI him how a woman could get a pleasure from ;. €e\i·:;tflowt .. He had tolerated her desires because of the happy home she made and the gar times she and the young ones were always surprising him with. He remembered the time' he came home with the news his job had been cut to four days a week instead of six and what did she do but pop corn and plan that they could all work together on the garden and a hen houseQ They did, too, and managed to have enough to live on during those hard ,days. John started for the rocker on the porch, but noticed a rock in the rock pile had slipped and was crushing some of the green chicks of , the plant calJed a mother hen. Ollie wouldn't nave let mt -go so ~e went to -tpe .: shed to get a cY9wbar to pry t~e rock in~o its own placeo 'c bnld hardly. resist jabbing plants but afterward he could almost hear Ollie's "thank you, John." So he fell to weeding again. "Dang flowers," he thought, "not worth a thing." But he knew how to care for their needs; the years he had spent raising most of the family's food had taught him that muche His greatest satisfaction had been to take a prize-worthy c~~~-to the kitchen where Ollie turned it into wonderful mea.ls. Didn't seem to be any pol.nt to raising the vegetable garden this yp ~ r; he had let it go to graS50 What good was the best roa3ting ear without Ollie to admire it? The weeding among the roses was done finally and John slowly made his way into the kitchen to heat up a can of soup for his lunche "I'll have to get at those things on the north side this afternoon," he thought; but instead he sat and smoied without picking up the disheso They would soon be in bloom-he did..u.:.J;" iJltend to ,see their bronz~_Jices at allo He woul(.~wee~ ~em today ~-~ ~~t the mowing done over there tomorrow and he wouldn't gP Dack to that side of the house 'till after the frost had ' ~11ed everything down to the ground. 33 0 He Because last year that was where he had found her--his Ollie, l ying on the ground with her arm still cradling a chrysanthemum bouquet. The look on her face had been surprise and pain. He had carried her to the bedroom and the flowers had gone along~ blocking his view both of her and where he was going. When he laid her down they spilled over her, the bed, and his feet. Impatiently, he brushed them away. She started to whisper, "Take careo ••••• ," then a heavy breath had shuddered through her and she was gonec No, he wouldn't look at those ugly bronze spikes, but he would "take careo" Her love .had .gone .into , the garden·,· she· had always given more strength than she could afford to keep all those plants looking nices So he kept it up, too, hating all the living things out there for their ability to seem the same as always. Marcia Decker The Kite I took a piece of paper And with wood and string I built a fragile kite. I poured my skill, My heart and my soul Through its delicate frame, And with anxious hands I hurled my kite Into the swirling sky. What are the hopes of man But kites in the wind? Encouraged only by a breeze Of hope and love, Man casts hi~ 4eep.est desires Into a raging sea Of sky and cloud; There they soar-Or are dashed upon the earth. Robert Birkby 34 Blindmanis Bluff Someone put a blindfold on me Made me spin like a top faster and faster forever and ever Faster around and then they turned me loose and told me to spin where I mighto But I can't see where I'm going Or feel where I am And somehow I think The world and I Are spinning in opposite directions. Merilynn Knowles Springtime o take a breath of springtime. o smell the automobilesQ The scent of the cattle at slaughter time Is like nothing else one feels. The beautiful vision of chemical smoke, And the flavor of library paste As you sip your tall cool glass Of refreshing industrial waste Are the results of living "high on the hogo" Don't you love the glorious fragrance of smog? William Weinmann 35 " ••• and at length came out the same door Where in I went~ and only this I know I came lIke water; like wind I go. --Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam The church began to fill with early evening gloom, a gloom surrounding beginnings and endings a An old man sat in thf quiet not moving. Three long days ago one of the important things in his life had gone. Ceased, Left a hole. The preacher had intoned the passing. Many old women ha~ wept. Now they were gone. And nothing was lefto . The old man sat gazing fixedly. Steady heartbeats marked the passing of time. At last he arose shaking his head and walked slowly between the pp~so At the Go)r he stopn~d and looked around at the little federa,)":ed church Which was built •• ahe could not remember when. Finally he went out into the cold clear autumn wonde1:'i ng at ·himselfo Later in the rusty dull~green pick-I,,') he looked, as if for the first time, at the fields through - which the road took him. The sun was going when he pulled .into the farm ·' Yard. He closed the creaking door of the truck and stood looking for a moment at all the things that had seemed permanent to him. Then walked out past the barn along the path to the fields. 36 The sun was -gone, but the glow remained; the darkening sky was clear blue. He left the path and walked out across the furrows and the stubble thinking of seasons, remembering harvests. He stood a lone time transfixed, His eyes on the far horizon, Hearing only the sound of his breathing, Steady heartbeats marking the passing of time, Something strugglingo •• inside ••• unti1 the light was gone. He sighed. He shook his head not sadly but with a little shrug and walked back to the house in the gloom. Peter Farley 37 "Give me two cards, BillG" Two cards, I said o God, that bastard would cheat his own grandmothero "Thank you, Williamo How are the wife and kids?" Well you ought to knowQ "Hey~ they're fine , Jacko Betty said you dropped by last n i ght ~ Here are your two cardso Got openers?" " Sure do." Ha! If you onl y knew" You might say I dropped by last night. "How's that hand, Pete?" You going to bluff you way into the money again tonight? "Well I've seen better hands, but I'll keep what I have." You bet I'll keep what I have! "Glad you coul d make it on such short notic e~ Harold." We real ly had to scratch the barrel bottomo "Gosh yes , I love to play poker . I pl ay it a l l the time. Can I have f our ca rds ?" I wonder wha t t hey have" "Well , Harold," Oh Jes us! "tonight we're pl aying a new game, gues s we f orgot to t ell you o" Dumb shit! "You can only get three at the most." "Oh, wel l , I'll take three then I hope that's enough Gol ly, I've go t one ace, an' a two ••• if only two's were wilda Maybe I'll get three aces. "O.K., Jack, open fer up." "Twenty for a looko" I ought to give you twenty "You think you'll make it, Pete?" "Twenty, huh? I don't knowo" You sure made it last nighte I wonder if Jack "I'll see you twenty and raise you the same." "You gotta go forty to stay in the game, Harold." "You don't mean forty dollars, Jack?" Oh golly, I can't •• Goh·heck, I'll make a sale this week. "Yeah, forty." Looks like a good night. "Well, I don't carry that- much money with me.o.can I write you out an IOU? I do have a good hand." I'll bet! "O.K., I'll see the forty and call. How's the job, Bill?" Ha-"Well, business is a little slow. I've got a pair of kings. Betty said you're doing wello" Among other things 0 0 0 0 38 f Go to hell. "Yeah, I just got the franchise on that restaurant chain. It'll supplement my selling What you got, Pete?" "Looks like a good night, four eights. Is that good enough, Harold? I hear you're in for an advancement, Bill." Rub it in, Pete. "Well, not this time. They think I should stay in my territory and develop the potential there What do you have\! Harold?" "Well, if only two's were wild. I have an ace and a two and three fives." The other three together, Oh Jesus! "That's teo bad, Harold I have three deuces. You got it again, Peteo" And againo "I got it again. I just can't break a streak of bad lucko Can -I write -you an IOU, Pete?" "Sure, Harold. Looks like you'll be selling for me- this week You're deal, Bill." "We'll play the same _ gam~. this hand. I understand you won that trip tn Florida. You taking the family with you, Jack? ' "Yeah, I got . it .again, but the _ (ids have to stay in school ~o Betty will stay here with themo" 0 0 0 0 Doug Johnson 39  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Perspectives: Volume 29, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Kiosk Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Perspectives contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dillard, T. R.: Author Larson, Laura: Author Huffman, Janet: Author Baldwin, Dave: Author Laury, Monsell: Author Stanley, Chris: Author Wong, David: Author Parent, Kris: Author Davis, Harry: Author Gors, Margaret: Artist Blaum, J.: Artist Nelson, Stan: Artist Lischefska, Kris: Author Bear, T.: Author Farley, Peter: Author Mallison, Susan: Author Eckerman, Lindsay: Author Hanson, Bruce: Author Drummond, Julia: Author Decker, Marcia: Author Birkby, Robert: Author Knowles, Merilynn: Author Weinmann, William: Author Johnson, Doug: Author Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1970 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-12-11 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-12-11 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Decker, Marcia: Editorial Board Gates, Randall J.: Editorial Board Hellyer, Linda: Editorial Board Newell, Jane: Editorial Board Nelson, Stan: Cover Design; Art Consultant Gasque, A.T.: Advisor Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical 44 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kiosk Manuscript Perspectives student publications http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/f82a3b3035ce6847f11f7cb047c6047b.pdf 46d40ed0c6a3c1aec4077cd2c3eb953b Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Kiosk: Volume 71 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Perspectives Manuscript Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource This PDF file of the Kiosk contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ponder, Marcie Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2013-01-13 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-28 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-28 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF 11.1 MB 72 Pages Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Kiosk-Vol71_KDC_2010_01-01_01.pdf Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. McKinley, Aly: Cataloger PDF Text Text kiosk THE ART AND LITERARY MAGAZINE OF MORNINGS IDE COLLEGE 2009 ��kiosk VOLUME 71 2009 THE ART AND LITERARY MAGAZINE OF MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE KIOSK09 3 • �STAFF EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Audrey Hantla FICTION NON-FICTION Associate Editor Associate Editor Phil Lieder Adrianna Radosti Kyle Bubb Tyrel Drey Shea Hartmann Hodges Lindsay Washburn Marcie Ponder Kristina Sturm POETRY COPY EDITING Associate Editor Emily Domayer Marcie Ponder Alicia Prewett Gregory Anderson Maggie Konecne Mack Maschmeier Colin O'Sullivan ART Visual Editor Faculty Advisors Alicia Runyan Stephen Coyne John Kolbo Terri McGaffin Assistant Editors Lindsey Siepker Anne Torkelson ABOUT OUR JUDGES: Marvin Bell (1937 -) an American poet, is famous for creating "dead man" poems. He also taught for many years at the famed Writers Workshop at the University of Iowa. Bell was born in New York City. He earned his bachelor's degree from Alfred University, master's degree from the University of Chicago, and his MFA from the University of Iowa. He has written 16 books of poetry. Honors for his work include Guggenheim and NEA fellowships , and Fulbright appointments in Yugoslavia and Australia. In 2000 Bell was appointed as the first Poet Laureate for the state of Iowa. Mark Kochen is a serial artist from Sioux City. He is currently teaching painting at WITCe. Mark spends most of his time painting stuff on stuff in his studio in Leeds. Christine McAvoy has been part of the G.R. Lindblade &: Company creative team for 20 years. As Creative Director, Christine works in still photography and videography. Images of her work from Saturday in the Park appear in the book and DVD , All Access, which has won a Telly Award in 2006, a Millennium Award and a Communicator Award in 2005. 4 KIOSK09 �LETTER FROM THE EDITOR "Good art can not be immoral. By good art I mean art that bears true witness, I mean the art that is most precise." EZRA P OUND Dear old Ezra put it best. Over the last 71 years, the Kiosk has had three names, dozens of editors, numerous formatting and style improvements, and an increase in submissions. The Kiosk has morphed from a slim chapbook to a thick, glossy magazine. Despite all these changes, one thing remains the same- honesty. . To portray honestly the human condItion, the world, and our place in it is a goal writers and artists strive for in every draftsomething extremely difficult to achieve but invaluable in its effect. The "true witness" Pound mentions allows us to see , for a moment into lives that are not our own. Honest writi~g provides us with a vivid view that we otherwise would never get to experience. The Kiosk has always strived to showcase literature and art that portray familiar subjects but present them from new perspectives. Many of the subjects in this year's offering aren't traditionally pleasant: a patient's isolation in a hospital, a young girl struggling with depression, a boy's curiosity as he watches his dying aunt; but the wnters have found ways to write honestly and to cast the truth in new and unusual lights . I would like to commend the contributors to the Kiosk for their work; submitting takes courage. The act of creation is by nature personal. All art contains some piece of the artist; all stories or poems contain truths from the writers' lives . When students submit their works to the Kiosk, they are revealing parts of themselves to the community; they also face the chance of rejection. For such actions, their courage should be commended. I would like to extend thanks to President John Reynders, who has supported the Kiosk's growth and made the improvements of the last five years possible. The Kiosk has been a finalist in the Pacemaker Award, sponsored by the Associated Collegiate Press, and has received a gold medal from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association. Thank you to the Associate Editors Gregory Anderson, Philip Lieder, and Adrianna Radosti for their commitment to the poetry, fiction and non-fiction departments as well as to all members of the editorial boards and to our proof reading team: Emily Domayer and Alicia Prewett. I am also grateful to Art Editor Alicia Runyan, and her faculty advisors Instructor John Kolbo and Assistant Professor Terri McGaffin, who have played crucial roles in the design of the magazine as well as in managing the artwork. I would also like to thank everyone in the English Department, espeCially to Administrative Assistant Marcie Ponder for her commitment to help out with any problem, big or small. . Absolutely none of this would be pOSSIble without the advice and guidance of Professor of English and advisor to the Kiosk Steve Coyne. In the past few months he has served as a mentor to the process, and at times , an ear to the troubles that go along with editing a magazine. Steve, thank you . You have truly kept me sane. Finally, I would like to thank you, the reader. Without you, the Kiosk would have no audience. So sit back and enjoy this collection of the literature and art of Morningside College. AUDREY HANTLA Editor·in{hief KIOSK09 5 �CONTENTS All entries are considered objectively by the judges with no artist name or special consideration for any piece. Assistant editors are eligible for contest placement but not prize money. 6 KIOSK09 �ART The Path Remembered WYETH LYNCH Cover The Wicked Donut JASMINE RICHARDS The Great Train ToNY WILEY 13 Fingers and Toes SASHA BACKHAUS 15 My Protector ALICIA RUNYAN 19 Blissful Ignorance ANNE TORKELSON 21 Door Knob ALYSSA FILIPEK 22 Untitled ANNIKA KOLBO 25 Finding Light ANNE TORKELSON 27 Posterior View AMY FOLTZ 29 Obama MACK MASCHMEIER 33 Mix SARAH CHAMBERS 34 Welcome to Pizza Ranch ANNIKA KOLBO 36 Hurley MYLA CURRY 40 Saturday in the Park SEAN DELPERDANG 40 Canine Essence ALICIA RUNYAN 40 Lights MACK MASCHMEIER 41 Seating Patterns BECCA BAUER 41 Morningside Mascot PATRICK OXEN DALE 41 How the Mighty Have Fallen BECCA BAUER 42 Industry WYETH LYNCH 42 Russian Princess BREANNE EVANS 43 Black and White LESLIE DEPEEL 43 Trio SARAH CHAMBERS 43 Rail Bridge JOSH BECKWITH 45 Autumns Last Dance NICOLE RApHAEL 47 Untitled HOLLY BECKER 49 City of Green MYLA CURRY 51 Mr. Bear JOHN BOWITZ 53 Crushed Pepsi ALYSSA FILIPEK 56 Moment BREANNE EVANS 58 Arrow Shoe AMY FOLTZ .,0"1 <"., ~, 62 '" ~ 20 0 9 n 8 tlOf~ 2 009 ~t_~ .. .. ~ 2009 , p~ ~41~ 2 00 9 K IOSK09 7 �A SHORT STORY THE TEDDY BEAR BY TYREL DREY T he teddy bear glared at me with its black beady eyes, smiling coyly in its orange overalls, staring at me, taunting me. The teacher had begun calling out names: Adams, Brennan, Brown, Christophsen, Dahm, Flannigan, Frank. .. It hung in the air, taunting me, mocking me, bringing my first day of kindergarten to an ominous failure. Each child, as their name T E WICKED DONUT H by Jasmine Richards relief print was called, got up to receive their star. A shiny, golden star. Most of the kids ended up tearing off one of the edges as they received it from the teacher. Stupid kids. I wouldn't have torn the star- I'd have kept it pristine in its golden splendor. I longed to place it next to my name on the board. I stared back at that bear. That damn 8 KIOSK09 bear; grinning, triumphant, knowing it had beaten me. We started kindergarten with a few simple rules- the most important: raise your hand and wait to be called on. That rule would always haunt me. I was articulate and outgoing. I could do anything, except raise my hand. We started out with two buttons on our bear, one over each strap on the bear's bib overalls. If we broke a rule, one of the buttons was removed. If we finished the day with a button on the bear, we got a gold star on our chart, and after thirty gold stars , got a free pencil. Not just any pencil, no I had a desk full of regular pencils. These were bright, vibrant, multi-colored pencils. I wanted one. I wanted one badly But I'd lost both of my buttons. No buttons, no gold star, no pencil. I'd failed. And I sat there watching the kids hastily put their stars on the chart. They walked over to the board and back to their seats with smiles of satisfaction on their faces. Smiles of satisfaction just like the bear's. Taunting smiles, each mocking me unintentionally Stupid kids putting their torn stars on their charts. Not even putting them on well. They were all off center, without a point pointing up like on a real star. If the kids weren't so stupid I wouldn't even be in this mess. We would go around the room, letting everyone try at an answer- me sitting in my desk, waving my hand, straining to draw the teacher's attention. I knew the answer. Looking back I don't even remember the question, but I remember deciding that maybe if I just answered we could move on. I remember giving the answer out of turn and being right. I remember her taking my button and saying not to talk out of turn. I remember the twinge of anger that poked into my glorious first day of school and broke away the grand illusion I had about my education. I remember being punished for being right, for knowing the answer. What's the point of �letting people be wrong? What's the point of letting children get laughed at because they answered wrong? Why not let me answer, get it right, and move on? I sat there , nearly in tears as the teacher dismissed us. My mom was waiting for me outside. She had a big grin, and was surprised that her chatty son was no longer glowing with the excitement he'd had earlier that morning. I didn't say much on the ride home . I was trying not to cry and let the shame out , let her know that I was a failure. What if they didn't let me come back because I lost my buttons? What if my mom was angry because I was right, and they punished me and didn't let me go back to my friends? We got home , and my mom asked me what went wrong. I let it go. I started crying and through the tears of my failure explained the story of my lost buttons. The story of my failure on the first day of school. "I see," she said. She searched for a change of subject. "But your teacher likes you right?" I assured her that Mrs. Brown loved all the children, and I'm sure it wasn't any personal dislike for me that spurred the incident. I cried for a bit longer. Eventually my dad arrived home, and I sat in my room and played with my Lego's while he and my mom talked. I loved my Lego's. I could build for hours, and since I had my own room, I could leave them in a heap on the floor, and never clean them up- until my mom told me to , but usually then I decided to play with them more- that way I didn't have to pick them up . My dad was concerned that I wasn't buzzing around the house with the day's adventures as I usually was. I listened as my mom explained it to him. I couldn't bear to hear the retelling of my day's mistakes. I decided that Lego's were stupid. Stupid Lego's . I went and played in the sand box where there weren't any stupid Lego's and I didn't have to listen to my mom talk about that stupid bear anymore . Stupid bear, stupid Lego's, stupid sandbox. You can't kneel down in sand. It sticks to your legs and gets you dirty and leaves stupid red marks on your legs. Stupid sand , I hate sand, I hate Lego's, I hate stupid grinning teddy bears in stupid orange overalls , and I hate stupid kindergarten and stupid kids who tear their stupid stars and get stupid multicolored pencils with glitter on them. I went and sat on the wrap-around porch. There wasn't any stupid sand there . My dad came out and sat "I beside me on the steps. "So ," he said, lighting a cigarette. "I hear you had a rough day" I nodded because couldn't talk. I was going to cry again. I didn't want to cry in front of my dad. Not that he would care; I'd done it plenty of times before . I didn't want to cry because that meant I cared. I cared about stupid bears and buttons and stars and kindergarten. I cared a lot. A lot more than I should have . "So explain this bear thing to me. I don't quite get it," he said, exhaling smoke into the surrounding air. I retold the tale ofthe buttons, bears, reiterating how stupid they were. I told him how I knew the answer but the teacher wouldn't call on me again. He looked at me and said, "So if you lose the buttons on your bear, you miss recess time?" "No ... " Where was he going with this? "So then they put you in time out. " "N 0" ,, " I said once again. "Well then what really happens?" It was more of a statement than a question. "Well.. ." I paused. Nothing really I thought for a moment. "Well, you don't get one of the stupid pencils." "Oh, so you really want a pencil ," he proclaimed, as if insight was dawning on him. couldn't bear to hear the retelling of my day's mistakes." KIOSK09 9 ��LA VISTA DALLA TERRAZZA DELLA QUARTA (THE VIEW FROM THE FOURTH TERRACE) Somewhere along the line , I lost the poems of my youth. Stoic Midwest ghosts that lurk inside of me still recall the night the stinking water came , and place the blame on the Flood of '93: Basement walls sprung leaks, and they could not contain the water: Boxes, boxes! Papers and clothes! All soaked beyond saving, thanks to springtime rains. All that paper, steeped in water, growing mold; papers too old to sort, much too old to save. The work of my youth, even by then too old: Now, I'm not so sure: We threw it all away? Suppose there wasn't a noble tragedy; Suppose the truth is less, something more mundane: Just misplaced . .. No irony, no comedy. Then, perhaps , that sacred book is still around, buried under weight of age : Banality. Then some day, my youthful poems may be foundAnd I'll see the words I worked so hard to find . And I'll hear my youthful voice again: the sound, the rhythms and patterns , the beats and the rhymes. Somewhere in this place , I'm sure it's packed away, with the visions and dreams of a youthful mind. Even then I knew it's something I should save; something I would want to see again, because once upon a time , I had so much to say. DANIEL ANDERSON KIOSK09 II �JUST OFF THE HIGHWAY, ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF TOWN Dashboard collection of red sand from the valley between the Dragoons and Chirakowa Mountains , rocks, shells, a green smiling Buddha and a snow globe from Tennessee. Like mantras , they travel alongside me. So I don't feel abandoned in the great open range of Arizona. Today her bareness will not seduce me. I have in mind a Minnesotan woman, one-sixteenth Santee Sioux, who is all that I could ever believe. Her skin is gentle, her lips taste like cocoa butter, her eyes full of mischief, and her passion calls me up north to the land of lakes and curdled cheese. Out past my bumper, on the tail of a white-beat up Lebaron one sticker reads "I heart S Carolina" and another "If you can read this you're an ASSHOLE. " I pass them doing sixty, and the driver is busy adjusting her baby's car seat. I imagine she is wearing a tee-shirta Tasmanian Devil tee-shirt decorated with baby formula and spaghetti sauce from last night. Arizona I am leaving you, your dry heat, wide roads and easy parking. I am leaving friends from the Atomic Comic book store. Bye Bonnie, bye Rhonda , bye Eric, Rick and Christina. Buddha's still laughing, looking and laughing at me- the one who hasn't got the smarts to stay home . I camp on a reservation, right outside Taos, New Mexico . 12 KIOSK09 �I find a free camping site. It's full of snow birds , at their prime ages , all over sixty They are making the same trek as me , only in the opposite direction. For dinner I have a forty of Mickey's malt liquor and some hot dogs, warmed up over a fire of twigs and leaves . Little packs of dogs run past every once and a while . Signs have warned me not to feed them. So instead I wonder what it would be like to be a wild dog in these times. Is it easier than following the hunters and the gathers? I can't decide so I sit back and watch as the stars start to show. All around me are RVs , monstrous and elaborate. It is suddenly strange that they carry everything and camp in the air conditioning. C OLIN O'SULLIVAN THE GREAT TRAIN byTonyW iley digitol photogroph KIOSK09 13 �A SHORT STORY THE PREGNANCY KNOT BY RANDY UHL T he boy sat on the floor behind her; she between his legs and leaning forward, his thumbs firmly pushing and kneading the seventh month pressure that had given birth to her pregnancy knot. Beginning at the small of her back with little circular motions, he worked his way up the map of her body and back down until guttural sounds leaked from her mouth. Responding to his adolescent touch, her body arched making her mountainous stomach rise up like Kilimanjaro with her copper hair thrown back into his face. He buried his nose in the crimson and grew dizzy in the smell of licorice. They had this daily habit of conjuring baby names, one each, offering one at a time, hoping that the perfect name would slide through the ether and choose them. "Horton," the boy said, half proud of his choice. ''I'm not sure about that one." "Why?" "It sounds heavy." "Heavy can be good." "Everything is already too heavy ... hearts, hands." The boy stopped what he was doing and let his fingers rest at his side. "What's yours then?" The girl thought beyond the ticking clock on the headboard of the boy's bed and focused instead on the statue of Buddha they purchased in a downtown deli. Realizing his hands were empty, she pushed back to remind him that the knot was still there. His hands continued the work. "I like the name Ernest," she said. "Can we call him Ernie?" "Ernest. Yes. It makes him sound determined; like it was his decision." "As long as we can call him Ernie," and "A far-away gaze settled in her eyes and she stared at a map of Europe ... countries outlined in red where someday they would travel." 14 KIOSK09 then as if it was an afterthought, "What if the baby is a girl?" Without flinching she replied, "He's a boy," and giggled and said under her breath, "I've had a boy inside me before. I know what it feels like ." "Beg your pardon." She shook her head. "Never mind." Reaching up, she took the glass of milk from the night stand and drank. The girl looked about the boy's room, which was clean and well-lit and not at all like her own house, her parent's house . A far-away gaze settled in her eyes and she stared at a map of Europe, creased by longago folding and edges peeled, taped to his wall; countries outlined in red where someday they would travel. "Sadie," the boy hesitated, "have your parents come around?" The girl hesitated and added a sigh . "My mother's still upset that I didn't go through with it. She says I'm too young to know what I'm giving up. My father won't talk about it. He's worried about how it will look. .. concerned about money, afraid we'll go belly-up. He talks around it, and I sit there; the white elephant in the room." "Pink," the boy said. "Huh?" "Pink- it's the pink elephant in the room that no one talks about." "Does the color really matter?" 'Tm not sure. I think so." "Why should it matter what color it is? White, pink, grey. If there's an elephant in the room someone should mention it." "I suppose." The boy nodded. "Find me someone who wouldn't talk about the elephant." "I don't think I could ." "Speaking of elephants," she wavered for a moment and continued, "I never asked this before, but what ran through your mind when I told you?" �The boy paused , 'The second you told me I never wanted to see you again. Now, whenever I walk in a room, you're the first person I look for." He took the glass of milk from her, brought it to his lips and finished it. He set it back on the night stand as a small white snail of milk slowly crawled down the side . He jumped to his feet , bent forward, slid his forearms under her arm pits and slowly, as if they had practiced this many times , craned her upright until she was standing firmly on her own. The girl turned and faced the boy and enfolded her arms around his neck while he automatically shifted his torso to the right. This was something they had taught themselves; to show affection for each other without letting her stomach get in the way. She kissed him on the cheek, and then rested her forehead against his chest. After kissing the crest of her head the boy noticed something the girl couldn't for the past two months. "Your shoe is untied. Let me." He knelt down on one knee, and not for the last time, to tie her shoe . Smiling, with a catch in her throat, the girl instructed , "Make it tight. " He took the two white laces in each hand, wound them, looped them around his thumbs, and pulled them hard together. He watched the knot get smaller until it practically disappeared and the two strings looked as if they were one . Standing, the boy noticed her watered eyes and said, "Are you alright?" "I feel fine," she said. "There's nothing wrong with me. I feel fine ." FINGE AND TOE RS S by Sash a Ba(khaus mixed media drawing KIOSK09 IS �To SPEAK OF HORSES I sit cross-legged and still in my grandparents' living room, listening to my dad and uncles. They are talking with my grandfather about the horses. Which one sired that one, and who broke it again? The dapple, the strong bay, an appaloosa, old Duke, now that was a horse. Near sixteen hands and lived to be thirty-two. Never another like him, not before and not since. A smell wafts through and teases my nostrils, a mix of starches, potato water and gravy. In the kitchen are the Aunts. Dodi, plagued by silent dissatisfaction, her voice and hips thick with Pennsylvania Dutch. She screams at her children and makes my mother seem not so bad after all. An argument begins in the living room, uncle against uncle, but neither is right. Noone really remembers when they got the yearling, but the old man has the final say, and he knows damn well it was 1963. LINDSAY WASHBURN 16 KIOSK09 �THE DEAD MAN Is NOT HERE Live as if you were already dead. Z EN ADMONITION More about the dead man. MARVIN BELL I sleep where the dead man died . I bought the dead man's house and the dead man's bed, and I sleep in the dead man's room. He was an engineer, and I think he greased the tracks between here and not here because when I close my eyes at night, a tunnel swallows me, and I barrel through the dark, hand on the throttle, eyes riveted to the blackness. What trust it takes to follow a road we cannot see, did not make, do not really trust. I must abandon myself to the dead man when I sleep, blowing at crossings for the sheer joy of speed. The horn of our apocalypse stops services at the churches we pass. We roar through sermons- You cannot stand in the way of this train. Climb aboard or be destroyed. These dreams leave me spent in the mornings. I know I have been not here and I have seen what I did not see and know it exists because I did not see it. This is what the dead man tries to teach about being not here, but it's what I refuse to learn. And that's why I find myself each morning exactly where I left me the night before. STEPHEN C OYNE KIOSK09 17 �A PIECE OF CREATIVE NON -F ICTION POVERTY FEEDS ITSELF BY KRYSTAL SHEARER I can't remember the word "poor" being used to describe me when I was growing up. I can't remember the specij1c arguments between my parents. Only that they involved money, something I had no clue about. I do remember in the beginning of my elementary school career the feeling of my cold toes under tattered blankets in a house with no heat. I remember winters spent in misery and torment- coming home from first, second, and third grades from a cozy classroom to a frigid house. We couldn't afford the heat, so we used the ancient wood stove that must have been built during the same time period as the house- early 1900s- and was just as inefficient at holding heat as the thin and cracked wood paneling on the walls. The fake forest backdrop on one wall- wallpaper put up by residents before us- made me feel as though I was constantly camping out. Adding to the illusion of camping: my family crowding around our little wood stove, burning hot on our fronts , freezing cold on our backs. I remember not having all the TV channels that everyone else grew up with- what is Nickelodeon? What is TNT? What's Cinemax, the channel that all the other kids in sixth grade talk about, with sly and sneaky glances to make sure their friends are listening? I had no idea I was poor, no clue that I had the reduced price meal plan at school and that teachers liked my bold personality, not just because I stood out, but because I was overcoming something I knew nothing about. To be politically correct, I was very close to- but not quite touching- the poverty line. I went through grade school close to, but never quite hitting, poverty, in mismatched hand-me-down clothes that made me the brunt of the joke, the weird kid, the slightly smelly little girl with ragged red hair and chubby cheeks that could never be outgrown. The poverty threshold for 2006 for two people plus one child was $16 ,227 total income , before taxes. The poverty threshold 18 KIOSK09 is the financial line that separates people or families who are in poverty from those who are not. By the Census Bureau's definition, "the dollar amounts used to determine poverty status. " But how far, by a Morningside College student's normal standards of living, can an income of $16,227 get you? A semester of education with a few thousand dollars left over- half a year of school for a year of pay. Why waste the money? For someone in poverty, college is not generally the first priority. So how much does it actually cost for an average family comparable to my own consisting of two adults and one child to live in a year? Let's assume the child is around fourth grade , as I was, and the parents were in their late thirties , as mine were. In my small Iowa town, house payments each month amounted to about $500 , groceries were about $150 a month (we bought the cheap brands as well), we had old cars so rather than having car payments , we had the possibility of making unexpected repairs. Electric bills were about $200. Cable, internet , and telephone all combined would be about $100. Two cell phones would be about $60. Insurance for both the house and two cars were about $125/month, and a family plan for health insurance would be around $320. One month of living for this family would be around $1,455. But if you divide the $16 ,227 yearly income up into twelve months, the average pay for one month would be about $1,352 , which is $103 short of what you would need to cover general costs of living. These costs don't include miscellaneous expenses , such as gas , clothing, holidays, or even taxes. The U.S . takes very few personal aspects of life into account in the process of measuring poverty status. The U.S. Census Bureau uses a set of income thresholds that vary by family size and composition in order to determine who is in poverty. The thresholds are the minimum amount of money a per- �son is supposed to be able to eat off of for a year, times three- not taking into account the taxes they payor any number of other circumstances that may significantly reduce the amount of money they are actually able to spend. If a family's total income is less than the family's threshold (so that each person has the minimum dollar amount that allows them to eat all year), then they are considered to be in poverty. These thresholds are "equal" throughout the United States- the set dollar amount does not vary geographically, although there is definitely a difference in cost of practically everything in the Midwest vs. on the coasts. The poverty thresholds vary each year, but only to update them for inflation, according to the Consumer Price Index. It's hard to see that, under all the figures and perceptions of poverty, people live on this bare income. Our lights were out again- I think Mom said something about Jorgetting to pay the bill but I knew better. This was the third time in three months, and I thought she overspent her paycheck again. The wood-paneled walls oj our living room in combination with the mock-Jorest backdrop gave me the chills and my over-active Jourth grade imagination produced terrible prowling animals between the 2D trees, flashing eyes and sharp teeth. The woodstove was our only source oj heat and light, although it produced very little oj both, so Dad stomped off to find another light. Returning with a blackened, cold lantern in his hand, he stooped down with a match in his thick, gnarled mechanic's hands. The lantern flared into bold, golden light, the two small and deflated bags transJorming into twin suns. My cold hands reached out in wonder toward the vibrant source oj light, maybe even happiness, reaching through the open door to touch the balls oj radiance. My parents began to shout too late and the pain turned me stupid. I screamed and jumped. The lantern tipped ominously, and the three oj us watched it shatter over the bare floor, the flame instantly extinguished. My screams turned to sobs. I longed Jor the glow I had naIvely doused. It's such a confusing thing, poverty. The media has skewed the public's view of the poorest regions of the U.S.- stereotypes that include Single mothers with too many kids to count, black Americans that somehow can't get back on their feet , dodgy characters My PROT ECTOR byAlicia Runy on charcoal all drugged up , and the one shining figure among them all that breaks free and becomes a millionaire . Somehow that poverty-stricken hero prevails , no matter that there are very few individuals who manage to break out of the vicious cycle of poverty. The movie The Pursuit oj Happyness holds one of the most common misconceptions among the upper-middle class , especially in childrenthe belief that "You can do anything if you try your hardest! " KIOSK09 19 �The classroom was alive with debate over an issue most of the students hadn't given much thought to before. Set up into four separate clusters of desks, the twelve of us had been chattering on about the morality of something or other in our textbooks. Normally I am decent friends with most of the class, but now I glared at my peers in frustration- how could these spoiled, under-challenged, over-privileged children who've had everything they own handed to them in a basket with a bow ever understand poverty? The point was, they didn't. Even the noticeably intelligent girl who I respected, didn't have a clue. She was leading the pack, explaining to our professor how, "the life you live is the life you "My mom yanked at the choose" and other things steering wheel as though along these lines. Words she were navigating a ship failed me, but I was angry. My professor was, through a field of icebergs ... " too, and began to lecture us all on how the cycle of poverty worked, at first gently prodding us into understanding, and then verbally stomping in frustration when most of us didn't get the point. But eventually, he gave up, and after class I left in shocked anger at the ignorance that had surrounded me every day- and I had been just as ignorant in not knowing their beliefs as they were ignorant in believing them. I interviewed Patrick McKinlay, professor in Morningside College's political science department and director of the college's poverty simulation. He is trying to shine light on this dark and complex subject. His words are a saddening reminder of the utter selfishness of people. "We've learned to hate the poor because we're so afraid of becoming them, but the thing is, the poor are people too." Professor McKinlay broke free of generational poverty, the type of poorness that is passed through families, to become a role model for his students. He also oversees Morningside College's involvement with Americorps, a 20 KIOSK09 non-profit organization that spreads the word on the realities of poverty and tries to fight against the growing number of Americans in this cyclical financial disease. During a conversation on the causes of poverty and how students at an expensive private college view the poor, he shared some insights into what may be some of the leading causes of poverty: education problems- having no education, or having learning disabilities that add to the difficulty of an already over-burdened college career; poor preparation for accidents and unexpected expenses, such as a major financial setback if a car breaks down; and illness in one's family or in oneself that can financially and emotionally break a person. By the time I realized there was a real problem with my dad, we were already on the road to the hospital that was about fifteen minutes away. His face had been a ruddy, sick crimson color for the past two days, and his wispy hair lay in a halo around the shiny redness of his balding head. Pain was etched into the deepening lines of his face, and he clutched his hand to his chest. My mom yanked at the steering wheel as though she were navigating a ship through a field of icebergs, combing through her coarse dark hair, creating untamable fly -aways that tangled from the open car window. A sharp turn that left my head reeling and my dad gasping for breath took us into the hospital parking lot, and from there it became a dizzying blur of sterile whites and ugly seafoam greens. Someone in my family picked me up, and as we drove away I watched an ambulance speeding away, sirens a-blare, into the deepening dusk. Life takes twists and turns, and we have basically two choices: anticipate those twists and turns, or get off the road. There are so many levels of poverty, so much more than can't be done justice in a few pages. The cycle of poverty feeds off of itself- and the general population doesn't seem to understand. I �could wish for a better system, but that would not change enough. I could wish for more equal distributions of money, but there will always be those people who are in power and those who are completely without. What I wish for is compassion, understanding, in- formation, and the experience and tolerance to put up with the stupidity of the world. So until my wish morphs into something more tangible than the dust on a windowsill, life goes on, and the gap between the middle class and the poor widens into a canyon. BumUL IGNORANCE byA Torkelson nne intaglio print KIOSK09 21 �A SHORT ST O RY SLEEPWALKING BY GREGORY A N DERSON S he was 16 years old, 97 pounds and upset. Zoe had been watching the Discovery Channel and saw a lion sink its jaws into the back of a zebra, but the zebra just kept running. It wasn't that it was trying to run from fate. No it was too stupid for that. It DOOR KNOB byAlysso Filipek digitol photogroph 22 KIOSK09 just didn't even know it was dead yet. She flipped the channel- infomercial on an amazing sponge- flip Fox News- flip infomercial on weight loss- flip History Channel special on the end of the world- flip infomercial on amazing sponges again- off. She tossed the remote onto the coffee table and went to the bathroom. Zoe knew what she needed. She opened the medicine cabinet, grabbed her Ambien, and swallowed it with no water. She put the bottle back, but then took another one, just to make sure she'd fall asleep . She then took off all her clothes and stepped onto the scale. Her feet and fingers were freezing, not enough iron the doctors said , anemic. Not enough exercise the doctors said, lazy. The scale landed at ninety-seven again. Hadn't cracked a hundred yet. She wondered when she would. The girl walked naked through the darkness to her room and went to her desk. She pulled out an old Swiss Army knife , a present from dead Grandpa. Alive Grandpa didn't do shit, just lived in Arizona for the dry heat. Zoe took the knife and started carving into her door. She pushed hard. This was deep. It needed to be deep. When she was finished , she stepped back and could see her creation illuminated by the moonlight and streetlights: "Even death has her sleepwalkers." Proud of her vandalism, Zoe ambled to the bed and pulled the covers over her head. She had to get to sleep. There was school tomorrow; that was important , wasn't it? A test in American History tomorrow. That should have been important too , but it wasn't. Her hands were chilled, and her feet were like ice cubes. She wondered what it felt like when Mom put the pistol on her temple , if it was cold. She was 16 years old, 97 pounds and a half-orphan. Tomorrow should have been important. It was seven a.m . and she needed to get up. School started at eight, but that was when school started as the teachers always reminded her, not when she needed to get there . She had to be there before that , at the latest 7:55. She got up and went to the kitchen for some coffee. Dad had left some from earlier before he went to work. He was gone now, so she �could stroll around the house however she damn well pleased. Besides, she was going to get into the shower soon anyway. She poured herself some coffee , sat down at the kitchen table , and thought of a song her mom used to sing her, "Someone's in the Kitchen with Dinah," but now no one was in the kitchen Dinah. She was all alone. Before she took a shower, she had to shit. First she had to step on the scale. 97 again. She took the shit. She stepped on the scale again. 96 now. She'd lost a pound. At this rate, she'd disappear by summer. She looked down at her chest , but it looked no different than a boy's . At school , the caffeine wore off quickly. Everything was too fast and everyone was too loud. Hallways were the worst. All the echoes of pointless conversation and gossip ricocheted off aluminum lockers while the fluorescent bulb buzzed like bumblebees. It was too much. Zoe opened her locker. It was organized, but organization is easy when there's barely anything there. No posters, no pictures of friends, only schoolbooks , notebooks and her jacket. She could hear the clip-clop of stilettos approaching. It was Ruby, the redhead pothead. Ruby's stilettos made her look like an Amazon, as if she wasn't tall enough. Her breasts were the size of cantaloupes. Zoe glanced at them. How could she compete with her plums? "Hey hun," said Ruby, "you look awful. Sleep okay?" "Thanks sweetie," said Zoe. "Yeah, I think I got enough, to live anyway." "Me and Ashley are going to toke up after school in her garage. You're coming." "I can't, Ruby. I got a chiropractor's appointment after school." "Why the hell are you going to a chiropractor? And why didn't you schedule it during school?" "My back's killing me. And I didn't schedule it, my dad did. " "Well, maybe it wouldn't hurt so bad if you didn't slouch," said Ruby, sticking her chest out. "I can't this afternoon, but call me tonight, okay?" "I don't know, I'll be pretty baked." Zoe then felt a hard pinch on her ass. It wasn't Ruby. Every muscle tensed in Zoe's body. It was just some boy, completely random, but she hated it. She hated the fact that she went to school with such boys. She wanted a man, someone with hair on his chest who could grow a decent beard. All these high school boys, even the seniors, were just boys, and she could never date any of them. ''I'll try to call you, okay?" said Ruby, and she walked off to class. Zoe went the other way to American History with the test that was supposed to be important, but wasn't. She thought about getting high, which she hated doing with the friends that she hated, but they were the best she could afford. She sat in the waiting room and flipped through the magazines, but all they had were Chiropractic Monthly and Highlights for Kids . Who reads that kind of shit? Kids and chiropractors, she told herself. A plain , but not unattractive nurse came into the waiting room and called her name . The nurse told her to step on the scale. Why do they need to weigh her at the chiropractor? 97 pounds. Well, at least she was back up to 97. The nurse told her she needed to eat more , that she was all skin and bones. She said it in that flippant tone that was supposed suggest she wasn't entirely serious , but Zoe was serious about her weight. If she didn't start gaining soon, she'd disappear. The nurse led her into the examining room "She thought about getting high, which she hated doing with the friends that she hated, but they were the best she could afford. " KIOSK09 23 �and told her the doctor would be in soon. The nurse wasn't lying , he was in soon. He introduced himself as Dr. Robbins , but told Zoe she could just call him Sam. He didn't get into medicine for titles, and he laughed at himself even though what he said wasn't really funny. Zoe was very quiet and thought he looked the Brawny Paper Towel man. His shoulders were massive like a linebacker's and he must have been at least 6'5. When he questioned her about what was troubling her, she noticed his hands. They were enormous. She could tell they were rough too , like sandpaper. "Okay, then, lets get started," said Sam. "Just lie on that table ." He motioned towards the padded table that was almost vertical. "Don't worry, it moves down. " He laughed to himself again. She lay on the table and felt it moving toward horizontal. She then felt his hands on her neck and she was right, they were rough, but they were warm. It made her tense, but not like when the boy in the hallway pinched her. No, this was a good tension. It was like a million electrodes were jumping through her body sending warmth everywhere, even to her fingers and her toes. Sam made little noises to himself, little doctor noises like "hmm" and "I see" and "okay," like a child talking himself through a math problem. Then the hands were gone and she felt a tool on her back. It made clicking sounds , and Zoe could feel her spine align. Then the doctor took off her shoes and felt her feet. It didn't seem sexual for him. This was his job. He had gone to school for this. Through her socks, his fingers tickled. The warmth started spreading again. She could feel it in her secret, and she was scared and excited. He then put his hands on her butt and started adjusting again, and she on the verge . This was just his job. He didn't seem to know what Zoe was getting out of this. This is what she had been missing, why the 24 KIOSK09 boys couldn't satisfy her, why she hated to be touched by them. "Okay, I think we're all done," said Sam. "Call me if your back hurts again. It was pretty out of alignment, probably from too much slouching." And the doctor put his hand on Zoe's shoulder like she was his daughter and walked her out of the office, smiling, oblivious to what had just happened. She went home and the house was empty. Dad was still at work, always at work. Zoe had to take care of herself. Dad designed homes , new concept homes; they were supposed to look like turn-of-the-century houses but with all the modern amenities. He was always bUilding houses, but he was never home. She cooked a frozen pizza and ate it, then chugged three glasses of water. She took off her clothes, went to the bathroom, and weighed herself. 99 pounds. So close. She then went to her room and lay on the bed. She closed her eyes and started thinking about Sam, the stone man, her Brawny Paper Towel man. Her hands crept over her body and they were cold. All her extremities were cold, her nose , her toes and especially her fingertips , but ah, her core was burning, her secret was burning and her hands crept down her belly button until they got to her secret. She thought about what the doctor's hands would feel like down there , examining, inspecting, adjusting. She wondered what his face would feel like against hers. Would his beard be scratchy? Then her daddy was in the fantasy, but she didn't want him there. He didn't get to watch so she tried to shut him out, but the more she tried not to have him there the more he kept popping up like a peeping tom, watching her and the doctor. No, she thought, you aren't allowed. After finishing , she noticed what she had written the night before during a bout of insomnia. The message so clear the night before didn't make any sense. It wasn't a lack of understanding. It was how she felt at the time , but something had changed. �"Even death has her sleepwalkers." I'm not sleepwalking, she thought. It's morning and my eyes are wide . The phone rang. Zoe put on a bathrobe and sauntered to get it. What's the rush? It was Ruby. Apparently, she wasn't high enough yet to forget to call. "emon over, bitch," said Ruby. "Are you guys just going to smoke?" "No , we're going to watch a movie too. Some arty French shit. You'd like it. " "Okay, I'll be over in a bit. " She hung up the phone and went to get dressed. While she was in her room changing, she heard the garage door open. Dad was home. She hurried, but he caught her at the door; his tie was loose and he smelled like cigarettes. He wasn't tall, but he was powerfully built, solid. "Hey, Sweetie, where are you off to in such a rush?" asked her Dad. "Avoiding me?" He gave her a jagged smile. "I'm just going to go hang out with Ruby." He looked disappointed. "Really? I thought we could just hang out tonight. never get to see you anymore. " "That's not really my fault, " said Zoe. "I know. Just thought we could watch The Office together, hell, maybe even make some margaritas!" "Jesus Daddy, I'm 16. That's illegal," said Zoe. "Sorry. Just thought it'd be fun." ''I'm not Mom," said Zoe. "I never said you were." "I've got to go ." "Wait a sec , okay?" he said. She did. "I know it's been hard since ... you know, but I'm doing the best job I can. I'm sorry." Jesus, he looks pathetic , she thought. He should man up a little , grow a pair, and move on. "Is there anything I can do for you , Sweetie?" he asked. "Yeah" said Zoe . "Get me another chiropractor visit. My back is killing me." She hated getting high. It wasn't the smoking part that bothered her. In fact she rather enjoyed the ritual aspect of the whole thing, sitting in a circle, giggling, taking turns, the excitement of getting caught, doing something illegal, but she hated actually being high. The very word was a lie to her; she didn't feel elated- she felt low, like she couldn't think. Zoe felt stupid when she was high, and that her friends were even dumber. When she heard Ruby ask if they kept the milk in the freezer, it wasn't funny to her. They were all just being idiots . While her friends Ruby and Ash would get very talkative after they smoked , Zoe would zone out, delve even farther into herself, and forget where she was . The other two girls also became disturbingly sexual after they smoked, sometimes making out with one another and trying to get Zoe to do it too , but she never would. They'd also talk about all the guys they'd been with and who they'd like to get with, what they would do to them, where they would do it to them, and Zoe hated hearing all of it. "Are we going to start the movie?" asked Zoe. "Chill, Bill," said Ruby. "How can you watch a French movie ... when you don't even know French?" This set Ruby and Ashley over the edge , and they both started laughing and snorting like pigs . Zoe didn't get the joke. -..........-",.-==-~~.rrt ".. UNTITLED b Anniko K y olbo grophite KIOSK09 25 �Around eleven, she came home and Dad was already asleep . He had left some food out for her, some burritos he had picked up , which was great because she was starving. She watched some television but found nothing except infomercials and nature programs on again, so she went to the bathroom, swallowed her Ambien, took off her clothes, weighed herself and looked in the mirror. She was 16 , 97 pounds, and in lust with her chiropractor. Something needed to change . A few days later, she was at the chiropractor's office again, but this time she was prepared. She wore her short jean-skirt , the one Dad always told her to change out of. She didn't have any underwear on; that really excited her. She also wore the low-cut black tee Ruby always referred to as the, "I want to get fucked" shirt, which Zoe had thought was entirely appropriate , given the situation. She had also put on heavy eye liner, her mother's leftover. Hell, she even put on a pair of Ruby's heels that were too big for her. She was ready; she was a woman. Dr. Sam still looked gorgeous and tough, like he'd kick somebody's ass for her. He was all smiles that day too , like he was happy to see her. "Back still troubling you?" he asked. "Sure is, Sam," said Zoe. "And what are you all dressed up for? " "You," she said. He must have taken it as a joke because he laughed. "Very funny Would you lie down on the table again?" "Could you close the door?" asked Zoe. "Sure ," said Sam. He didn't even seemed fazed by the request. He must know what I'm doing, she thought. It excited her. She lay herself down on the tilted table again and felt it moving, becoming more horizontal. She wondered if he could tell she wasn't wearing underwear. She wondered if he was looking. She could feel those hands on her neck again, 26 KIOSK09 the warm hands , the toasty fingers , adjusting her neck and it sent a chill through her body Sam laughed and asked her if she had goose bumps. Zoe said she was just a little cold, and he continued adjusting her. He clicked his tool and straightened her spine , He felt her feet again, this time just bare feet; he had to take the stilettos off. It excited her. He was undressing her. Then he started to adjust her butt again- she had to bite down on the padding. When she couldn't take it anymore , she flipped over, grabbed Sam by the tie and pulled him close to her, trying to kiss him. For a moment , he was kissing her too, but he stopped, his face still close to hers because she had him by his tie. "Give it to me," said Zoe , trying to sound like a movie star. He pulled away and slapped her- hard. Her cheek stung. "You need to leave ," said Sam quietly He sat down in his chair and looked down, waiting for her to leave. Later that night, she wept on her couch, alone , unable to eat, drink, even weigh herself. She hated herself. She was an idiot , a pervert. She thought about Mom and the pistol; how bad it probably hurt. The friends she didn't like , everything. Someone had once told her that grief comes at you like a wave , but this was more like a tsunami, an earthquake and fire happening all at the same time , and she couldn't take it. Zoe finally picked herself up and went to her room and noticed the words she had carved: "Even death has her sleepwalkers." She placed her fingers over the words, felt the notches and dug into them, as if trying to make them make sense , but they didn't, they wouldn't and they never did. She felt the tide of her grief, her embarrassment pulling her in, but she knew it would never drown her, that it couldn't if it wanted to; she would stay afloat. She could never be at peace. �FINDING LIGHT by Anne Torkelson oil on convos KIOSK09 27 �IONNE ~ P!:. 11~ 200 9 We stand around Aunt lonne , dying lonne , in her white room in the corner of the nursing home. The day her son Louis carried her here , kicking and screaming, she referred to it as "that dying place." Because of her stroke-induced dementia, she forgot where she was the next day. Now, she lies on her death bed, and 1, at eye level with her body, along with my family, stand watching her. She groans, wincing in pain, her knees bent and protruding in the air, her white gown crawling slowly up her thigh, revealing more and more of her eroded flesh . My tiny grandmother stands at lonne's side , holding her hand, trying to comfort her. And her groans go on, the moans of agony, and lonne's gown creeps further up her thigh. 1 scoot a few inches closer to the foot of her bed, wondering what could be behind the white gown, and 1 inch further, closer, and gaze at the long, black, scraggly hairs at the center of her thighs. Ross WILCOX 28 KIOSK09 �POSTERIOR VIEW by Amy Foltz linoleum reduction print KIOSK09 29 �I A MEMO I R A NEW LIFE IN HONDURAS BY VICTORIA REED H onduras is a country of extremes. There is very little room for the gray areas between rich and poor, safe and dangerous, hot and cold, comfortable and disconcerting. I am a resident in a country where most Americans are presumed to be Bible-toting missionaries, and I find myself explaining that I am not here to build a roof over the heads of poor school children in the mountains or to pave a road to an impoverished community I am here for years, not weeks. I'm still not sure why I came here or what I am still doing here. All I know is that I, a pampered American girl, am slowly falling in love with this tumultuous country The weather in Honduras is poetic- a bitch and a saint. During the hot months, the heat crawled into my veins and caused the sweat on my forearm to boil. I watched as condensation evaporated and hovered in the thick, humid air. Even my elbows were wet in this tropical country During the day, the sun grabbed my skin and pinched hard. Sunburns take minutes. My first steamy months here were months for complaining, water and shade- constant craving for iced coffee and cool breezes . Some people choose to find cooler places in the shade. Often, this is underneath trees in the middle of the road where men bunch up their shirts to expose their sweaty, protruding bellies and fan their dripping faces with their hats. Life seems to slow down in August. The women performing their daily chores walk slower, with concern for exhaustion. Children don't run as much and soccer matches are shortened. Even through the steamy rays, the sun shined through the surrounding palm fronds , making a stark contrast between the translucent green leaves and the brilliant blue of the sky above. Then comes the cold and the rainboth a blessing and a curse in Honduras. "I live in a valley in Honduras- a bowl of heat and pollution. " 30 KIOSK09 The country needs the rain to replenish its natural beauty, but too much rain means flooding rivers and ruined neighborhoods. A flooded river means the destruction of mostly impoverished communities. It means taking away an already meager living from hard-working families. Blue skies become gray and clouds funnel over the surrounding mountains. One has never seen a sky so black as a storm over the mountains. It is a menacing omen of thundering rain drops to come . Once the rain begins falling, it dances a strong dance. It slams onto your shoulders and pricks your feet until you begin to match your movements to the qUick rhythm it creates on the concrete. The cold, however, is welcomed happily, as if it is a silent holiday I didn't even notice it had come until I reached for an extra blanket to sleep with at night. People bundle up in scarves and proudly saunter into restaurants with jackets. Everyone's skin becomes one shade lighter than sunburn and sandals are switched for boots. The cold in Honduras is gentle and comforting, and my body is reminded how to make goose-bumps or shivers. I have to admit that I enjoy the fact that news in Honduras is streamed from Denver, Colorado. I have the evil pleasure of listening to the weather person warn about ice storms while I sit under a blanket in 70 degree weather. My skin doesn't remember the sting of winter wind, nor can it recall the red throb of wind burn. Now my skin is ice cold at anything below seventy As much as I enjoy being poetic about how beautiful the country of Honduras is , I have to be realistic. The country itself is beautiful. It is full of lush green mountains and historical Mayan ruins. The city of San Pedro Sula, however, is not considered to be a gem. I live in a valley in Honduras- a bowl of heat and pollution. San Pedro Sula is the secondlargest city in Honduras and the commercial capital. The city itself is dirty and loud and, �at times , overwhelming. Bigger cities often lead to more crime. I have only lived here for seven months and I am already desensitized to the machine gun-toting guards who stand in front of bakeries , malls and pharmacies. It has become normal for me to walk around the tip of a shotgun sticking out from a man on the sidewalk. Protection is necessary. Already, I find myself glancing over my shoulder to check if anyone is stalking behind me. I cross the street if there is someone walking toward me on the same sidewalk. I don't stay out at night and I don't carry a purse. This is part of the motivation to travel on weekends. Most people can only take two or three weeks of crime, threat, and noise before they find themselves thirsting for a friendly beach town only an hour away or a cool mountain village a few hours from the city. There is a big gap between rich and poor here. At red lights, cars are bombarded with dirty, barefoot children begging for money. They wear ripped clothing and have dirt smeared around their eyes and on their knees. They walk up to your car and knock on the window, hoping for one Lempira (about five cents in U.S. money.) Children spend hours breathing car exhaust and dodging traffic in hopes of taking home a few Lempira. It is tough to know whether or not you should give them money. One side argues that if people don't give them money the children will stop begging and will earn money another way. The other side argues that the population with money can stand to give away a few Lempiras here and there . It is heartbreaking, and I have to admit that I am so embarrassed by the situation that I don't give them money. It's hard to face that I am wealthy in a country that aches for financial security. Honduras is proud yet struggling, rich yet poor, generous yet selfish. I find myself unable to cope with the differences , and I shrink under the pressure to be decent. I struggle with the idea of self-decency on a daily level here. I live on a tight budget, but make more than quadruple the amount of the average person in Honduras. I enjoy relaxing hikes through the mountains where people build shacks with Twister mats I go as curtains because they can't afford the rent to live in the city- so they squat in the hills. I go on vacations to what I consider paradise while others will never have the opportunity to travel even an hour away. It is truly a different life here . I live in a country that is struggling to find itself I suppose it fits; it is comforting for a person right out of college. I find a close relationship between the growth and the exploration we are making together. In this country full of desperate poverty and filthy richness a person finds it difficult to know where to look. When do I give money? When do I negotiate for a lower price? The best I can do, the best anyone can do here , is to live day by day. Travel when you can, appreciate what you find beautiful, and go out on a limb to explore something new. Living in Honduras is a life of contradictions. It is confusing and overwhelming, and utterly blissfuL "Everywhere there is a man carrying a gun to protect someone or something. " KIOSK09 31 �How AN INDIAN COULD BE REPUBLICAN Quinton could palm a basketball at the age of nine and that same summer he could beat up kids as old as twelve. Quinton is a big man. He could tackle an ox if he had to , but he hasn't. "What are you up to Quinton?" "About the weight of a Buick." A canoe would rather sink than stay afloat when Quinton mans the paddle. Quinton gets to say whatever the hell he wants. "What do you call a white man in the middle of twelve Indians?" "I don't know Quinton, what?" "Bartender!" He can't understand why people are intimidated by him. He is from Oklahoma, north eastern part, near Ozark Mountain Country. He tries to explain that raising chickens , pigs , ducks, and sheep don't mean he's trash. "Just because we shit in an outhouse ... " Quinton loves his politics. And a man who says whatever the hell he wants, says a lot messed up stuff. You need a solution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict? "Fill those tunnels up with oil, burn them out , everyone of them sons of bitches." Even a little of his talk gets to be enough. How an Indian could be Republican has but one answer, well maybe two. "Taxes and Bill Clinton," I say, 'That's all you care about. " 32 KIOSK09 �Quinton likes it when I stand up for myself, but sometimes his arms rise up. His hands come at mebig oven mitts going in for a roasted turkey Just smiling at me. And I know Quinton could snap my neck like he was snapping his fingers. "Quinton, you know you're messed up , right!" Like it's a question. COLIN O'SULLIVAN OBAMA by Mack Maschmeier pastel KIOSK09 33 �A SHORT STORY DISTORTION BY TYREL DREY <2"I will O "f.. n ""~~ '" 2009 W hen we did it, we screwed. At the time I would have said we made love. But looking back we just screwed. Now it hits me, I've been crying pretty constantly since I found out I was pregnant three weeks ago. He left me a few days later, said I was a "lousy lay" and laughed about it to a few of his buddies he'd invited to watch how manly he was dumping me. I can't have a kid. I've got college, basketball, the fall play, prom, my future, my career, everything. I'm only sixteen. I can't talk to anyone, what would my friends say? What would my dad, my little sister say? MIX by Sarah Chambers digital photograph My mom would never forgive me. We couldn't walk into church and sit down in the front row. No more Christmas candle lightings. No more reading from the hymnal in front of church now, everyone would disown her, and she would never speak to me again. She is probably at Planned 34 KIOSK09 Parenthood right now. Sitting with her friends telling all the people walking in how horrible they are, how trampy they were. How God can see what they're doing. God- if only she knew. I wipe some more tears from my eyes with a Kleenex. I'm sitting on my red twin bed holding Theo, my bear, close. I pull him away and look at his shabby tan fur and brown eyes. His eyes always get me. They look so real, so innocent- almost childlike. Another set of tears come. There are 14 little white morning after pills. I pulled them out of their wrapping about two days ago in the bathroom at school. I'd managed to get them from a girl in homeroom. She buys them and sells them to other girls so they don't have to. How horrible must she feel, walking into the stores, buying 10 or 20 pills at time. I let her eat with us the next day, and all the girls were nice enough until she left. Then they called her a tramp and asked why I let her eat with us. "Oh no," I thought, they know, they know, they'll tell everyone and I'll be done for. Think, THINK. I told them I was just trying to be nice. It was the Christian thing to do. They all knew 1 was religious and bought the story. They don't know. 1 hope they don't know. 1 wipe away more tears and look at the mounting pile of Kleenex at the foot of my bed next to the pills. It's been six weeks and 1 don't think just one will do it, but 14 might. 1 calm myself down and walk downstairs to grab some water. My dad is reading a newspaper at the kitchen table. He lowers it and lifts his head up to view me through the glasses sitting much too low on his nose. He smiles and 1 laugh at how goofy he looks. "Good to see you smile again." He grins. 1 wrinkle my forehead and look at him questioningly. "1 didn't mean anything by it. " His eyes grow and he shakes his head. "You've just been sort of sad lately." He sets down the paper as 1 pour a glass of water. "You can talk to us about anything you know. Your mom and me, we're here for ya." �I look at the floor, "I know." He walks over and kisses me on the head, "You're okay, right?" I nod and flash him a smile. I'm back upstairs and staring at the pills through the warp oj the glass. Now or never. I down all 14 and swig the water. My uncle has been raping me since I was nine . He told me if! told anyone he'd kill me. That worked until I was about 12. It took three years to figure out that he wouldn't kill me . By that point , it was my fault. I couldn't just all of a sudden say that my uncle , the family's golden boy, the real estate millionaire who set up my parents and grandparents with good houses , the same man who gave my dad the job that allowed us to go to private schools , and would pay for college, I couldn't just suddenly say, "He's raping me. He's been raping me for six years. " No one would believe me. I always figured some day, I'd get something, some piece of proof, and I would tell. I remember those two blue lines , and the set of directions on that box that said pregnant. Now I'm walking down the sidewalk. Listening to the protesters shout , "Baby killer," and "God is watching! " I push open the door as I hear one woman say, almost in a whisper, "What would your mother say?" I hold it in until I sit down in the Planned Parenthood lobby But then the tears come , clouding the white that turned blue halfway down. I recognize a chubby redheaded nurse from my first visit; she comes over and gives me a Kleenex and pats my back. I hold it in until I get through the doors. I've learned to control my emotions . Sitting next to the man molesting you at Thanksgiving teaches you how to control your emotions. But that last comment , it gets me. "What would your mother say?" I don't know. She'd be ashamed. Ashamed her daughter took this abuse for six years. Is it still abuse , is it still rape when you're 15 years old and you let your uncle rape you every couple of months , or are you just a whore? A doctor comes out and says, "Stephanie, we're ready for you. " She gives me a little smile, with just her mouth and not her eyes . I smile like that a lot, usually when the "I world is telling me how great my uncle is and how he helped some local charity, or when he cracks a joke at Christmas and everyone laughs. Because even though it's funny, it's wrong, everything he does is wrong. Now I'm sitting in Planned Parenthood, watching a doctor walk away A doctor who just smiled and told me it's okay It's wrong, but okay I wipe my tears away and walk into the changing room. I hang my clothes on a hook and put on a blue surgical gown. There's a mirror in the center of the wall and I just notice my butt hanging out. I turn my head away I haven't looked below my waist in years. I don't shower after gym; I keep my eyes closed in the shower. I can't look down there. I know what has happened. I know how horrible I am, and now I walk through the doors to compound my sins, and abort the ... I can't call it a baby I won't. Babies come from love , from two people who care about each other. This isn't that. I take a deep breath and clear my head. You learn to do that when you're lying on your stomach as your uncle rapes you. You learn to clear your head and think about something else. I walk through the door. wipe away more tears and look at the mounting pile of Kleenex at the foot of my bed next to the pills." I didn't have to wear a tampon today, that's good ... well as good as anything can be I guess . My headache and stomach cramps went away too. The doctor told me that taking 14 morning aJter pills was probably the dumbest thing KIOSK09 35 �WELCOM E TO PIZZA RANCH by Anniko Kolbo oil on mdf I could have done. He promised not to tell my parents. I told them I just had a sore throat. He said I would probably bleed for awhile until all the medication worked out of my system, and to let him know if it wasn't gone in a week or two. It's been 12 days and I think I'm clear. My mom reaches across the car and kisses my cheek. "Thanks for the ride, Catherine." She pushes some hair behind my ear. "If you can just run to the store and get the pot roast. I left instructions for your sister on how to cook it." She has me drop her off at Planned Parenthood so I can use the car to run and get some groceries. I nod. "Thanks," she says. "Love you." She gets out of the car. She's been spending her Saturdays at Planned Parenthood for the last month. She and some women from the church have made it their personal mission to get the place closed down. She told me last night that if kids can't control themselves they should at least have the decency to live with their mistakes. I didn't think I'd ever be able to cry again after I took the pills. I didn't really figure I would have any tears left. Now sitting in that parking lot, looking at the girls across the street I pull into a lot a block or so down, and cry. I'm sitting in the recovery room staring at the wall. The recovery room is a very calming shade of light pink. I like it. My stomach hurts ; well I suppose it's not my stomach. It feels empty, a good kind of 36 KIOSK09 empty. I guess. They said I could wait here until I feel better. I told them I had a ride and they said okay. You're supposed to have a ride scheduled for afterward. Who the hell do you get to come pick you up after aborting the baby: No, no , not a baby. How do you tell someone to come and pick you up after having your uncle's baby aborted? I get up and head for the door. They will still be there . I can take a lot. Six years of abuse, having an abortion. I can take the looks from kids at school who think I'm a whore because I sell morning after pills. But I can't, won't, take another bout with them. Not after that, not after mentioning my mother. I notice the window. It looks like the kind you can open clear up. So I back away from the door, open the window as far as it will go , and crawl out. It's a fenced in area with a bunch of cars parked in gravel. A big wooden privacy fence , probably so the protestors don't take down the doctors names and harass them at their homes. I hop the fence and land on the other side. It hurts my ... it hurts a lot. I can see why they don't want you to walk home. I take a deep breath, bury the pain, and walk down the alley to the sidewalk. I turn the corner and light a cigarette. Haven't had one since I was pregnant. Don't know why, not like I was going to keep the thing. But I didn't smoke until now. I breathe in deep and it tastes good, fills my lungs, and calms me a little bit. Planned Parenthood told me not to smoke , but hell it's not like I'm listening to them. I take about two more steps when a car stops beside me. Its Catherine , one of the girls from school, plays basketball, does theatre , she's a stupid popular kid. I sold her some pills a few weeks ago. She let me eat lunch with her and the stupid popular kids. She stops a few feet away and waves me �over. I look into the car. She rolls down the window of what must be her mom's green Taurus and beckons me in. "Hey, Steph. You need a ride home or something?" She looks like she's been crying. "Cmon, I'm sure you could use a ride. " Yeah I could. "No ," I wave her off. "I can walk. " "Cmon, get in, it's no big deal. " I stomp out my cigarette as I open the door. "Thanks." I close the door and give her a nod. "You going home?" "Yeah," I pull my purse up over my lap and hug it close. "It's over on Jackson Street. " We drive for a second before she glances over at me. "Smoking's bad for you , ya know." "Maybe I don't like it here that much," I snap. She stares out the front of the car and bites her lip a bit. I shouldn't have snapped at her. She~ just trying to be nice. "Sorry. " I sit up a little higher in the seat. "I didn't mean to snap." "It's okay," she gives me a smile. Another little fake smile. "I just wanted to thank you ," she pauses and turns down the radio. "For the pills. I just. .." she doesn't know what to say. She isn't really thankful. She looks a little scared. That's how most people look at me. They're glad I'm there , only when they need me. "It's okay," I offer. "I know how . .. I mean I can imagine." She notices how I am clutching my abdomen. I watch the realization hit her, that she just picked me up a block from Planned Parenthood. Now the car is suffocating me , I'm not about to be judged. She doesn't know. She has no fucking idea. "Stop ," I shout. She snaps out of her stare and jerks the wheel a bit. "I said 'stop .' Let me out of the car. Pull over dammit. " She pulls over and stops. I can't even grab the damn door handle I'm so angry. I just want to get out , get away. She doesn't know. She doesn't know. Now I'm fucking crying. I slam my purse on the ground. ''I'm not here to judge. " She looks down. "Good because you don't even know. I'm not some whore. I'm not some goddamned sex fiend or something. I'm not here to ... " I throw my purse on I the floor and hit the dashboard · hIt h with my palms. The tears are still coming, and my stomach hurts. I feel sick, so sick. I rip open the door and vomit out the side of the car onto the gutter. I pull my head back in and lean back in the chair. ''I'm sorry, so sorry, but everyone thinks- " ''I'm not here to judge," Cathy offers. "Who am I to judge?" Now she's crying too. I laugh through the tears. "I guess." She lets out a laugh too. And now we're sitting there, laughing, I don't know what the hell we're laughing about , but we are. We laugh for a few minutes , and then suddenly stop. "Do you want to go get a, I dunno. " She looks back at me. "You want to get some ice cream or something?" "Yeah, I say. " I nod and pick up my purse . "Yeah, I'd like that a lot. " "She notices how I am clutching my abdomen. watch the realization er .. . " KIOSK09 37 �" MAKING OTHER PEOPLE'S BEEF" Cold January wind breaks your body like a forty-five mile per hour car-crash this is only morning .. . before the sun wakes before the cock crows before deathly cold thaws into simply freezing coax the dirty white tractor to life fill the wagon feed the bulls you're in the mud you're in the shit making straight lines along the bunks put out hay get stuck pull yourself out get filthy get yelled at blade the snow thaw the fountains. wage a war against winter gather the herd fix the fence gain twenty pounds lose self-worth lose the war get yelled at for everything realize this just ain't right. feeding time again do the same as before now go home eat some dinner 38 KIOSK09 �turn a blind eye don't call the collectors don't pay the bills make the bed start a fight...make -up make some love cry some tonight before abruptly falling away realize god is a ghost inhabiting the shit in the yard on your boots and in your heart. KIa PLOEN KIOSK09 39 �HURLEY by Koylo Curry ocrylic on convos SATURDAY IN THE PARK by Seon Delperdong digitol CANINE ESS E CE N byAlicio Runyon pockoging design 40 KIOSK09 �LIGHTS by Mock Moschmeier ocrylic on convos SEATING PATTERNS by Beceo Bouer digitol photogroph MORNINGSIDE MASCOT by Potrick Oxendole photogroph KIOSK09 / 41 �How THE MIGHTY HAVE FALLEN by Becco Bouer dig ito Iphotogroph IND USTRY by Wyeth lynch digitol photogroph 42 KIOSK09 �RUSSIAN PRINCESS BLACK AND WHITE byBreonne E vons digitol photogroph by Leslie DePeel digitol photogroph TRIO bySoroh C hombers digitol photogroph KIOSK09 43 �I A SHORT STORY I NEED TO CRY BY TYREL DREY I need to cry. I can be angry, happy, sad , perplexed, elated, surprised or any other emotion. But I can't cry I've been doing theatre for four years now, and I've taken the college's best performer award every year. I'm sitting here in a dark corner backstage , staring at a bit of light from the stage that trails the floor as it bends around the curtain. Resting my head on my hand, I search. In theatre we call it an affective memory Some memory, however insignificant or out of place, conjures an emotion. I have a ton of memories that make me happy, more that make me angry, and even more that make me sad. But none that make me cry To be honest , I can't even remember the last time I cried. I can remember very clearly being 13. It was a Sunday We were having breakfast , sausage and hash browns. Dad must have burnt my toast because I remember how black the crumbs seemed sitting on the white phone receiver. "Hey Chuck. " It was my uncle jim. "Hey jim, pretty early for a farmer to be up ." I liked to poke fun at him; he never got out of bed till 10 or so, and took a three or four hour nap every day after feeding the hogs. Pretty good sport, but he didn't laugh that day He chortled. It seemed very forced , and then he asked to speak with my dad. That's when I knew something was wrong. He asked to speak to my dad. Not talk, or holler at, or chat or any other phrase he'd used a million times. No, he asked to speak to my dad. My dad cried. He sat back down at the table very calmly Took a drink of coffee. Lit a cigarette. The smoke from the ember tip mingled with the steam from his coffee and hit him in the face all at once. Maybe that's what made him cry Maybe it wasn't really that his dad had just died. Maybe it was just the smoke and steam, the pepper from the eggs or something. Maybe it was that. Maybe. 44 KIOSK09 The stage manager shouts for actors to come to warm-ups. I hop up and walk back from behind the curtain. I pop my neck and put on my happy face. It's funny, I spend all this time and energy learning how to act , getting in touch with my emotions. I sit and observe people. I can tell when they have a test by how much tension is in their shoulders. I can tell what sport someone plays by how they carry themselves. I can look at someone's posture and tell you what instrument he plays in the marching band. I can spot someone who's angry, tell you whether or not she'll be violent , how hard they'll hit, whether they want a fight or just to seem tough. I can tell you how happy, sad, or angry someone is by a million tiny things they do. It's important for an actor to do this , so he can watch for them in himself. The theatre is doing Dancing at Lughnasa this semester. It's a play set in Ireland in the early 20th century The play recounts the lives of six unmarried sisters and their struggles to keep their family together. It's all recounted through the narration of Michael , the bastard son of the youngest sister. His monologues are intermixed with scenes to weave the story I'm Michael, so half the play is me on stage alone doing monologues. There are five of them in all, and I can't get my head around the fourth one. I stand, and explain how two of the aunts die , alone and derelict in the streets of London some years later, and how much life generally sucks for the remaining sisters. I've got the play down to a tee , except for this monologue . I need to cry for it to work. The director says not to force it, and I won't, but this calls for me to cry Lots of actors who are way worse than me can cry on cue , so why can't I? Practice winds down and jan, the director, asks to speak to me for a moment. I walk up to the front of the stage and hang my feet off the edge . I flash her a quick �smile. She's standing just in front of me and grins back. "I got a call from Iowa today," she says. Iowa has a great theatre program and they are considering me for a teaching assistant position there, to help me pay my way through grad school. "They said they were sending someone up to see the play next weekend, wanted to know which seats were closest to because deep down the real Jan wanted to use her hands when she was excited, but had trained herself not to . "Damn," I offer. "Pressures on now, huh?" "You don't seem that excited." Jan can read people too, probably better than me. I shrug, "No, no , just got a lot on my mind right now." I grin a little bit and look up; looking up generally means someone is you so they could watch you. " Iowa is a huge theatre school, a great program, and very hard to get into. She is excited. I can tell because she takes off her glasses when she's excited. She sort of waves them around. Jan has big hands. Big in the acting sense that they take up attention and accentuate points . When you act long enough you learn not to do things like use your hands too much, or use gestures that are too big. I think Jan used her glasses thinking about the future or taking in some kind of meaning. I look up and nod. "That's great. I'm just trying not to get complacent." I raise my eyebrows and laugh a little bit to get rid of the tension for the last part. Jan gives a half-smile. "just don't worry too much. You're doing great; don't get too stuck on that crying thing. You're too good an actor to try and force an emotion. You play it wonderfully. " She pats me on the shoulder. Physical contact builds trust. RAil BRIDGE b Josh Beckwith y oil on convos KIOSK09 45 �I'm walking back to my room. It's cold. In northwest Iowa the wind blows all the time . It's nice in summer, but in the winter it makes 30 degrees feel like zero. I leave my eyes open and look into the wind. The freezing dries my eyes almost immediately, and the wind blowing makes them tear up to counteract the dryness. A tear gathers and falls a few inches before disappearing into the dry air. If only it was that easy. My mom always cried. She would cry for anything- graduations , weddings, funerals, birthdays anniversaries, whatever. She was a broken pump . I remember my mom cried when my neighbor got married. Tim had been a good friend of mine for as long as I can remember. His mom, Pat , had died of cancer when we were 15. She was a great lady. A big lady too, but one of the nicest women I'd ever met. She had her angry moments, but she was always sincere and honest. Pat used to make us do chores around the house and pay us too much . She gave us $50 once to paint the fence in their backyard. We got about halfway done when it started to rain. She called us inside and made us cookies while we watched football. Then she gave us the money and took us to Wal-Mart. Told us we could paint the fence tomorrow about noon. Tim and I decided to go fishing instead. I'll never forget the fear in his eyes when his mom showed up on the dock. She didn't say anything; she didn't yell, cry, wave her arms or threaten us in any way. Just looked down at the two of us, with our feet dangling just above the water and said , "You boys must have forgotten about the fence, right. " It wasn't a question, not "I leave my eyes open and look into the wind. The JreeZing dries my eyes almost immediately ... A tear gathers and JaIls a Jew inches beJore disappearing into the dry air: If only it was that easy. " 46 KIOSK09 one bit. We nodded , got up, walked back and painted the fence. She was diagnosed with cancer just a few days after that. Tim and I hung out a lot after she got diagnosed. I think he enjoyed having someone around who didn't stare at his mom. When people think someone is going to die they tend to stare , or not look at all. But 11 year-old boys stare. He liked it, too, because I knew not to ask. Sometimes his mom was gone at chemo ; sometimes she would lie in bed for two or three days at a time. I never acted like anything had changed. The doctors gave her three months. She lasted four years; I think it was just her proving the doctors wrong. Pat was stubborn. At her funeral , Tim cried a very quiet cry. He cried so that if it weren't for the tears streaming down his face he would have looked normal. He smiled when he needed to smile , frowned when he needed to frown. He laughed here and there; he wiped his nose and covered his face when things got sentimental. But the tears seemed somehow ... out of place. I've got to wonder, after watching a parent die for 4 years , were the tears for sadness, joy, or something else? Maybe , if Tim just cried because he thought he should. Back at the dorm, I could use a cigarette to calm down the thoughts a little bit. I could use a beer. No it's cold. I could use some scotch, maybe whiskey. Whiskey warms you up. I walk into my room and open a bottle of Jameson. Its very smooth and fairly strong, but mostly it's cheap. So I pour a glass , pondering Coke for a moment before deciding to just down the shaker glass. I sit and ponder. Who else cries , why, when, how? I pour another glass and down it. Forget cups. I'm not mixing it; might as well just use the bottle. My ex cried once , when we broke up . We had this little conversation about how we just weren't right for each other. I could tell she was on the verge of tears. Her lower lip was shaking. Her lip gloss was less bright �on the lower lip because she kept biting it to stop it from shaking. I think I'd told her once that lower lips shake when people are going to cry I used to make her laugh by explaining how to tell what people were thinking by how they acted. Shoulders tensed for stress, football players hold their shoulders back, woodwind players tend to hold their fore arms forward. She always got a kick out of little stuff like that. I loved to see her laugh. That was about the last real thing I felt. I take another swig of the whiskey and it drips down my chin. I wipe it away with my sleeve. I look drunker than I am. I loved to see her laugh, and that's why it killed me inside. Seeing her sitting there , biting the gloss off of her lower lip, losing the shimmer. Watching her eyes well up , the long blinks she used to stop the tears from coming. She didn't want to cry, and I just wanted her to be happy So I said okay, we should break up. If it made her happy I would have said anything. She cried anyway Evidently I was wrong. All my observing my little insights into human nature were for nothing. I take another drink. It settles a little rough, and I pat my chest with my fist. It doesn't help , just another meaningless motion I think I need. Just another meaningless bit for a non-existent audience. What made her cry? Was it because she wanted me to argue, to save the relationship? No, it was too hard for her to talk, to form words, she clearly really wanted this. She looked at me right in the eyes; she wanted to make sure I understood her. People look at the eyes for comprehension. The eyes widen a little bit when someone finally gets a concept. So people watch for that , unconsciously, but they watch nonetheless. I got her point. Why did she still cry 7 I don't know. I put the last little bit of the whiskey in a cup and take it outside to have a cigarette. It's dark out now. The moon is white , a brilliant pale white as it glows through the jagged tree branches. I pull out a cigarette and some matches. I'm trying not to burn myself, so I hold the match as far away from the red chemical head as possible. After wasting six matches I've decided to just get it over with and burn myself. I like smoking, and I'm gonna smoke. Sometimes it hurts to do something you like . I take a drag and finish my whiskey There are two people walking into the dorm through the side door. They're a couple . I can tell because they're holding hands. They're not looking at each other or chatting, so they probably just got done fighting and are still mad even though they've made up. I've just drunk a liter of whiskey, and I can't stop dissecting everything people do . I don't want to. I want to stop, no more thinking. I want to feel something. I throw my coat on the ground and let the sub-zero temperature envelope me . I light another cigarette off the last bit of my first and sit down in the snow. Its cold, but I don't care. At least it's real, and that's all I want. I want to shine . I want to glimmer. I want to cry You spend enough time tweaking your emotions , putting on a false front , and pretty soon you don't know what emotion you're actually feeling anymore. If you play dumb enough, eventually you get dumb. You become a mask Spend enough time faking emotions, and eventually you don't know how you feel anymore. AUTUMN'S LAST DANCE byNicole Raphael digital photograph KIOSK09 47 �I wake up with a headache. I drank too much again. I stayed up until about 5 a.m . smoking cigarettes in the snow and freezing my ass off. Then I slept through my classes and woke up with a headache, dehydration, and a runny nose. I have rehearsal in 2 hours. I'm gonna get yelled at. I'm still pissed at everything. So I crack open a beer. A cheap , foamy, simple beer. I drink 10 of them. Then I go to play practice. Now Jan's yelling, telling me how this is unacceptable, kicking me off the show. I don't give a damn. I tell her I don't care about grad school , or Iowa teaching assistantship , or the real world or professionalism. I just want to feel again. I want to not be the robot of human interaction this theatre has made me. I tell her to shove the part up her ass. Now I'm storming out of the theatre through the blackness of the backstage. I'm storming back to the dorm across campus. I know I just took a hit, and I know tomorrow I'll have to fix all this. The good news is most actors do this. But not me . I control myself. I don't throw fits. I don't have problems. I understand my emotions. I keep them in check, I understand them. I dissect them. I control them. 48 KIOSK09 Now I'm back in my room, and I'm staring down at the script , the plain tan cover of the script. The pile of beer cans next to it, the empty emerald bottle of whiskey. The full impact of my mistake hits me. Part of the script is a different color, it's darker, less faded , and it's wet. I'm crying. I've messed up, and now I'm crying. Now I know how. I've got it now. Next time , at least next time, I'll have it. �A SHORT STORY THE ENCOUNTER BY LINDSAY W ASHBURN B oom! Boom! My shotgun aim was spot on. I ran down the alley, picking them off easily. At the end of the alley I kicked open the door and blam! One shot and he flew backwards into the burnt out building. But he was not dead yet. He was a zombie . When he came back I went for the knees, knocked him down to give me time . Then, it was the kill shot. I aimed carefully, took my time , and fired . His head exploded in a shower of blood and brains. Yeah! Take that! I pressed pause on my PlayStation 2 controller. My nurse had come into my room to give me my after dinner pudding cup . She busied herself about the room as I tore the shiny flap off the top of the pudding. There is one good thing about being stuck in the hospital for two weeks. If you want pudding, all you have to do is push a button. I had been admitted eight days ago for a serious blood infection, but I was starting to come around. The problem was that I was coming down with a serious case of bored outta-mymind. Luckily, the staff humored me and let my dad bring me my PS2, and some DVDs. Having watched all the movies by the second day, I committed myself to beating the latest version of Resident Evil. I could geek out on a game like that for the rest of my sentence. At least I had a private room to conduct my mission in peace. My nurse took her time in my room. She was the nosy one. After making sure I was comfortable , and ensuring that I was uncomfortable , she headed for the door. Before she shut it behind her she reminded me that I had yet to take my daily walk. I was supposed to take a walk at least once every day. The staff wished I would take more than one , but it was usually just one. The wing of the hospital was set up like all of the other wings. The rooms were set around a circular hallway at both ends of the floor. A long, wide corridor connected these two hallways to each other, making an oddly stretched figure eight. In the corridor were the nurses' station and the elevators. I hated the elevators. It was in those elevators that all of the smells of the different floors of the hospital got trapped and mutated into putrid concoctions unclassifiable by the human olfactory system. When I took my walks, I almost always took the figure -eight around to the other rooms in my hallway, past the nurses' station, into the other circle , around and back past the funky elevators, into my room and back into bed. It was good enough for me, and good enough for my doctors to stop lecturing me about blood clots. I put down my finished pudding cup and licked the back of the spoon. If I wanted to slaughter zombies in peace, I had better take my walk or the nosy one would come back. saved my progress and slipped on my robe while trying not to snag any of the tubes coming out of me. I did have company on these walks , however. Actually, it went everywhere with me , even into the bathroom. My LV stand was overloaded with bags of I don't know what. Mostly antibiotics , I think. The weight at the top from the bags, and the weight midway down from the pump made it slightly top heavy. When I walked I had to pull it along to keep the tubes from ripping out of me , but I also had to steady it from tipping UNTITLE D byHolly Becker oil on convos KIOSK09 49 �over. I grabbed the LV stand underneath the pump and made my way towards the door. The weight of the door and the weight of trying to keep the stand steady were almost too much for me, so I grabbed the pole with both hands and pushed the door open the rest of the way with my hip. I made my way around the circle of rooms nearest mine. All sorts of beeps and bloops came from inside each room. I often wondered who was in those rooms and why they were in those rooms. But I still kept on walking. The nurses' station was ahead of me on my right. There were nurses talking to patients' family members, doctors dictating into beige phones, and guys in green smocks picking up orders for this or that. I made my way past them, trying to be invisible, but a few of them said "hi," or "off for your walk?" I really did like most of It them, but was stuck in a place I didn't want to be. Excuse me if I was a little less than cordial. When I got past the nurses' station, the elevators greeted me with a loud ping, opened their doors, and belched a nasty mix of latex and sterilized urine into my face. Up ahead in the other circle hallway there was some sort of commotion. I couldn't see anything, but four guys in green smocks and two nurses rushed past me. They disappeared around the circle and the commotion got much louder. A man in a room down the hall was having a stroke. A big stroke, and he wasn't taking it mildly. I decided that I had better find another route for the rest of my walk. At the end of the nurses' station, directly across from the first elevator, there was an opening to a long white corridor. I had never seen anyone go into or come out of it. This stood at the opening and looked down the length of the tunnel. It was stark white and had no windows or doors. seemed Orwellian and strange, as if it wasn't really there. " "1 50 KIOSK09 looked like as good a place as any to finish my walk, so I turned away from the chaos in the circle hallway and walked towards the opening. I stood at the opening and looked down the length of the tunnel. It was stark white and had no windows or doors. It seemed Orwellian and strange, as if it wasn't really there. Like I was the only one who could see it. I took a deep breath, my lungs filling with the remnants of the elevator stink, and began to descend into the void. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed into my retinas until I felt snow-blind. The tunnel smelled of powerful disinfectant. This place was alien and I was a foreign object in it. The only sound came from the strained wheels of my LV stand. They squeaked at every rotation, the sound amplified in the quiet around me. After about six feet , the floor tilted downward. My LV stand began to pitch forward so I grabbed it with both hands. After I was steady I continued forward, gripping my LV stand like a life raft. I was halfway through the tunnel. My biceps were starting to burn with the strain of holding my LV stand. I knew that if I let go it would either fall over or roll down the rest of the tunnel on its own. Neither of these things was good, so I switched sides and held it to my right instead of my left. I looked back up at the opening to my wing. It hovered in midair in front of my face, just out of reach. I was three-quarters of the way through the corridor. No going back now. This damn thing had to lead somewhere. I shuffled forward, my arms burning. The floor leveled off so I let go of the stand. It wobbled as I let go. I was at a dead end. The corridor ended at a blank wall. What a rip off. When I turned to leave, I saw that it was not a dead end at all. The tunnel took a 90 degree turn to the left into a large open doorway. What was in there) Better yet, who was in there) There were no signs or nameplates anywhere . I hesitated at the corner �of the long white corridor, shivering in my hospital gown and robe. I took one last look back up the way I came and then stepped around the corner. Through the door was a large open waiting room littered with chairs and sofas of different sizes. Most of them were some shade of pale blue. They were arranged around an open area in the middle. At the far left end of the room was a desk, unattended. I swept the room with my eyes, searching for something that would identify this place. My eyes moved from the right, past a ring of chairs, and stopped dead at a sofa set near the empty desk. Sitting there alone, was a middle-aged man. He looked normal except that he was wearing a back brace connected to a medical halo. The metal prongs formed a crude cage around his head, stiffening his body. He looked like something out of a Marilyn Manson video. Despite this he sat completely peaceful and content. I stood there watching him. It could have been an hour. It could have been a minute. It felt like a day. He never moved. I'm not even sure he blinked. I couldn't look away. I wanted to say something, or at least make some sort of physical gesture to let him know I saw him and regarded him as a fellow human being. But I just stood. A scream sounded through the corridor, so loud it made me jump. I spun around. My LV was empty, the red light on the pump flashing. I looked back at the man. He hadn't moved. I grabbed my LV stand with both hands and pushed it in front of me as I qUickly hobbled back up the tunnel, around the corner of the nurses' station, past the belching elevators , past the smiling nurses and guys in green smocks, past the rooms down the hall. For the first time, I actually looked inside those other rooms as I passed their doorways. A different scene set in each, but all somehow the same. In one, an arm draped over the side of the bed and stuck out from behind the drawn curtain. Darth Vader breathing and the television with its volume turned all the way down- the only light in the room cast eerie shadows that changed with each camera angle. In another, visitors silently staring at a bed, women holding their purses on their laps, their anticipation flowing out the door in my direction. Each doorway held another feeling, even the ones that were closed. It vibrated through the paneled wood, but people still passed by, not glVmg a second thought to what was on the other side. I hobbled back into my little room, shut the door behind me, and pushed my stand back into its usual place next to my bed. The nosy one would be in any second to change the empty bag. As I grabbed my PS2 controller, wanting nothing more at that moment than to blow off a zombie's head, I thought to myself, "Maybe tomorrow, I'll go outside for my walk." CITY OF GR EE N by Koylo Curry ail an woad panel KIOSK09 51 �FROM A LOBSTER TANK Kids splatter their greasy palms on the glass , which is always the worst. Look, you can pinpoint the moment their synapses get a whiff of virgin stimuli: eyes glinting from across the room, they crowd around to blot out our overhead light. And they are upon us. The happy parents , a couple of lifeless thirty-somethings , invariably follow the tugs from their invisible leashes. All descend on us, an orgy, a flock of vultures devoid of decency. As the little ones slap glass and point in my direction, I scan the horizon for the pimpled assistant in the apron with the hook, the Arbiter of Death. Wait, is that him? No . .. Yes! Quick boys, scramble. Get the hell outta my way. Oh God, the pimply teenager is dipping the hook in. Bunch up in the corners! Why was I resting in the middle of the tank? Move! Ugh, the hook prods around me. Such unnatural selection! Is it my time? ... And yet I remain grounded. The pimpled reaper chose somebody else . Our feverish tempest dies down and the hungry human eyes turn to the unfortunate one. Palms peel off the glass, and all returns to calm. Our collective mass diffuses , enjoying the vacant space of the victim. As I listen to the cracks and steam screams of our hapless comrade in the kitchen, I can't help but come to the conclusion that In the cosmic struggle between lobster and human, it's good to be scrawny. MARK H ANn A 52 KIOSK09 �P€AR YlR BE p\R 1 tl\n.. 1-t ME A Fl'1 1+ T~AT l-OOK7 LIKe 11-\-1 ;---- !HANK? PI LOI ( ~13ovJ7 LOoC( MR. BEAR b John Bow y itz mixed draw & print media ing KIOSK09 53 �A SHORT STORY QUICK TRIP COURTING BY KRISTINA STURM K ailinn came to work for Quick Trip, a convenience store and gas station, the summer before my senior year. She was cold and aloof with me, but always flashing her dazzling smile and melodically laughing with customers. I tried to get close to her throughout our shifts but she never let me near. I tried jokes but she never laughed. I tried questions but she always skirted around the answers. I chalked it up to her superiority. She was a woman returning home from college and I was just a boy, but when our eyes met I knew it was more than this. Her hazel eyes told a harrowing tale of mistrust and hurt. They narrowed at men's passes and rolled at any compliment, but somehow I knew there was a bright light, hidden by a dusty window pane. I had never seen the illumination of a pure green until he walked through our doors. "Hey." Kailinn's voice floated past her broad smile. It was Q.T. policy to greet every customer who walked in the door- if it hadn't been for the tone of her voice I wouldn't have looked up from sweeping. But there was a surprising inflection this time. Her voice cradled a genuineness I had not yet heard. I looked at the man who had just opened the door. He was holding it for a pregnant customer and her summer-tanned kids. I followed his gaze back to Kailinn as she stood at the check stand like a figurehead on the front of a prosperous ship. Dark hair swept across her face , but I could see her solitary dimple and it was enough to clue me in. She was grinning. I disdainfully looked back at him. He wore khaki shorts and a bright blue t -shirt. He swept his sunglasses onto his blonde hair and boldly held her smile. A clatter behind me broke my judgment and I turned to see a bunch of miscreants had dumped Freezoni all over the floor. "Jordan, you need to get the mop ," the manager said. 54 KIOSK09 "Got it." I turned away from this customer's lingering eye contact. I was dismayed at not being able to watch Kailinn reject another Q.T. suitor. A couple times a week some guy waltzed in and offered her his number or asked for hers. She had never been charmed into a number exchange. I held onto the fleeting hope that she was saving her digits for me. I wasn't worried about this guy; he didn't have anything new and definitely not anything I didn't have. I filled the mop bucket and dumped in a cup of Coca-Cola, a trick of the trade, and worked at mopping the melting blue puddle between the island and the drink bar. The store was busy; voices weaved in and out, but I could pull out Kailinn's voice at the check stand. "Marlboro Reds, sure . Can I see your ID?" She was so great with customers. "You need to swipe it?" the customer said. "Naw, I may be an English major, but I bet I can figure out your age ." Everyone chuckled. I could guess she had winked at the older man at the counter. "Alrighty your total is going to be $5.48. Out of ten? And your change makes six, seven, eight, nine and ten. Have a great day and stop back!" 'Tll see you tomorrow!" the man hollered over his shoulder. The intercom clicked on and Kailinn's voice rang out, "Help to the front." I leaned the mop against a wall and popped to the counter next to her. "Sir, I can help you down here?" I nodded toward the same Abercrombie model who had so obviously been entranced by Kailinn already. "Uh ... " he looked to Kailinn then back to me, "go ahead and get someone else ." He turned and whispered something to a greyhaired man holding a cup of coffee. The old man shuffled towards me. I rang him up and made small talk but I kept my eye on the smooth talker as he inched closer to Kailinn. Every time the guy reached the front of the �line, he looked behind him at the other people in line and stepped out of line for another quick lap around the store. 1 had to laugh. What, was this guy nervous? If he only knew how surely he would be denied. 1 had grabbed the last pack of Bronson menthols for a customer. 1 scanned all the cigarette slots and mentally noted what 1 needed to stock. The top box fell off my pile and 1 crouched down to get it; it had tumbled right next to Kailinn's legs. Kneeling on the floor 1 noticed they were beautiful. Muscular. Tan. 1 could almost see softness. 1 wished 1 could take her home, where we would sit on the couch. She would drape them across my lap. 1 could touch them freely then. Her right leg kicked up , almost into my face , breaking me from my daydream. 1 fell back in surprise. The tip of her shoe dragged across the floor and hooked behind her left ankle. 1 had never seen her do this before. What the hell? "How are you today?" Kailinn said. "Can't complain- it's hot out but the office is air-conditioned." He slid a Snickers and a Dr. Pepper across the counter. "How are you?" "Peachy, thanks. It's gonna be $2.04." She looked up at him again. I quit stocking cigarettes. I wanted to see his rejection. He pulled out three ones. She took the bills and gathered his change. "Your change will make three." She held her cupped hand out for his. He tucked his hand under hers , and I swear I saw the sparks flying. She dropped the change and quickly pulled her hand back. 1 looked from face to face. Both had flushed pink. "Stop back. " She dismissed him and looked down at me "Let me help you with those. " She dropped qUickly to her knees beside me. I'm not sure what the guy did next , 1 was too caught up in crouching close enough to smell her perfume. Being within inches of her made me feel drunk. She was fumbling with the cartons of cigarettes. "I "Oh my-Ianta, Jordan ." She said my name. She said my name breathily. I could feel the sweet air from her mouth . I looked into her eyes and for the first time saw a bright green swirl through the brown. It was like that guy had taken a cloth to the dirty window pane . "Did you see that guy?" "Yeah, what a tool. The office? No one believes that, 1 bet he sits at home and watches MTV drinking his Dr Pepper and Snickers. He's real cooL" I chuckled, but she wasn't laughing. I watched a few traces of green disappear back into her brown eyes . They were no longer soft and laughing. "Right." She tossed the carton she had been tugging at back on to the floor and stood up . From my place on the floor 1 watched her legs carry her out of the checkstand and away from me. Awesome Jordan, maybe she actually liked that guy. I'm such an idiot! Someone was snickering behind me. I quit beating myself up and turned to look at my manager. "What?" I asked. "If it was any more obvious that you are in love 1 think Disney would be filming." Terry was leaning against the cigarette racks behind me . His blonde hair had thinned enough to allow the light to reflect off his scalp. He may have been getting older but he was married with four kids. Surely he knew a thing or two about love, but he was wrong about me . I just shook my head at him and stood up. Kailinn found the only other clerk working that day, and they were excitedly gabbing away in the corner, but 1 couldn't hear them so I guess they couldn't hear me. "1 am not in love. Do you think she watched a few traces of green disappear back into her brown eyes. They were no longer soft and laughing. " KIOSK09 55 �CRUSH E PE D PSI by Alysso Filipek digitol photogroph 56 KIOSK09 actually likes that guy?" Terry just scoffed and walked past me to help another customer at the counter. I assumed I was rid of the brazen blonde after his Snickers and Dr. Pepper craving had been quenched, but I was wrong. This guy kept coming back. There had to be a mole giving out her schedule to him. I never saw him when she wasn't there, but every time she worked he sauntered in, always buying the same things- a candy bar and a Dr. Pepper. I wanted to resent him, but something about him made her even more beautiful. Her steps were light on the way into work and she sang in the coolers. I wanted to make her sing in the coolers, not him. I didn't understand why she was so interested in him. They never talked about anything. But somehow I couldn't hate him. Somehow he brought her to me. "Hey jordy." Her ponytail bobbed as she popped her head in the cooler. "Why in the world do you call me thatt" I loved that she had given me a nickname. "Fine," she picked up an empty pop flat and tossed it at me , "I'll quit." "Stop." I threw the box back. She swung the door shut blocking the throw. Her head peeked in through the window and she stuck her tongue out at me and disappeared. I kept sliding cans and bottles down the shelf. The doors would open and slam shut letting spurts of conversation and warm air rush past the racks. The intercom beeped. "Help to the front." Mini rushes weren't bad. Terry always put Kailinn on the middle register; the regulars loved her and I got to stand by her side on the second register, so who was I to complain? A middle-aged man with a loaf of bread and a 24-pack of Mountain Dew handed me his food stamps card. Our only food stamps reader was on the first register. I walked up behind Kailinn and comfortably rested a hand on the small of her back to let her know I was behind her. This intimacy I only recently learned I could do. My hand seared from the heat of her body. I leaned around her to swipe the food stamps card. She took a half step back into me, in order to reach down and grab a bag. The step placed her dangerously close to me. I knew her body could fit perfectly into mine if she so much as leaned back. She bent slightly to grab the bag; she pressed into my leg, "Oh, I didn't see you there." She winked. The green in her eyes was becoming a constant thing and I loved it. I pushed a few buttons on the card reader and grabbed the keypad. "Sir if you could put your pin in here." I handed the pin pad to the customer. "Did you want a sack for your bread?" "No thank you," the man's voice was hoarse as he handed me back the pin pad. "Can I get a pack of Bronson no-filters, too?" "Sure thing." I grabbed a pack from the cigarette drawer below me. "It's going to be $3.59." "Hey you!" Kailinn said. Even though I was focused on the customer I knew who had walked through the door. "Aloha." He perched his sunglasses on the top of his head and smiled- always Mr. Suave. The rush was over and only a few people remained milling around the store. "Uh, Kailinn, why don't you go fill cups," Terry said, nodding toward the guy who was standing by the cups. Was Terry trying to set �them up? How could he do that to me? She blushed. "Just for you , Terry " Kailinn and Terry had grown fond of each other. Terry doted on her like a father, and Kailinn was eager to please. She walked off the stand and towards the cups . I looked at Terry. "Why'd you have to go and do that?" "Jordan. She likes him. Look. " His eyes pointed towards them. She was filling cup lids and he was leaning against the countertop next to her. Her single dimple grew as she tipped her head back and laughed. He was saying something to her but I couldn't hear it. He reached up and brushed the hair away from her eyes. She blushed. I could imagine him telling her that she was beautiful and her eyes were gorgeous, all the things I wanted to tell her. What did he know? Who was he to make her smile that way? ''I'm gonna go stock the large vault. Don't expect me back any time soon. " I shoved past Terry and threw open the vault doors. I dragged the step ladder to the end of the beer and started pushing the boxes to the front. I wished I could just drink some of it, so I could forget about him touching her. The doors burst open and I turned to see Kailinn lean up against the wall. "Jordy?" She tucked her hands in her front pockets and looked at me- green eyes dazzling against the grey of the cooler. "Yea?" I went back to moving beer around. "Can I talk to you? I need a guy's opinion." I didn't want to be that guy It was going to be about him. I had managed three weeks of their Quick Trip courtship without really hearing about him and now here it came- the atomic bomb to my heart. "Is it about him?" "Duane ," she corrected. "Well, he hasn't asked for my number or to go get coffee or anything." She looked up at me . From my position on the step ladder I could see just how curvy she was. I loved the nights when I worked later than she and she had plans. She'd change in our bathroom and come out in non-work clothes. Her figure was glorious. I imagined taking her home with me and exploring the winding roads of her body She was still looking at me , so I ended I my adventure early and raised my eyebrows at her. "Do you think he actually likes me?" Her voice was small. "If he didn't why would he been in here spending two dollars every day?" "$2 .04." She winced a smile realizing how ridiculous the correction was. "Well, why hasn't he asked?" "Maybe he's shy?" "So should I ask him?" "Sure if you want to." Maybe if she asked him he'd be put off by her forwardness, or maybe he'd be turned on by it. "But I'm not that type of girl! " Her face pleaded me to tell her what to do. "Just be patient. He's probably working up the courage." ''I've even dropped hints like , 'I don't have anything going on tonight,' or 'what are you doing this weekend?' but he never picks up on it. " She had come closer and was leaning on the stool now; she was close enough I could feel her heat in the cold cooler. "Well," I didn't know what to say "You're a great girl. He's probably just shy " The intercom interrupted us , "Help to the front." ''I'll go," she said and rushed out. Another few weeks passed and he hadn't asked her out. She caught me in the cooler on a regular basis to chat. I began to appreciate this guy His inability to ask her out seemed to match mine , but as he was growing bolder, "Her Single dimple grew as she tipped her head back and laughe( He was saying something to her but couldn't hear it. " KIOSK09 57 �MOMENT by Breanne Evans digital photograph 58 KIOSK09 I was creeping into the friend zone. One night after work she came sprinting back into the store. I could see her gleaming smile as she bolted back through the doors. "LOOK!" She slammed a receipt onto the counter. I looked at the receipt It was for $2.04. "It was under my windshield wiper." She giggled and flipped it over. On the back was a note scrawled in blue ink. "After you get off Friday, plan to go out with me , Duane." I felt like throwing up but everyone else was thrilled. "Thats in two days!" "Be sure you look good!" "Are you excited?" The clerks were all chiming in, but I was silent. "You were right Jordy! He was just shy!" She playfully punched my arm. "Yea, woo . I was right." I walked to the back leaving them chirping with excitement. Why hadn't I jumped the gun? Why didn't I ask her out first? His stupid note stole the limelight again. I could only imagine what sort of gallant white-knight heroics he would pull off Friday. Friday at work the air was jittery. Every time the door opened, all heads turned. The sun was beginning to set and Kailinn was off at eight. We drew the window tints and there was still no sign of Romeo. Terry asked her to stay on for a little bit after eight because we needed the third register. Kailinn's chipper mood sank as the night progressed, her green eyes fading into brown. It was eight-thirty and I knew she was beginning to wonder if it had all been a cruel joke. A help call from one of the pumps went off. "How can I help you?" She was monotone. "Yea I need some help with the pump, I can't get my gas to start," the voice from the other end said. "The computer says you ran your card. Did you select your grade of gas?" I watched her lean over the mic and talk. "Yeah, it still won't go ." "Un-click your pump and try again." People's inability to run our incredibly simple pumps was frustrating for us. In the end we almost always had to go outside to do exactly what they said they had done. "Nope, still not working. Maybe you should just come out." "Okay sir, I'll send someone right out." She turned and looked at me and then looked at the other clerk. "Will you handle this?" The other clerk walked to the door. "Uh, actually Kailinn I think you should handle this guy." The clerk grinned at Kailinn. "Fine." She stomped off the register, but when she got to the door her whole demeanor changed. Her posture straightened her cheeks scrunched into a smile. It was him. He was a half hour late, and she didn't even care. I never would have made her wait. Everyone in the store tried to peek out the window. He was sitting on the hood of his car, waiting under the lights of our gas pumps. As she got closer, to him and farther from me , my heart sank. He grabbed her and pulled her to him. She tried to push herself off his chest, but his hand came around, grabbing her butt. Everyone who was crowded around the windows to watch this romantic scene was now gaping at each other. My blood was pumping. She was struggling against him. She pulled her hand away and hit him in he face . He let �go and she ran back to the store. She burst through the doors. I'd never seen her cry before , but something about watching the waterfall of her tears made me want to save the world, to kill him and to save her. She bolted to the bathroom. Everyone who had been rooting for them was now standing, mouths hanging wide open. I went after her. I pounded on the door of the bathroom. No answer- so I started to push the door open. "Kailinn?" I asked , peering through the small crack. She looked back for an instant. "Jordan, no. Leave me alone ." The door slammed back into my face , but before it hid her from me , I saw mascara staining her cheeks. There was no longer green in her eyes ; they were brown. I was no longer Jordy; I was Jordan. When there was a them, I had an us. But now she didn't have him, and I wasn't sure if I could ever have her. KIOSK09 59 �UNCLE ICARUS My mother buckled me up in the back next to a coffee cake she baked. - Marv's favorite. We drove for miles, all the way to Waterloo , where Marv lived. I hated going to Marv's, because he lived with other handicapped people and they smoked and shouted fuck , shit, and fuck that shit, but he was her brother. We gave Marv his cake and he thanked us, but his speech was slurred and slow like a broken tuba. He tried talking to me, but he didn't realize a five-year-old and forty-year-old handicapped man have very little to discuss. On the way home, I told Mother I hated Uncle Marv and never wanted to go back to that place. She started crying and said, "The accident wasn't his fault," to which I retorted, "Was Icarus' fall not his fault?" Mother pondered this and said, "No, it was Daedalus' fault for building the wings for him." Her answer was impeccable, but far from irrefutable. "Who built the shoddy plane, with passion instead of knowledge? Who chose not to wear a helmet? Who didn't heed the warning of wise Daedalus?" I asked. She gave me some gummy bears and I quieted down, though the seatbelt was a bit too tight. GREGORY ANDERSON 60 KIOSK09 �GRANDPA TELLS A STORY That day the little menfolk were a listless herd, as sometimes was the case . They clustered, belt buckles glinting like spackle on a roof bent upward toward a celestial something, and I'll be damned if each wasn't waiting, ears pricked, mouths cottoned, fixated sunward in a blue-eyed funk: A secret sense of purpose had penetrated the ears of the menfolk that dawn break. Each awoke mindful of a Pied Piper, a primal voodoo tugging at his heart, promising warmth. Later, the womenfolk arose , having sunk heavy-center in their beds , perturbed by the neutered smells of their bedrooms , to find missing boots , missing coats , empty resting places. Panic spread as each knew, though none dared speak, of her husband's exodus. The village , it seemed, was in an uproar. The womenfolk gathered purposefully in town square. Each, expressing her futility, stood, head cocked back, staring sunward , churning hours into eternities. At the coming of dusk. the womenfolk, as if on cue , disbanded. Each retraced her steps back through her empty doorway, Past her empty coat rack, into her empty bed where she sank heavy center into night. You see , kids, life's a symphony when the hurricane brings the caskets to the surface , and you're organizing the dead bodies, grinning, belt buckles glinting, in the sun of a Sunday morning. MARK HANTLA KIOSK09 61 �• A MEMOIR WAIKIKI BEACH BY AUSHA WILEY . I ARROW SHOE byAmy Foltz 2 plote w reduction print ood 62 KIOSK09 t was my last day on Waikiki Beach. I spread out my hotel towel , but when I turned on my stomach my toes were still in the sand. This didn't bother me as I wiggled and dug them deeper and deeper into the warmth. Cara spread her towel and sat down beside me . Her cheap sunglasses were so large they made her look like a movie staror maybe an alien. The beach was crowded with hundreds of people on each side of us and a mass of twenty-five story resorts behind us. I tried to listen for the waves crashing into the shore, but instead I heard children behind me, so I put on my headphones. Just as I started getting bored and agitated by the sun, an old man began setting up camp in the small space next to me. His dark skin was wrinkled from many days on the beach just like this. With a hollow metal pole , he dug into the sand to make a hole for his umbrella to stand. I glanced back to see him strategically wrapping himself in a towel as he changed from baggy shorts to a Speedo. "Hey Cara ," I said, "check this out. " She turned to look. "Damn it, Laura! " Cara said. "I think I just saw a grey pube. " I shook my head and laughed. He sat in his folding chair, low to the ground , and plopped a handful of books and loose papers next to him. He pulled out a green canteen full of coffee and poured himself a cup. I don't recall how the conversation began, but after awhile we knew he was 70 years old and spent over 50 of those years on the beaches of Hawaii. I was curious so I asked bluntly, "What do you do for work?" "I don't believe in work. " This man was crazy. Who doesn't work? Hard work is all I know. I was raised on the American Dream. Anything is possible with enough hard work. "How do you make money?" I asked, squinting. "Have you ever heard of the stock market?" "Well, yeah. " "Well, the stock market pumps money just like your heart pumps blood. " He tapped on his wrist in a steady rhythm. ''I'll put it this way. You could work at McDonalds and put half your earnings in the stock market and you'd be set. How many hours do you take at schaaP" "I took 17 last semester." "Well then, six hours of research in the library would be easy." I realized he was talking about spending six hours studying the stock market. As we talked he ate pineapple chunks out of a plastic bag. I imagined this was all he ever ate. It looked like he hadn't had a good Iowa steak for years. A teenage boy approached him and said, ''I've been thinking about it and I decided I wanted surf lessons." The old man said, "A hundred dollars. That'll be for two days- a verbal lesson and a lesson out in the water. Come back at noon with no oil on the skin and no alcohol on the brain. " I wondered if the old man put half of every hundred dollars he made teaching surfing in the stock market. Probably not. He proudly told us he never married. I wondered if he was lonely surrounded by tourists . One man walked by and said, "Hey there, Jacque. " �Jacque shrugged indicating he had no idea who this man was . He said, "Everyone knows me , but I don't know anyone ." Everyone on the beach at this moment would fly back to reality within the next week, except for Jacque. I asked , "Do you ever get sick of all these tourists?" He laughed. "No , I screw tourists." I made sure my bikini was covering as much of my smooth skin as it could. I wondered if Jacque was his real name. I think he made it up- just like he told us he had a Ph.D. in political science. And how later on he told two guys behind us drinking at the bar that he owns a modeling agency for tall women and we were his clients. I said, "Jacque , you know, I've never surfed before. " "Well, you're an idiot," he said, "because never surfing is like never hearing music. " Our conversation started to slow down as the sky began to sprinkle rain. I looked up at the irony of a cloudless sky as a shiver ran down my back. Cara woke up and took off her head phones and started complaining that she was cold. Jacque said, "Just get in the ocean. That's what it's there for." So we looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and quickly got up , running toward the sand, and in unison jumped over the incoming wave. After the rain stopped, we waded back to our spot on the sand but Jacque was gone. We took our places back on our towels, and let the sun evaporate the small pools of water on our skin. There were times when I honestly avoided thinking about my future , but this wasn't one of those times . It seemed crazy that something that hadn't even happened yet could be so terrifying. My future scared me the same way that the ocean scared me . I didn't know what was out there , I didn't know my possibilities, the same way that I would never see what was hidden beneath the deepest waters. I could go snorkeling and see some coral and small fish , but not the mountains and monsters beneath. Up to this point in my life I was uninspired. In a strange way this man on the beach changed me. He made me think about my future and it didn't seem so bad. I could do whatever the hell I I wanted. I could get to the other side of the ocean even if it meant leaving Iowa and moving to Hawaii. Even if I had to eat pineapple for the rest of my life. Even if I had to screw Jacque for my airfare. As the sun set, two guys approached Cara and me. One guy was obviously better looking than the other, kind of like a superhero and his sidekick. They introduced themselves as Brendan and Luke and told us that our friend Jacque had sent them over. I thought , "Thank you Jacque!" We sat on our towels facing the ocean and the guys sat facing us. Brendan, the one with a six pack, sat with his elbow resting on his knee, his chin on his hand. I could tell by his direct, yet smooth approach that he'd had a few drinks. When we got through with all the boring chatter such as age and location, we talked about selection. Brendan asked , "What do you look for in a man?" We shrugged our shoulders, neither one of us willing to share , so instead we turned the question around , "Well what do you like in women?" "I like tall women," he said winking. I wondered if he had been talking to two short women, he'd tell them the exact opposite. "My future scared me the same way that the ocean scared n1e. I didn't know what was out there, didn't know my possibilities, the same way that I would never see what was hidden beneath the deepest waters." KIOSK09 63 �We found out that Brendan lived in Hawaii for part of each year as a contractor and was an avid surfer. I jumped on the opportunity and asked him for surf lessons. He agreed, and as the two of us walked along the beach. Cara jumped up and said she wanted to go , too. So my romantic twosome turned into a not-so-romantic threesome. We ran up the beach and stopped at the first place that rented out surfboards. As we approached, a worker putting away boards said, "Sorry, we don't rent out surfboards after five." My whole body suddenly felt heavy Who has the right to tell me I can't surf? We stopped at the next place where the worker told us the same thing. Brendan saved the day and said , "Hey man, this is their last day here , couldn't we just rent a board for half an hour?" "It better be back in a half an hour," the worker said. I tried picking up my surfboard, but dropped it, surprised by the weight. I tried again, this time with my muscles tightened and prepared. I was awkward carrying the surfboard down the beach. Brendan helped Cara find her balance so she could swim on top of her board. I waded out a ways and then spread out on my stomach and paddled straight into the waves. As the waves came toward us, Brendan coached us to put our hands on the board and push our bodies away, arching our backs to let the water flow between our chests and the boards. 64 KIOSK09 We paddled out to where Brendan told us the wave would break. We let a couple waves pass , and Brendan told Cara to go first. She paddled hard towards shore as Brendan gave her a push. The wave began to carry her away and she started to rise , but then fell. The next wave was mine. He pushed , I paddled. I could feel the wave start to pick me up , so I slowly lifted to my knees and then to my feet. I was standing, but only for a second. I fell sideways and came safely up from the water. We tried a couple more waves before our 30 minutes were up . We paddled back to shore , turned in our surfboards and started walking to our spot on the beach. Brendan said , "We missed the red flash. " "What's the red flash? " I asked. "On a clear night like this, just as the sun is completely below the horizon, there's a flash of red light that reflects off the ocean. " The thing is , I did see a flash. A Single flash of light over a dark, bottomless ocean. �A NIGHTMARE ABOUT BEING OLD AND ALONE The tiles beneath my naked body are cold, reminding me of how old I am getting. They're not as soft as her. Drifting into pine green memories of Wisconsin, her skin beneath me instead of cold tiles. In the great cheese state we danced to Bob Dylan, drunk off vodka we couldn't afford and made love in Wisconsin on the orange carpet floor. In the morning she would spray herself with that green plastic bottle, covering herself in some fruity concoction. Strawberry-watermelon or something like that. The only thing I smell now are the volumes of books I haven't touched for years, but keep anyway Back in Wisconsin we read books we didn't understand and drank vodka we couldn't afford and again made love on the orange carpet floor. I stand up to take a leak and walk out my office door. No one should be around, it's late or maybe it's early I'm wrong, there's a secretary, she's working late , or maybe early I stop walking and look at her. Something should be said, some excuse to why I've been sleeping naked in my office, but I can only think of Wisconsin and empty bottles of vodka and her tearing up the orange carpet to reveal hardwood. I let out a laugh and say, "Well isn't this the cat's pajamas?" GREGORY ANDERSO N KIOSK09 65 �• PAGE FROM THE PAST How LOVERS CAN ENJOY CITRUS FRUITS WHILE DINING ON SEAFOOD The steaming trout on my plate, With his glossy, deadened eye, looks at it , The dimpled, yellow wedge. I smell Country Tyme and Lemon Pledge. Parsley leaves shield the naked citrus, As the fig leaves did for man and woman in The Garden of Eden, This time, it is my lover who wants first fruits. I squeeze it tauntingly and lick its ripened edge , The juice leaving my fingers squeaky. Greedily, he takes the prized piece of fruit and puts it in Whole , smiling a yellow rind, Lips barely puckered, His cheeks slightly sucked in, like the dead fish On my plate. He draws in the biting juice and drains the citrus Dry. With bits of pulp between his teeth and a pool of Distasteful spit under his tongue, he pulls my face to his. The other patrons Gasp. Our mouths caress, with bitterness. The Lemon Kiss. TRISH REGNERUS (1993) 66 KIOSK09 �COLOPHON A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE KIOSK " S Ubject to editorial fallibility, the best will be printed." This quote first appeared in the foreword of the 1938 issue of Manuscript, the ancestor of the Kiosk. In the earlier years at Morningside , student satire and short fiction was often published in the yearbook, but an idea for a student literary magazine began to grow in 1937 during a meeting of the Manuscript Club. In March, 1938, students and faculty gathered to read aloud stories and pokiosk ems, which had undergone a screening process; only pieces of "sufficient literary merit" made it to readings , recalled Miriam Baker Nye, first editor. That fall , South Dakota poet laureate Badger Clark visited campus, further fueling student desire for a literary magazine , and so on December 7th, 1938 Manuscript was printed and distributed. Response to the publication was instant. One of the stories described students skipping Chapel to go to an ice cream parlor, and the next week President Roadman started taking roll during Chapel. Over the following years, students were driven to submit their work and have their voices heard. Manuscript was printed for 16 issues, but disappeared in 1952 , only to rise again in 1955 under the title , Perspectives . After skipping 1957 , it reappeared under the direction of faculty advisor William Palmer. In 1971 , students renamed it Kiosk, and it has been printed nearly every year since , advised by Donald Stefanson, Carole Van Wyngarden, Janice Eidus, Scott Simmer, Robert Conley, Jan Hodge , and for the past 20 years by Stephen Coyne. The Kiosk has included cover art from nearly the beginning, but in 2006 student editor Cliff Thompson along with assistance of John Kolbo and the support of Morningside President John Reynders revamped the format of the magazine to better accommodate student art; thus , art began to take a more central role in the magazine. In some ways this story mirrors the current atmosphere of the Kiosk . Morningside was fortunate this year to have Marvin Bell, former poet laureate of Iowa, visit the campus , which certainly raised awareness of the English Department and its literary magakiosk zine . The Kiosk sponsored its first poetry slam in February of 2009 , and excitement buzzed around campus during the week of the slam. Submissions have skyrocketed in recent years. In the last two years, the Kiosk has won two major national awards. It was a finalist in the Pacemaker Award, sponsored by the Associated Collegiate Press , and received a gold medal from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association. KIOSKS OF THE PAST from left to rignt, 2006,2007,2008,2009 The Kiosk is published annually by Morningside College and is distributed at no cost to Morningside students and alumni. It is printed in four process colors on a digital printing press on 80# matte coated cover and 80# matte coated book paper stock. Adobe InDesign CS3 is the page layout software used to assemble the entire publication. KIOSK09 67 �• CONTRIBUTOR'S NOTES WRITING Daniel Anderson , graduated in 1977 with a BA in English at Morningside. He is now Associate Pastor at Wesley United Methodist Church in Sioux City. Gregory Anderson is a Junior from Sioux City. In 2007, his poem, "Kismet," won first place in the Kiosk's literary contest. He edited the Kiosk in 2008. He is majoring in English education. Stephen Coyne is a Professor of English at Morningside College. He has served as faculty advisor to the Kiosk since 1989. His short stories and poems have been published in numerous literary journals. Tyrel D rey is a junior from Storm Lake, Iowa. He is pursuing majors in both theatre and English. He is involved in several honor societies on campus, and is a member of the Delta Sigma Phi fraternity. His short story, "Distortion," won second place in this year's Kiosk literary contest. Mark Hantla is a junior religious studies major pursuing a career in teaching and ministry. This is his first year submitting to the Kiosk. His interests include writing, history, philosophy, and music. Colin O 'Sullivan is a senior at Morningside College. He is finishing his BS in Chemistry.This is his third contribution to the Kiosk. His piece, "Where are My Glasses?" won an Editor's Choice award in 2008. Kiel Ploen is a 2008 Morningside graduate.This is his second contribution to the Kiosk. His piece. "An Odd Bit," won second place in the Kiosk's Publication Contest in 2008. Victoria Reed graduated with a BA in English with a teaching credential in May of 2008. She accepted a job at an International school in Honduras for the 2008-2009 school year 68 KIOSK09 Krystal Shearer is a sophomore from Emerson, Iowa, majoring in Engl ish. Her new motto has become , "Work without boundaries; create without boundaries." This is Krystal's first contribution to the Kiosk. Kristina Sturm is a senior English Education major from Polk City, Iowa. After May graduation, she plans to move back to Polk City. Her goal is to teach high school English in a rural Iowa high school as well as coach tennis. Randy Uhl recently finished his Master's degree in educational leadership and is currently teaching high school Engl ish and literature at Lawton-Bronson Community School. A graduate from Morningside Co llege in 1990, he has contributed numerous times to the Kiosk over the past twenty years. LindsayWashburn is a junior at Morningside. She is working toward an English degree with an emphasis in both literature and writing, as well as a minor in psychology. Besides school , Lindsay is involved in the local theatre community. Her poem, "To Speak of Horses," won third place in this year's Kiosk literary contest. She would like to thank Jeremy and her friends and family for always being supportive with her writing. Ross Wilcox is a junior at Morningside College. He is studying English and literature in the hopes of becoming an English professor His poem, "Ionne," won first place in this year's Kiosk literary contest. Alisha Willey graduated from Morningside College in 2008 with her BA in English and psychology. She currently attends the University of South Dakota where she is working toward her EdS in school psychology. At USD Alisha works as a graduate assistant in Athletic Academics where one of her primary jobs is tutoring athletes in English. �ART Sash a Backhaus is a junior studio art major from Westside, Iowa. She also is a minor in English and is a part of the Morningside softball team. Mack Maschmeier, a senior graphic design major and studio art minoe is from Fremont. Nebraska. He won first and third places in last year's Kiosk. Becca Bauer, from Alliance, Nebraska, is a senior majoring in graphic design, advertising, and photography. After four years at Morningside, she will graduate in May 2009. Patrick Oxendale is a senior biology major His true passion is spending time with his wife and daughtee but unfortunately that doesn't pay the bills. Holly Becker is a Junior art education major from Sioux City. Nicole Raphael , a freshman majoring in art, is from Papillion, josh Beckwith is a senior art student from Sioux City. This is Nebraska. After graduation she hopes to pursue her career as a photographer in the fashion industry. his second year contributing to the Morningside Kiosk. jasmine Richards is a senior double majoring in K-I 2 art john Bowitz was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He has taught art at Morningside College since 1977. education and elementary education from Hawarden, Iowa. She plans on getting a job in education after graduation. Sarah Chambers is a sophomore majoring in photography from Sheldon, Iowa. She has two photos and also contributed to last year's Kiosk. Alicia Runyan, from Cherokee, Iowa, is a senior majoring in graphic design, advertising, and studio art. After graduating in May, she hopes to attain a job in publication design. Kayla Curry is a senior studio art major from Sioux City. Anne Torkelson is a senior art education major She has contributed to the Kiosk for the past three years. Sean Delperdang is a junior from Akron, Iowa, majoring in graphic design and advertising TonyWiley is a freshman from Diagonal, Iowa. He is majoring in art education with a minor in photography. Leslie DePeel is a Junior photography and business double major She comes from O'Neill , Nebraska. She hopes to own her own photography studio one day. Breanne Evans, a senior majoring in business administration with an emphasis in marketing, comes from Crofton , Nebraska. Digital photography is not her usual hobby, but she IS making strides to become more appreciative of "fine" art. Alyssa Filipek is a freshman graphic design and advertising major She's from Bettendorf, Iowa. Amy Foltz is an adjunct art faculty member at Morningside College, where she teaches design, printmaking and figure drawing. Foltz has an MFA from The University of South Dakota and a BFA from Ohio State University. Annika Kolbo is a junior art education and music major from Sioux City, Iowa. Wyeth Lynch is a senior photography and intemational affairs double major from Prole, Iowa. He contributed to the Kiosk last year Copyright 2009 by the Kiosk, a publication of MorningSide College. After first publication all rights revert to the authors and artists. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of the Kiosk staff or MorningSide College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be suitable for children. KIOSK09 69 ���M MORNINGSIDE LEG E COL 150 I MORNINGSIDE AVE. SIOUX CITY, IOWA 51106 The Morningside College experience cultivates a passion for life-long learning and a dedication to ethical leadership and civic responsibility � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College. Through its several titles—Manuscript, Perspectives, and Kiosk—the magazine has a long history of celebrating creative writing and art on campus. It began publication in 1938 under the title of Manuscript before changing its name to Perspectives in 1953. Then in 1971 it took another name that it is known by currently: Kiosk. It is still published annually by the Morningside College English Department. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1938- Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Morningside College Library Morningside College English Department Ponder, Marcie: Digital Creator Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical PDF Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Title A name given to the resource Kiosk Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource "The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children," (The Kiosk, 2003). Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. kiosk THE ART AND LITERARY MAGAZINE OF MORNINGS IDE COLLEGE 2009 kiosk VOLUME 71 2009 THE ART AND LITERARY MAGAZINE OF MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE KIOSK09 3 • STAFF EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Audrey Hantla FICTION NON-FICTION Associate Editor Associate Editor Phil Lieder Adrianna Radosti Kyle Bubb Tyrel Drey Shea Hartmann Hodges Lindsay Washburn Marcie Ponder Kristina Sturm POETRY COPY EDITING Associate Editor Emily Domayer Marcie Ponder Alicia Prewett Gregory Anderson Maggie Konecne Mack Maschmeier Colin O'Sullivan ART Visual Editor Faculty Advisors Alicia Runyan Stephen Coyne John Kolbo Terri McGaffin Assistant Editors Lindsey Siepker Anne Torkelson ABOUT OUR JUDGES: Marvin Bell (1937 -) an American poet, is famous for creating "dead man" poems. He also taught for many years at the famed Writers Workshop at the University of Iowa. Bell was born in New York City. He earned his bachelor's degree from Alfred University, master's degree from the University of Chicago, and his MFA from the University of Iowa. He has written 16 books of poetry. Honors for his work include Guggenheim and NEA fellowships , and Fulbright appointments in Yugoslavia and Australia. In 2000 Bell was appointed as the first Poet Laureate for the state of Iowa. Mark Kochen is a serial artist from Sioux City. He is currently teaching painting at WITCe. Mark spends most of his time painting stuff on stuff in his studio in Leeds. Christine McAvoy has been part of the G.R. Lindblade &: Company creative team for 20 years. As Creative Director, Christine works in still photography and videography. Images of her work from Saturday in the Park appear in the book and DVD , All Access, which has won a Telly Award in 2006, a Millennium Award and a Communicator Award in 2005. 4 KIOSK09 LETTER FROM THE EDITOR "Good art can not be immoral. By good art I mean art that bears true witness, I mean the art that is most precise." EZRA P OUND Dear old Ezra put it best. Over the last 71 years, the Kiosk has had three names, dozens of editors, numerous formatting and style improvements, and an increase in submissions. The Kiosk has morphed from a slim chapbook to a thick, glossy magazine. Despite all these changes, one thing remains the same- honesty. . To portray honestly the human condItion, the world, and our place in it is a goal writers and artists strive for in every draftsomething extremely difficult to achieve but invaluable in its effect. The "true witness" Pound mentions allows us to see , for a moment into lives that are not our own. Honest writi~g provides us with a vivid view that we otherwise would never get to experience. The Kiosk has always strived to showcase literature and art that portray familiar subjects but present them from new perspectives. Many of the subjects in this year's offering aren't traditionally pleasant: a patient's isolation in a hospital, a young girl struggling with depression, a boy's curiosity as he watches his dying aunt; but the wnters have found ways to write honestly and to cast the truth in new and unusual lights . I would like to commend the contributors to the Kiosk for their work; submitting takes courage. The act of creation is by nature personal. All art contains some piece of the artist; all stories or poems contain truths from the writers' lives . When students submit their works to the Kiosk, they are revealing parts of themselves to the community; they also face the chance of rejection. For such actions, their courage should be commended. I would like to extend thanks to President John Reynders, who has supported the Kiosk's growth and made the improvements of the last five years possible. The Kiosk has been a finalist in the Pacemaker Award, sponsored by the Associated Collegiate Press, and has received a gold medal from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association. Thank you to the Associate Editors Gregory Anderson, Philip Lieder, and Adrianna Radosti for their commitment to the poetry, fiction and non-fiction departments as well as to all members of the editorial boards and to our proof reading team: Emily Domayer and Alicia Prewett. I am also grateful to Art Editor Alicia Runyan, and her faculty advisors Instructor John Kolbo and Assistant Professor Terri McGaffin, who have played crucial roles in the design of the magazine as well as in managing the artwork. I would also like to thank everyone in the English Department, espeCially to Administrative Assistant Marcie Ponder for her commitment to help out with any problem, big or small. . Absolutely none of this would be pOSSIble without the advice and guidance of Professor of English and advisor to the Kiosk Steve Coyne. In the past few months he has served as a mentor to the process, and at times , an ear to the troubles that go along with editing a magazine. Steve, thank you . You have truly kept me sane. Finally, I would like to thank you, the reader. Without you, the Kiosk would have no audience. So sit back and enjoy this collection of the literature and art of Morningside College. AUDREY HANTLA Editor·in{hief KIOSK09 5 CONTENTS All entries are considered objectively by the judges with no artist name or special consideration for any piece. Assistant editors are eligible for contest placement but not prize money. 6 KIOSK09 ART The Path Remembered WYETH LYNCH Cover The Wicked Donut JASMINE RICHARDS The Great Train ToNY WILEY 13 Fingers and Toes SASHA BACKHAUS 15 My Protector ALICIA RUNYAN 19 Blissful Ignorance ANNE TORKELSON 21 Door Knob ALYSSA FILIPEK 22 Untitled ANNIKA KOLBO 25 Finding Light ANNE TORKELSON 27 Posterior View AMY FOLTZ 29 Obama MACK MASCHMEIER 33 Mix SARAH CHAMBERS 34 Welcome to Pizza Ranch ANNIKA KOLBO 36 Hurley MYLA CURRY 40 Saturday in the Park SEAN DELPERDANG 40 Canine Essence ALICIA RUNYAN 40 Lights MACK MASCHMEIER 41 Seating Patterns BECCA BAUER 41 Morningside Mascot PATRICK OXEN DALE 41 How the Mighty Have Fallen BECCA BAUER 42 Industry WYETH LYNCH 42 Russian Princess BREANNE EVANS 43 Black and White LESLIE DEPEEL 43 Trio SARAH CHAMBERS 43 Rail Bridge JOSH BECKWITH 45 Autumns Last Dance NICOLE RApHAEL 47 Untitled HOLLY BECKER 49 City of Green MYLA CURRY 51 Mr. Bear JOHN BOWITZ 53 Crushed Pepsi ALYSSA FILIPEK 56 Moment BREANNE EVANS 58 Arrow Shoe AMY FOLTZ .,0"1 <"., ~, 62 '" ~ 20 0 9 n 8 tlOf~ 2 009 ~t_~ .. .. ~ 2009 , p~ ~41~ 2 00 9 K IOSK09 7 A SHORT STORY THE TEDDY BEAR BY TYREL DREY T he teddy bear glared at me with its black beady eyes, smiling coyly in its orange overalls, staring at me, taunting me. The teacher had begun calling out names: Adams, Brennan, Brown, Christophsen, Dahm, Flannigan, Frank. .. It hung in the air, taunting me, mocking me, bringing my first day of kindergarten to an ominous failure. Each child, as their name T E WICKED DONUT H by Jasmine Richards relief print was called, got up to receive their star. A shiny, golden star. Most of the kids ended up tearing off one of the edges as they received it from the teacher. Stupid kids. I wouldn't have torn the star- I'd have kept it pristine in its golden splendor. I longed to place it next to my name on the board. I stared back at that bear. That damn 8 KIOSK09 bear; grinning, triumphant, knowing it had beaten me. We started kindergarten with a few simple rules- the most important: raise your hand and wait to be called on. That rule would always haunt me. I was articulate and outgoing. I could do anything, except raise my hand. We started out with two buttons on our bear, one over each strap on the bear's bib overalls. If we broke a rule, one of the buttons was removed. If we finished the day with a button on the bear, we got a gold star on our chart, and after thirty gold stars , got a free pencil. Not just any pencil, no I had a desk full of regular pencils. These were bright, vibrant, multi-colored pencils. I wanted one. I wanted one badly But I'd lost both of my buttons. No buttons, no gold star, no pencil. I'd failed. And I sat there watching the kids hastily put their stars on the chart. They walked over to the board and back to their seats with smiles of satisfaction on their faces. Smiles of satisfaction just like the bear's. Taunting smiles, each mocking me unintentionally Stupid kids putting their torn stars on their charts. Not even putting them on well. They were all off center, without a point pointing up like on a real star. If the kids weren't so stupid I wouldn't even be in this mess. We would go around the room, letting everyone try at an answer- me sitting in my desk, waving my hand, straining to draw the teacher's attention. I knew the answer. Looking back I don't even remember the question, but I remember deciding that maybe if I just answered we could move on. I remember giving the answer out of turn and being right. I remember her taking my button and saying not to talk out of turn. I remember the twinge of anger that poked into my glorious first day of school and broke away the grand illusion I had about my education. I remember being punished for being right, for knowing the answer. What's the point of letting people be wrong? What's the point of letting children get laughed at because they answered wrong? Why not let me answer, get it right, and move on? I sat there , nearly in tears as the teacher dismissed us. My mom was waiting for me outside. She had a big grin, and was surprised that her chatty son was no longer glowing with the excitement he'd had earlier that morning. I didn't say much on the ride home . I was trying not to cry and let the shame out , let her know that I was a failure. What if they didn't let me come back because I lost my buttons? What if my mom was angry because I was right, and they punished me and didn't let me go back to my friends? We got home , and my mom asked me what went wrong. I let it go. I started crying and through the tears of my failure explained the story of my lost buttons. The story of my failure on the first day of school. "I see," she said. She searched for a change of subject. "But your teacher likes you right?" I assured her that Mrs. Brown loved all the children, and I'm sure it wasn't any personal dislike for me that spurred the incident. I cried for a bit longer. Eventually my dad arrived home, and I sat in my room and played with my Lego's while he and my mom talked. I loved my Lego's. I could build for hours, and since I had my own room, I could leave them in a heap on the floor, and never clean them up- until my mom told me to , but usually then I decided to play with them more- that way I didn't have to pick them up . My dad was concerned that I wasn't buzzing around the house with the day's adventures as I usually was. I listened as my mom explained it to him. I couldn't bear to hear the retelling of my day's mistakes. I decided that Lego's were stupid. Stupid Lego's . I went and played in the sand box where there weren't any stupid Lego's and I didn't have to listen to my mom talk about that stupid bear anymore . Stupid bear, stupid Lego's, stupid sandbox. You can't kneel down in sand. It sticks to your legs and gets you dirty and leaves stupid red marks on your legs. Stupid sand , I hate sand, I hate Lego's, I hate stupid grinning teddy bears in stupid orange overalls , and I hate stupid kindergarten and stupid kids who tear their stupid stars and get stupid multicolored pencils with glitter on them. I went and sat on the wrap-around porch. There wasn't any stupid sand there . My dad came out and sat "I beside me on the steps. "So ," he said, lighting a cigarette. "I hear you had a rough day" I nodded because couldn't talk. I was going to cry again. I didn't want to cry in front of my dad. Not that he would care; I'd done it plenty of times before . I didn't want to cry because that meant I cared. I cared about stupid bears and buttons and stars and kindergarten. I cared a lot. A lot more than I should have . "So explain this bear thing to me. I don't quite get it," he said, exhaling smoke into the surrounding air. I retold the tale ofthe buttons, bears, reiterating how stupid they were. I told him how I knew the answer but the teacher wouldn't call on me again. He looked at me and said, "So if you lose the buttons on your bear, you miss recess time?" "No ... " Where was he going with this? "So then they put you in time out. " "N 0" ,, " I said once again. "Well then what really happens?" It was more of a statement than a question. "Well.. ." I paused. Nothing really I thought for a moment. "Well, you don't get one of the stupid pencils." "Oh, so you really want a pencil ," he proclaimed, as if insight was dawning on him. couldn't bear to hear the retelling of my day's mistakes." KIOSK09 9 LA VISTA DALLA TERRAZZA DELLA QUARTA (THE VIEW FROM THE FOURTH TERRACE) Somewhere along the line , I lost the poems of my youth. Stoic Midwest ghosts that lurk inside of me still recall the night the stinking water came , and place the blame on the Flood of '93: Basement walls sprung leaks, and they could not contain the water: Boxes, boxes! Papers and clothes! All soaked beyond saving, thanks to springtime rains. All that paper, steeped in water, growing mold; papers too old to sort, much too old to save. The work of my youth, even by then too old: Now, I'm not so sure: We threw it all away? Suppose there wasn't a noble tragedy; Suppose the truth is less, something more mundane: Just misplaced . .. No irony, no comedy. Then, perhaps , that sacred book is still around, buried under weight of age : Banality. Then some day, my youthful poems may be foundAnd I'll see the words I worked so hard to find . And I'll hear my youthful voice again: the sound, the rhythms and patterns , the beats and the rhymes. Somewhere in this place , I'm sure it's packed away, with the visions and dreams of a youthful mind. Even then I knew it's something I should save; something I would want to see again, because once upon a time , I had so much to say. DANIEL ANDERSON KIOSK09 II JUST OFF THE HIGHWAY, ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF TOWN Dashboard collection of red sand from the valley between the Dragoons and Chirakowa Mountains , rocks, shells, a green smiling Buddha and a snow globe from Tennessee. Like mantras , they travel alongside me. So I don't feel abandoned in the great open range of Arizona. Today her bareness will not seduce me. I have in mind a Minnesotan woman, one-sixteenth Santee Sioux, who is all that I could ever believe. Her skin is gentle, her lips taste like cocoa butter, her eyes full of mischief, and her passion calls me up north to the land of lakes and curdled cheese. Out past my bumper, on the tail of a white-beat up Lebaron one sticker reads "I heart S Carolina" and another "If you can read this you're an ASSHOLE. " I pass them doing sixty, and the driver is busy adjusting her baby's car seat. I imagine she is wearing a tee-shirta Tasmanian Devil tee-shirt decorated with baby formula and spaghetti sauce from last night. Arizona I am leaving you, your dry heat, wide roads and easy parking. I am leaving friends from the Atomic Comic book store. Bye Bonnie, bye Rhonda , bye Eric, Rick and Christina. Buddha's still laughing, looking and laughing at me- the one who hasn't got the smarts to stay home . I camp on a reservation, right outside Taos, New Mexico . 12 KIOSK09 I find a free camping site. It's full of snow birds , at their prime ages , all over sixty They are making the same trek as me , only in the opposite direction. For dinner I have a forty of Mickey's malt liquor and some hot dogs, warmed up over a fire of twigs and leaves . Little packs of dogs run past every once and a while . Signs have warned me not to feed them. So instead I wonder what it would be like to be a wild dog in these times. Is it easier than following the hunters and the gathers? I can't decide so I sit back and watch as the stars start to show. All around me are RVs , monstrous and elaborate. It is suddenly strange that they carry everything and camp in the air conditioning. C OLIN O'SULLIVAN THE GREAT TRAIN byTonyW iley digitol photogroph KIOSK09 13 A SHORT STORY THE PREGNANCY KNOT BY RANDY UHL T he boy sat on the floor behind her; she between his legs and leaning forward, his thumbs firmly pushing and kneading the seventh month pressure that had given birth to her pregnancy knot. Beginning at the small of her back with little circular motions, he worked his way up the map of her body and back down until guttural sounds leaked from her mouth. Responding to his adolescent touch, her body arched making her mountainous stomach rise up like Kilimanjaro with her copper hair thrown back into his face. He buried his nose in the crimson and grew dizzy in the smell of licorice. They had this daily habit of conjuring baby names, one each, offering one at a time, hoping that the perfect name would slide through the ether and choose them. "Horton," the boy said, half proud of his choice. ''I'm not sure about that one." "Why?" "It sounds heavy." "Heavy can be good." "Everything is already too heavy ... hearts, hands." The boy stopped what he was doing and let his fingers rest at his side. "What's yours then?" The girl thought beyond the ticking clock on the headboard of the boy's bed and focused instead on the statue of Buddha they purchased in a downtown deli. Realizing his hands were empty, she pushed back to remind him that the knot was still there. His hands continued the work. "I like the name Ernest," she said. "Can we call him Ernie?" "Ernest. Yes. It makes him sound determined; like it was his decision." "As long as we can call him Ernie," and "A far-away gaze settled in her eyes and she stared at a map of Europe ... countries outlined in red where someday they would travel." 14 KIOSK09 then as if it was an afterthought, "What if the baby is a girl?" Without flinching she replied, "He's a boy," and giggled and said under her breath, "I've had a boy inside me before. I know what it feels like ." "Beg your pardon." She shook her head. "Never mind." Reaching up, she took the glass of milk from the night stand and drank. The girl looked about the boy's room, which was clean and well-lit and not at all like her own house, her parent's house . A far-away gaze settled in her eyes and she stared at a map of Europe, creased by longago folding and edges peeled, taped to his wall; countries outlined in red where someday they would travel. "Sadie," the boy hesitated, "have your parents come around?" The girl hesitated and added a sigh . "My mother's still upset that I didn't go through with it. She says I'm too young to know what I'm giving up. My father won't talk about it. He's worried about how it will look. .. concerned about money, afraid we'll go belly-up. He talks around it, and I sit there; the white elephant in the room." "Pink," the boy said. "Huh?" "Pink- it's the pink elephant in the room that no one talks about." "Does the color really matter?" 'Tm not sure. I think so." "Why should it matter what color it is? White, pink, grey. If there's an elephant in the room someone should mention it." "I suppose." The boy nodded. "Find me someone who wouldn't talk about the elephant." "I don't think I could ." "Speaking of elephants," she wavered for a moment and continued, "I never asked this before, but what ran through your mind when I told you?" The boy paused , 'The second you told me I never wanted to see you again. Now, whenever I walk in a room, you're the first person I look for." He took the glass of milk from her, brought it to his lips and finished it. He set it back on the night stand as a small white snail of milk slowly crawled down the side . He jumped to his feet , bent forward, slid his forearms under her arm pits and slowly, as if they had practiced this many times , craned her upright until she was standing firmly on her own. The girl turned and faced the boy and enfolded her arms around his neck while he automatically shifted his torso to the right. This was something they had taught themselves; to show affection for each other without letting her stomach get in the way. She kissed him on the cheek, and then rested her forehead against his chest. After kissing the crest of her head the boy noticed something the girl couldn't for the past two months. "Your shoe is untied. Let me." He knelt down on one knee, and not for the last time, to tie her shoe . Smiling, with a catch in her throat, the girl instructed , "Make it tight. " He took the two white laces in each hand, wound them, looped them around his thumbs, and pulled them hard together. He watched the knot get smaller until it practically disappeared and the two strings looked as if they were one . Standing, the boy noticed her watered eyes and said, "Are you alright?" "I feel fine," she said. "There's nothing wrong with me. I feel fine ." FINGE AND TOE RS S by Sash a Ba(khaus mixed media drawing KIOSK09 IS To SPEAK OF HORSES I sit cross-legged and still in my grandparents' living room, listening to my dad and uncles. They are talking with my grandfather about the horses. Which one sired that one, and who broke it again? The dapple, the strong bay, an appaloosa, old Duke, now that was a horse. Near sixteen hands and lived to be thirty-two. Never another like him, not before and not since. A smell wafts through and teases my nostrils, a mix of starches, potato water and gravy. In the kitchen are the Aunts. Dodi, plagued by silent dissatisfaction, her voice and hips thick with Pennsylvania Dutch. She screams at her children and makes my mother seem not so bad after all. An argument begins in the living room, uncle against uncle, but neither is right. Noone really remembers when they got the yearling, but the old man has the final say, and he knows damn well it was 1963. LINDSAY WASHBURN 16 KIOSK09 THE DEAD MAN Is NOT HERE Live as if you were already dead. Z EN ADMONITION More about the dead man. MARVIN BELL I sleep where the dead man died . I bought the dead man's house and the dead man's bed, and I sleep in the dead man's room. He was an engineer, and I think he greased the tracks between here and not here because when I close my eyes at night, a tunnel swallows me, and I barrel through the dark, hand on the throttle, eyes riveted to the blackness. What trust it takes to follow a road we cannot see, did not make, do not really trust. I must abandon myself to the dead man when I sleep, blowing at crossings for the sheer joy of speed. The horn of our apocalypse stops services at the churches we pass. We roar through sermons- You cannot stand in the way of this train. Climb aboard or be destroyed. These dreams leave me spent in the mornings. I know I have been not here and I have seen what I did not see and know it exists because I did not see it. This is what the dead man tries to teach about being not here, but it's what I refuse to learn. And that's why I find myself each morning exactly where I left me the night before. STEPHEN C OYNE KIOSK09 17 A PIECE OF CREATIVE NON -F ICTION POVERTY FEEDS ITSELF BY KRYSTAL SHEARER I can't remember the word "poor" being used to describe me when I was growing up. I can't remember the specij1c arguments between my parents. Only that they involved money, something I had no clue about. I do remember in the beginning of my elementary school career the feeling of my cold toes under tattered blankets in a house with no heat. I remember winters spent in misery and torment- coming home from first, second, and third grades from a cozy classroom to a frigid house. We couldn't afford the heat, so we used the ancient wood stove that must have been built during the same time period as the house- early 1900s- and was just as inefficient at holding heat as the thin and cracked wood paneling on the walls. The fake forest backdrop on one wall- wallpaper put up by residents before us- made me feel as though I was constantly camping out. Adding to the illusion of camping: my family crowding around our little wood stove, burning hot on our fronts , freezing cold on our backs. I remember not having all the TV channels that everyone else grew up with- what is Nickelodeon? What is TNT? What's Cinemax, the channel that all the other kids in sixth grade talk about, with sly and sneaky glances to make sure their friends are listening? I had no idea I was poor, no clue that I had the reduced price meal plan at school and that teachers liked my bold personality, not just because I stood out, but because I was overcoming something I knew nothing about. To be politically correct, I was very close to- but not quite touching- the poverty line. I went through grade school close to, but never quite hitting, poverty, in mismatched hand-me-down clothes that made me the brunt of the joke, the weird kid, the slightly smelly little girl with ragged red hair and chubby cheeks that could never be outgrown. The poverty threshold for 2006 for two people plus one child was $16 ,227 total income , before taxes. The poverty threshold 18 KIOSK09 is the financial line that separates people or families who are in poverty from those who are not. By the Census Bureau's definition, "the dollar amounts used to determine poverty status. " But how far, by a Morningside College student's normal standards of living, can an income of $16,227 get you? A semester of education with a few thousand dollars left over- half a year of school for a year of pay. Why waste the money? For someone in poverty, college is not generally the first priority. So how much does it actually cost for an average family comparable to my own consisting of two adults and one child to live in a year? Let's assume the child is around fourth grade , as I was, and the parents were in their late thirties , as mine were. In my small Iowa town, house payments each month amounted to about $500 , groceries were about $150 a month (we bought the cheap brands as well), we had old cars so rather than having car payments , we had the possibility of making unexpected repairs. Electric bills were about $200. Cable, internet , and telephone all combined would be about $100. Two cell phones would be about $60. Insurance for both the house and two cars were about $125/month, and a family plan for health insurance would be around $320. One month of living for this family would be around $1,455. But if you divide the $16 ,227 yearly income up into twelve months, the average pay for one month would be about $1,352 , which is $103 short of what you would need to cover general costs of living. These costs don't include miscellaneous expenses , such as gas , clothing, holidays, or even taxes. The U.S . takes very few personal aspects of life into account in the process of measuring poverty status. The U.S. Census Bureau uses a set of income thresholds that vary by family size and composition in order to determine who is in poverty. The thresholds are the minimum amount of money a per- son is supposed to be able to eat off of for a year, times three- not taking into account the taxes they payor any number of other circumstances that may significantly reduce the amount of money they are actually able to spend. If a family's total income is less than the family's threshold (so that each person has the minimum dollar amount that allows them to eat all year), then they are considered to be in poverty. These thresholds are "equal" throughout the United States- the set dollar amount does not vary geographically, although there is definitely a difference in cost of practically everything in the Midwest vs. on the coasts. The poverty thresholds vary each year, but only to update them for inflation, according to the Consumer Price Index. It's hard to see that, under all the figures and perceptions of poverty, people live on this bare income. Our lights were out again- I think Mom said something about Jorgetting to pay the bill but I knew better. This was the third time in three months, and I thought she overspent her paycheck again. The wood-paneled walls oj our living room in combination with the mock-Jorest backdrop gave me the chills and my over-active Jourth grade imagination produced terrible prowling animals between the 2D trees, flashing eyes and sharp teeth. The woodstove was our only source oj heat and light, although it produced very little oj both, so Dad stomped off to find another light. Returning with a blackened, cold lantern in his hand, he stooped down with a match in his thick, gnarled mechanic's hands. The lantern flared into bold, golden light, the two small and deflated bags transJorming into twin suns. My cold hands reached out in wonder toward the vibrant source oj light, maybe even happiness, reaching through the open door to touch the balls oj radiance. My parents began to shout too late and the pain turned me stupid. I screamed and jumped. The lantern tipped ominously, and the three oj us watched it shatter over the bare floor, the flame instantly extinguished. My screams turned to sobs. I longed Jor the glow I had naIvely doused. It's such a confusing thing, poverty. The media has skewed the public's view of the poorest regions of the U.S.- stereotypes that include Single mothers with too many kids to count, black Americans that somehow can't get back on their feet , dodgy characters My PROT ECTOR byAlicia Runy on charcoal all drugged up , and the one shining figure among them all that breaks free and becomes a millionaire . Somehow that poverty-stricken hero prevails , no matter that there are very few individuals who manage to break out of the vicious cycle of poverty. The movie The Pursuit oj Happyness holds one of the most common misconceptions among the upper-middle class , especially in childrenthe belief that "You can do anything if you try your hardest! " KIOSK09 19 The classroom was alive with debate over an issue most of the students hadn't given much thought to before. Set up into four separate clusters of desks, the twelve of us had been chattering on about the morality of something or other in our textbooks. Normally I am decent friends with most of the class, but now I glared at my peers in frustration- how could these spoiled, under-challenged, over-privileged children who've had everything they own handed to them in a basket with a bow ever understand poverty? The point was, they didn't. Even the noticeably intelligent girl who I respected, didn't have a clue. She was leading the pack, explaining to our professor how, "the life you live is the life you "My mom yanked at the choose" and other things steering wheel as though along these lines. Words she were navigating a ship failed me, but I was angry. My professor was, through a field of icebergs ... " too, and began to lecture us all on how the cycle of poverty worked, at first gently prodding us into understanding, and then verbally stomping in frustration when most of us didn't get the point. But eventually, he gave up, and after class I left in shocked anger at the ignorance that had surrounded me every day- and I had been just as ignorant in not knowing their beliefs as they were ignorant in believing them. I interviewed Patrick McKinlay, professor in Morningside College's political science department and director of the college's poverty simulation. He is trying to shine light on this dark and complex subject. His words are a saddening reminder of the utter selfishness of people. "We've learned to hate the poor because we're so afraid of becoming them, but the thing is, the poor are people too." Professor McKinlay broke free of generational poverty, the type of poorness that is passed through families, to become a role model for his students. He also oversees Morningside College's involvement with Americorps, a 20 KIOSK09 non-profit organization that spreads the word on the realities of poverty and tries to fight against the growing number of Americans in this cyclical financial disease. During a conversation on the causes of poverty and how students at an expensive private college view the poor, he shared some insights into what may be some of the leading causes of poverty: education problems- having no education, or having learning disabilities that add to the difficulty of an already over-burdened college career; poor preparation for accidents and unexpected expenses, such as a major financial setback if a car breaks down; and illness in one's family or in oneself that can financially and emotionally break a person. By the time I realized there was a real problem with my dad, we were already on the road to the hospital that was about fifteen minutes away. His face had been a ruddy, sick crimson color for the past two days, and his wispy hair lay in a halo around the shiny redness of his balding head. Pain was etched into the deepening lines of his face, and he clutched his hand to his chest. My mom yanked at the steering wheel as though she were navigating a ship through a field of icebergs, combing through her coarse dark hair, creating untamable fly -aways that tangled from the open car window. A sharp turn that left my head reeling and my dad gasping for breath took us into the hospital parking lot, and from there it became a dizzying blur of sterile whites and ugly seafoam greens. Someone in my family picked me up, and as we drove away I watched an ambulance speeding away, sirens a-blare, into the deepening dusk. Life takes twists and turns, and we have basically two choices: anticipate those twists and turns, or get off the road. There are so many levels of poverty, so much more than can't be done justice in a few pages. The cycle of poverty feeds off of itself- and the general population doesn't seem to understand. I could wish for a better system, but that would not change enough. I could wish for more equal distributions of money, but there will always be those people who are in power and those who are completely without. What I wish for is compassion, understanding, in- formation, and the experience and tolerance to put up with the stupidity of the world. So until my wish morphs into something more tangible than the dust on a windowsill, life goes on, and the gap between the middle class and the poor widens into a canyon. BumUL IGNORANCE byA Torkelson nne intaglio print KIOSK09 21 A SHORT ST O RY SLEEPWALKING BY GREGORY A N DERSON S he was 16 years old, 97 pounds and upset. Zoe had been watching the Discovery Channel and saw a lion sink its jaws into the back of a zebra, but the zebra just kept running. It wasn't that it was trying to run from fate. No it was too stupid for that. It DOOR KNOB byAlysso Filipek digitol photogroph 22 KIOSK09 just didn't even know it was dead yet. She flipped the channel- infomercial on an amazing sponge- flip Fox News- flip infomercial on weight loss- flip History Channel special on the end of the world- flip infomercial on amazing sponges again- off. She tossed the remote onto the coffee table and went to the bathroom. Zoe knew what she needed. She opened the medicine cabinet, grabbed her Ambien, and swallowed it with no water. She put the bottle back, but then took another one, just to make sure she'd fall asleep . She then took off all her clothes and stepped onto the scale. Her feet and fingers were freezing, not enough iron the doctors said , anemic. Not enough exercise the doctors said, lazy. The scale landed at ninety-seven again. Hadn't cracked a hundred yet. She wondered when she would. The girl walked naked through the darkness to her room and went to her desk. She pulled out an old Swiss Army knife , a present from dead Grandpa. Alive Grandpa didn't do shit, just lived in Arizona for the dry heat. Zoe took the knife and started carving into her door. She pushed hard. This was deep. It needed to be deep. When she was finished , she stepped back and could see her creation illuminated by the moonlight and streetlights: "Even death has her sleepwalkers." Proud of her vandalism, Zoe ambled to the bed and pulled the covers over her head. She had to get to sleep. There was school tomorrow; that was important , wasn't it? A test in American History tomorrow. That should have been important too , but it wasn't. Her hands were chilled, and her feet were like ice cubes. She wondered what it felt like when Mom put the pistol on her temple , if it was cold. She was 16 years old, 97 pounds and a half-orphan. Tomorrow should have been important. It was seven a.m . and she needed to get up. School started at eight, but that was when school started as the teachers always reminded her, not when she needed to get there . She had to be there before that , at the latest 7:55. She got up and went to the kitchen for some coffee. Dad had left some from earlier before he went to work. He was gone now, so she could stroll around the house however she damn well pleased. Besides, she was going to get into the shower soon anyway. She poured herself some coffee , sat down at the kitchen table , and thought of a song her mom used to sing her, "Someone's in the Kitchen with Dinah," but now no one was in the kitchen Dinah. She was all alone. Before she took a shower, she had to shit. First she had to step on the scale. 97 again. She took the shit. She stepped on the scale again. 96 now. She'd lost a pound. At this rate, she'd disappear by summer. She looked down at her chest , but it looked no different than a boy's . At school , the caffeine wore off quickly. Everything was too fast and everyone was too loud. Hallways were the worst. All the echoes of pointless conversation and gossip ricocheted off aluminum lockers while the fluorescent bulb buzzed like bumblebees. It was too much. Zoe opened her locker. It was organized, but organization is easy when there's barely anything there. No posters, no pictures of friends, only schoolbooks , notebooks and her jacket. She could hear the clip-clop of stilettos approaching. It was Ruby, the redhead pothead. Ruby's stilettos made her look like an Amazon, as if she wasn't tall enough. Her breasts were the size of cantaloupes. Zoe glanced at them. How could she compete with her plums? "Hey hun," said Ruby, "you look awful. Sleep okay?" "Thanks sweetie," said Zoe. "Yeah, I think I got enough, to live anyway." "Me and Ashley are going to toke up after school in her garage. You're coming." "I can't, Ruby. I got a chiropractor's appointment after school." "Why the hell are you going to a chiropractor? And why didn't you schedule it during school?" "My back's killing me. And I didn't schedule it, my dad did. " "Well, maybe it wouldn't hurt so bad if you didn't slouch," said Ruby, sticking her chest out. "I can't this afternoon, but call me tonight, okay?" "I don't know, I'll be pretty baked." Zoe then felt a hard pinch on her ass. It wasn't Ruby. Every muscle tensed in Zoe's body. It was just some boy, completely random, but she hated it. She hated the fact that she went to school with such boys. She wanted a man, someone with hair on his chest who could grow a decent beard. All these high school boys, even the seniors, were just boys, and she could never date any of them. ''I'll try to call you, okay?" said Ruby, and she walked off to class. Zoe went the other way to American History with the test that was supposed to be important, but wasn't. She thought about getting high, which she hated doing with the friends that she hated, but they were the best she could afford. She sat in the waiting room and flipped through the magazines, but all they had were Chiropractic Monthly and Highlights for Kids . Who reads that kind of shit? Kids and chiropractors, she told herself. A plain , but not unattractive nurse came into the waiting room and called her name . The nurse told her to step on the scale. Why do they need to weigh her at the chiropractor? 97 pounds. Well, at least she was back up to 97. The nurse told her she needed to eat more , that she was all skin and bones. She said it in that flippant tone that was supposed suggest she wasn't entirely serious , but Zoe was serious about her weight. If she didn't start gaining soon, she'd disappear. The nurse led her into the examining room "She thought about getting high, which she hated doing with the friends that she hated, but they were the best she could afford. " KIOSK09 23 and told her the doctor would be in soon. The nurse wasn't lying , he was in soon. He introduced himself as Dr. Robbins , but told Zoe she could just call him Sam. He didn't get into medicine for titles, and he laughed at himself even though what he said wasn't really funny. Zoe was very quiet and thought he looked the Brawny Paper Towel man. His shoulders were massive like a linebacker's and he must have been at least 6'5. When he questioned her about what was troubling her, she noticed his hands. They were enormous. She could tell they were rough too , like sandpaper. "Okay, then, lets get started," said Sam. "Just lie on that table ." He motioned towards the padded table that was almost vertical. "Don't worry, it moves down. " He laughed to himself again. She lay on the table and felt it moving toward horizontal. She then felt his hands on her neck and she was right, they were rough, but they were warm. It made her tense, but not like when the boy in the hallway pinched her. No, this was a good tension. It was like a million electrodes were jumping through her body sending warmth everywhere, even to her fingers and her toes. Sam made little noises to himself, little doctor noises like "hmm" and "I see" and "okay," like a child talking himself through a math problem. Then the hands were gone and she felt a tool on her back. It made clicking sounds , and Zoe could feel her spine align. Then the doctor took off her shoes and felt her feet. It didn't seem sexual for him. This was his job. He had gone to school for this. Through her socks, his fingers tickled. The warmth started spreading again. She could feel it in her secret, and she was scared and excited. He then put his hands on her butt and started adjusting again, and she on the verge . This was just his job. He didn't seem to know what Zoe was getting out of this. This is what she had been missing, why the 24 KIOSK09 boys couldn't satisfy her, why she hated to be touched by them. "Okay, I think we're all done," said Sam. "Call me if your back hurts again. It was pretty out of alignment, probably from too much slouching." And the doctor put his hand on Zoe's shoulder like she was his daughter and walked her out of the office, smiling, oblivious to what had just happened. She went home and the house was empty. Dad was still at work, always at work. Zoe had to take care of herself. Dad designed homes , new concept homes; they were supposed to look like turn-of-the-century houses but with all the modern amenities. He was always bUilding houses, but he was never home. She cooked a frozen pizza and ate it, then chugged three glasses of water. She took off her clothes, went to the bathroom, and weighed herself. 99 pounds. So close. She then went to her room and lay on the bed. She closed her eyes and started thinking about Sam, the stone man, her Brawny Paper Towel man. Her hands crept over her body and they were cold. All her extremities were cold, her nose , her toes and especially her fingertips , but ah, her core was burning, her secret was burning and her hands crept down her belly button until they got to her secret. She thought about what the doctor's hands would feel like down there , examining, inspecting, adjusting. She wondered what his face would feel like against hers. Would his beard be scratchy? Then her daddy was in the fantasy, but she didn't want him there. He didn't get to watch so she tried to shut him out, but the more she tried not to have him there the more he kept popping up like a peeping tom, watching her and the doctor. No, she thought, you aren't allowed. After finishing , she noticed what she had written the night before during a bout of insomnia. The message so clear the night before didn't make any sense. It wasn't a lack of understanding. It was how she felt at the time , but something had changed. "Even death has her sleepwalkers." I'm not sleepwalking, she thought. It's morning and my eyes are wide . The phone rang. Zoe put on a bathrobe and sauntered to get it. What's the rush? It was Ruby. Apparently, she wasn't high enough yet to forget to call. "emon over, bitch," said Ruby. "Are you guys just going to smoke?" "No , we're going to watch a movie too. Some arty French shit. You'd like it. " "Okay, I'll be over in a bit. " She hung up the phone and went to get dressed. While she was in her room changing, she heard the garage door open. Dad was home. She hurried, but he caught her at the door; his tie was loose and he smelled like cigarettes. He wasn't tall, but he was powerfully built, solid. "Hey, Sweetie, where are you off to in such a rush?" asked her Dad. "Avoiding me?" He gave her a jagged smile. "I'm just going to go hang out with Ruby." He looked disappointed. "Really? I thought we could just hang out tonight. never get to see you anymore. " "That's not really my fault, " said Zoe. "I know. Just thought we could watch The Office together, hell, maybe even make some margaritas!" "Jesus Daddy, I'm 16. That's illegal," said Zoe. "Sorry. Just thought it'd be fun." ''I'm not Mom," said Zoe. "I never said you were." "I've got to go ." "Wait a sec , okay?" he said. She did. "I know it's been hard since ... you know, but I'm doing the best job I can. I'm sorry." Jesus, he looks pathetic , she thought. He should man up a little , grow a pair, and move on. "Is there anything I can do for you , Sweetie?" he asked. "Yeah" said Zoe . "Get me another chiropractor visit. My back is killing me." She hated getting high. It wasn't the smoking part that bothered her. In fact she rather enjoyed the ritual aspect of the whole thing, sitting in a circle, giggling, taking turns, the excitement of getting caught, doing something illegal, but she hated actually being high. The very word was a lie to her; she didn't feel elated- she felt low, like she couldn't think. Zoe felt stupid when she was high, and that her friends were even dumber. When she heard Ruby ask if they kept the milk in the freezer, it wasn't funny to her. They were all just being idiots . While her friends Ruby and Ash would get very talkative after they smoked , Zoe would zone out, delve even farther into herself, and forget where she was . The other two girls also became disturbingly sexual after they smoked, sometimes making out with one another and trying to get Zoe to do it too , but she never would. They'd also talk about all the guys they'd been with and who they'd like to get with, what they would do to them, where they would do it to them, and Zoe hated hearing all of it. "Are we going to start the movie?" asked Zoe. "Chill, Bill," said Ruby. "How can you watch a French movie ... when you don't even know French?" This set Ruby and Ashley over the edge , and they both started laughing and snorting like pigs . Zoe didn't get the joke. -..........-",.-==-~~.rrt ".. UNTITLED b Anniko K y olbo grophite KIOSK09 25 Around eleven, she came home and Dad was already asleep . He had left some food out for her, some burritos he had picked up , which was great because she was starving. She watched some television but found nothing except infomercials and nature programs on again, so she went to the bathroom, swallowed her Ambien, took off her clothes, weighed herself and looked in the mirror. She was 16 , 97 pounds, and in lust with her chiropractor. Something needed to change . A few days later, she was at the chiropractor's office again, but this time she was prepared. She wore her short jean-skirt , the one Dad always told her to change out of. She didn't have any underwear on; that really excited her. She also wore the low-cut black tee Ruby always referred to as the, "I want to get fucked" shirt, which Zoe had thought was entirely appropriate , given the situation. She had also put on heavy eye liner, her mother's leftover. Hell, she even put on a pair of Ruby's heels that were too big for her. She was ready; she was a woman. Dr. Sam still looked gorgeous and tough, like he'd kick somebody's ass for her. He was all smiles that day too , like he was happy to see her. "Back still troubling you?" he asked. "Sure is, Sam," said Zoe. "And what are you all dressed up for? " "You," she said. He must have taken it as a joke because he laughed. "Very funny Would you lie down on the table again?" "Could you close the door?" asked Zoe. "Sure ," said Sam. He didn't even seemed fazed by the request. He must know what I'm doing, she thought. It excited her. She lay herself down on the tilted table again and felt it moving, becoming more horizontal. She wondered if he could tell she wasn't wearing underwear. She wondered if he was looking. She could feel those hands on her neck again, 26 KIOSK09 the warm hands , the toasty fingers , adjusting her neck and it sent a chill through her body Sam laughed and asked her if she had goose bumps. Zoe said she was just a little cold, and he continued adjusting her. He clicked his tool and straightened her spine , He felt her feet again, this time just bare feet; he had to take the stilettos off. It excited her. He was undressing her. Then he started to adjust her butt again- she had to bite down on the padding. When she couldn't take it anymore , she flipped over, grabbed Sam by the tie and pulled him close to her, trying to kiss him. For a moment , he was kissing her too, but he stopped, his face still close to hers because she had him by his tie. "Give it to me," said Zoe , trying to sound like a movie star. He pulled away and slapped her- hard. Her cheek stung. "You need to leave ," said Sam quietly He sat down in his chair and looked down, waiting for her to leave. Later that night, she wept on her couch, alone , unable to eat, drink, even weigh herself. She hated herself. She was an idiot , a pervert. She thought about Mom and the pistol; how bad it probably hurt. The friends she didn't like , everything. Someone had once told her that grief comes at you like a wave , but this was more like a tsunami, an earthquake and fire happening all at the same time , and she couldn't take it. Zoe finally picked herself up and went to her room and noticed the words she had carved: "Even death has her sleepwalkers." She placed her fingers over the words, felt the notches and dug into them, as if trying to make them make sense , but they didn't, they wouldn't and they never did. She felt the tide of her grief, her embarrassment pulling her in, but she knew it would never drown her, that it couldn't if it wanted to; she would stay afloat. She could never be at peace. FINDING LIGHT by Anne Torkelson oil on convos KIOSK09 27 IONNE ~ P!:. 11~ 200 9 We stand around Aunt lonne , dying lonne , in her white room in the corner of the nursing home. The day her son Louis carried her here , kicking and screaming, she referred to it as "that dying place." Because of her stroke-induced dementia, she forgot where she was the next day. Now, she lies on her death bed, and 1, at eye level with her body, along with my family, stand watching her. She groans, wincing in pain, her knees bent and protruding in the air, her white gown crawling slowly up her thigh, revealing more and more of her eroded flesh . My tiny grandmother stands at lonne's side , holding her hand, trying to comfort her. And her groans go on, the moans of agony, and lonne's gown creeps further up her thigh. 1 scoot a few inches closer to the foot of her bed, wondering what could be behind the white gown, and 1 inch further, closer, and gaze at the long, black, scraggly hairs at the center of her thighs. Ross WILCOX 28 KIOSK09 POSTERIOR VIEW by Amy Foltz linoleum reduction print KIOSK09 29 I A MEMO I R A NEW LIFE IN HONDURAS BY VICTORIA REED H onduras is a country of extremes. There is very little room for the gray areas between rich and poor, safe and dangerous, hot and cold, comfortable and disconcerting. I am a resident in a country where most Americans are presumed to be Bible-toting missionaries, and I find myself explaining that I am not here to build a roof over the heads of poor school children in the mountains or to pave a road to an impoverished community I am here for years, not weeks. I'm still not sure why I came here or what I am still doing here. All I know is that I, a pampered American girl, am slowly falling in love with this tumultuous country The weather in Honduras is poetic- a bitch and a saint. During the hot months, the heat crawled into my veins and caused the sweat on my forearm to boil. I watched as condensation evaporated and hovered in the thick, humid air. Even my elbows were wet in this tropical country During the day, the sun grabbed my skin and pinched hard. Sunburns take minutes. My first steamy months here were months for complaining, water and shade- constant craving for iced coffee and cool breezes . Some people choose to find cooler places in the shade. Often, this is underneath trees in the middle of the road where men bunch up their shirts to expose their sweaty, protruding bellies and fan their dripping faces with their hats. Life seems to slow down in August. The women performing their daily chores walk slower, with concern for exhaustion. Children don't run as much and soccer matches are shortened. Even through the steamy rays, the sun shined through the surrounding palm fronds , making a stark contrast between the translucent green leaves and the brilliant blue of the sky above. Then comes the cold and the rainboth a blessing and a curse in Honduras. "I live in a valley in Honduras- a bowl of heat and pollution. " 30 KIOSK09 The country needs the rain to replenish its natural beauty, but too much rain means flooding rivers and ruined neighborhoods. A flooded river means the destruction of mostly impoverished communities. It means taking away an already meager living from hard-working families. Blue skies become gray and clouds funnel over the surrounding mountains. One has never seen a sky so black as a storm over the mountains. It is a menacing omen of thundering rain drops to come . Once the rain begins falling, it dances a strong dance. It slams onto your shoulders and pricks your feet until you begin to match your movements to the qUick rhythm it creates on the concrete. The cold, however, is welcomed happily, as if it is a silent holiday I didn't even notice it had come until I reached for an extra blanket to sleep with at night. People bundle up in scarves and proudly saunter into restaurants with jackets. Everyone's skin becomes one shade lighter than sunburn and sandals are switched for boots. The cold in Honduras is gentle and comforting, and my body is reminded how to make goose-bumps or shivers. I have to admit that I enjoy the fact that news in Honduras is streamed from Denver, Colorado. I have the evil pleasure of listening to the weather person warn about ice storms while I sit under a blanket in 70 degree weather. My skin doesn't remember the sting of winter wind, nor can it recall the red throb of wind burn. Now my skin is ice cold at anything below seventy As much as I enjoy being poetic about how beautiful the country of Honduras is , I have to be realistic. The country itself is beautiful. It is full of lush green mountains and historical Mayan ruins. The city of San Pedro Sula, however, is not considered to be a gem. I live in a valley in Honduras- a bowl of heat and pollution. San Pedro Sula is the secondlargest city in Honduras and the commercial capital. The city itself is dirty and loud and, at times , overwhelming. Bigger cities often lead to more crime. I have only lived here for seven months and I am already desensitized to the machine gun-toting guards who stand in front of bakeries , malls and pharmacies. It has become normal for me to walk around the tip of a shotgun sticking out from a man on the sidewalk. Protection is necessary. Already, I find myself glancing over my shoulder to check if anyone is stalking behind me. I cross the street if there is someone walking toward me on the same sidewalk. I don't stay out at night and I don't carry a purse. This is part of the motivation to travel on weekends. Most people can only take two or three weeks of crime, threat, and noise before they find themselves thirsting for a friendly beach town only an hour away or a cool mountain village a few hours from the city. There is a big gap between rich and poor here. At red lights, cars are bombarded with dirty, barefoot children begging for money. They wear ripped clothing and have dirt smeared around their eyes and on their knees. They walk up to your car and knock on the window, hoping for one Lempira (about five cents in U.S. money.) Children spend hours breathing car exhaust and dodging traffic in hopes of taking home a few Lempira. It is tough to know whether or not you should give them money. One side argues that if people don't give them money the children will stop begging and will earn money another way. The other side argues that the population with money can stand to give away a few Lempiras here and there . It is heartbreaking, and I have to admit that I am so embarrassed by the situation that I don't give them money. It's hard to face that I am wealthy in a country that aches for financial security. Honduras is proud yet struggling, rich yet poor, generous yet selfish. I find myself unable to cope with the differences , and I shrink under the pressure to be decent. I struggle with the idea of self-decency on a daily level here. I live on a tight budget, but make more than quadruple the amount of the average person in Honduras. I enjoy relaxing hikes through the mountains where people build shacks with Twister mats I go as curtains because they can't afford the rent to live in the city- so they squat in the hills. I go on vacations to what I consider paradise while others will never have the opportunity to travel even an hour away. It is truly a different life here . I live in a country that is struggling to find itself I suppose it fits; it is comforting for a person right out of college. I find a close relationship between the growth and the exploration we are making together. In this country full of desperate poverty and filthy richness a person finds it difficult to know where to look. When do I give money? When do I negotiate for a lower price? The best I can do, the best anyone can do here , is to live day by day. Travel when you can, appreciate what you find beautiful, and go out on a limb to explore something new. Living in Honduras is a life of contradictions. It is confusing and overwhelming, and utterly blissfuL "Everywhere there is a man carrying a gun to protect someone or something. " KIOSK09 31 How AN INDIAN COULD BE REPUBLICAN Quinton could palm a basketball at the age of nine and that same summer he could beat up kids as old as twelve. Quinton is a big man. He could tackle an ox if he had to , but he hasn't. "What are you up to Quinton?" "About the weight of a Buick." A canoe would rather sink than stay afloat when Quinton mans the paddle. Quinton gets to say whatever the hell he wants. "What do you call a white man in the middle of twelve Indians?" "I don't know Quinton, what?" "Bartender!" He can't understand why people are intimidated by him. He is from Oklahoma, north eastern part, near Ozark Mountain Country. He tries to explain that raising chickens , pigs , ducks, and sheep don't mean he's trash. "Just because we shit in an outhouse ... " Quinton loves his politics. And a man who says whatever the hell he wants, says a lot messed up stuff. You need a solution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict? "Fill those tunnels up with oil, burn them out , everyone of them sons of bitches." Even a little of his talk gets to be enough. How an Indian could be Republican has but one answer, well maybe two. "Taxes and Bill Clinton," I say, 'That's all you care about. " 32 KIOSK09 Quinton likes it when I stand up for myself, but sometimes his arms rise up. His hands come at mebig oven mitts going in for a roasted turkey Just smiling at me. And I know Quinton could snap my neck like he was snapping his fingers. "Quinton, you know you're messed up , right!" Like it's a question. COLIN O'SULLIVAN OBAMA by Mack Maschmeier pastel KIOSK09 33 A SHORT STORY DISTORTION BY TYREL DREY <2"I will O "f.. n ""~~ '" 2009 W hen we did it, we screwed. At the time I would have said we made love. But looking back we just screwed. Now it hits me, I've been crying pretty constantly since I found out I was pregnant three weeks ago. He left me a few days later, said I was a "lousy lay" and laughed about it to a few of his buddies he'd invited to watch how manly he was dumping me. I can't have a kid. I've got college, basketball, the fall play, prom, my future, my career, everything. I'm only sixteen. I can't talk to anyone, what would my friends say? What would my dad, my little sister say? MIX by Sarah Chambers digital photograph My mom would never forgive me. We couldn't walk into church and sit down in the front row. No more Christmas candle lightings. No more reading from the hymnal in front of church now, everyone would disown her, and she would never speak to me again. She is probably at Planned 34 KIOSK09 Parenthood right now. Sitting with her friends telling all the people walking in how horrible they are, how trampy they were. How God can see what they're doing. God- if only she knew. I wipe some more tears from my eyes with a Kleenex. I'm sitting on my red twin bed holding Theo, my bear, close. I pull him away and look at his shabby tan fur and brown eyes. His eyes always get me. They look so real, so innocent- almost childlike. Another set of tears come. There are 14 little white morning after pills. I pulled them out of their wrapping about two days ago in the bathroom at school. I'd managed to get them from a girl in homeroom. She buys them and sells them to other girls so they don't have to. How horrible must she feel, walking into the stores, buying 10 or 20 pills at time. I let her eat with us the next day, and all the girls were nice enough until she left. Then they called her a tramp and asked why I let her eat with us. "Oh no," I thought, they know, they know, they'll tell everyone and I'll be done for. Think, THINK. I told them I was just trying to be nice. It was the Christian thing to do. They all knew 1 was religious and bought the story. They don't know. 1 hope they don't know. 1 wipe away more tears and look at the mounting pile of Kleenex at the foot of my bed next to the pills. It's been six weeks and 1 don't think just one will do it, but 14 might. 1 calm myself down and walk downstairs to grab some water. My dad is reading a newspaper at the kitchen table. He lowers it and lifts his head up to view me through the glasses sitting much too low on his nose. He smiles and 1 laugh at how goofy he looks. "Good to see you smile again." He grins. 1 wrinkle my forehead and look at him questioningly. "1 didn't mean anything by it. " His eyes grow and he shakes his head. "You've just been sort of sad lately." He sets down the paper as 1 pour a glass of water. "You can talk to us about anything you know. Your mom and me, we're here for ya." I look at the floor, "I know." He walks over and kisses me on the head, "You're okay, right?" I nod and flash him a smile. I'm back upstairs and staring at the pills through the warp oj the glass. Now or never. I down all 14 and swig the water. My uncle has been raping me since I was nine . He told me if! told anyone he'd kill me. That worked until I was about 12. It took three years to figure out that he wouldn't kill me . By that point , it was my fault. I couldn't just all of a sudden say that my uncle , the family's golden boy, the real estate millionaire who set up my parents and grandparents with good houses , the same man who gave my dad the job that allowed us to go to private schools , and would pay for college, I couldn't just suddenly say, "He's raping me. He's been raping me for six years. " No one would believe me. I always figured some day, I'd get something, some piece of proof, and I would tell. I remember those two blue lines , and the set of directions on that box that said pregnant. Now I'm walking down the sidewalk. Listening to the protesters shout , "Baby killer," and "God is watching! " I push open the door as I hear one woman say, almost in a whisper, "What would your mother say?" I hold it in until I sit down in the Planned Parenthood lobby But then the tears come , clouding the white that turned blue halfway down. I recognize a chubby redheaded nurse from my first visit; she comes over and gives me a Kleenex and pats my back. I hold it in until I get through the doors. I've learned to control my emotions . Sitting next to the man molesting you at Thanksgiving teaches you how to control your emotions. But that last comment , it gets me. "What would your mother say?" I don't know. She'd be ashamed. Ashamed her daughter took this abuse for six years. Is it still abuse , is it still rape when you're 15 years old and you let your uncle rape you every couple of months , or are you just a whore? A doctor comes out and says, "Stephanie, we're ready for you. " She gives me a little smile, with just her mouth and not her eyes . I smile like that a lot, usually when the "I world is telling me how great my uncle is and how he helped some local charity, or when he cracks a joke at Christmas and everyone laughs. Because even though it's funny, it's wrong, everything he does is wrong. Now I'm sitting in Planned Parenthood, watching a doctor walk away A doctor who just smiled and told me it's okay It's wrong, but okay I wipe my tears away and walk into the changing room. I hang my clothes on a hook and put on a blue surgical gown. There's a mirror in the center of the wall and I just notice my butt hanging out. I turn my head away I haven't looked below my waist in years. I don't shower after gym; I keep my eyes closed in the shower. I can't look down there. I know what has happened. I know how horrible I am, and now I walk through the doors to compound my sins, and abort the ... I can't call it a baby I won't. Babies come from love , from two people who care about each other. This isn't that. I take a deep breath and clear my head. You learn to do that when you're lying on your stomach as your uncle rapes you. You learn to clear your head and think about something else. I walk through the door. wipe away more tears and look at the mounting pile of Kleenex at the foot of my bed next to the pills." I didn't have to wear a tampon today, that's good ... well as good as anything can be I guess . My headache and stomach cramps went away too. The doctor told me that taking 14 morning aJter pills was probably the dumbest thing KIOSK09 35 WELCOM E TO PIZZA RANCH by Anniko Kolbo oil on mdf I could have done. He promised not to tell my parents. I told them I just had a sore throat. He said I would probably bleed for awhile until all the medication worked out of my system, and to let him know if it wasn't gone in a week or two. It's been 12 days and I think I'm clear. My mom reaches across the car and kisses my cheek. "Thanks for the ride, Catherine." She pushes some hair behind my ear. "If you can just run to the store and get the pot roast. I left instructions for your sister on how to cook it." She has me drop her off at Planned Parenthood so I can use the car to run and get some groceries. I nod. "Thanks," she says. "Love you." She gets out of the car. She's been spending her Saturdays at Planned Parenthood for the last month. She and some women from the church have made it their personal mission to get the place closed down. She told me last night that if kids can't control themselves they should at least have the decency to live with their mistakes. I didn't think I'd ever be able to cry again after I took the pills. I didn't really figure I would have any tears left. Now sitting in that parking lot, looking at the girls across the street I pull into a lot a block or so down, and cry. I'm sitting in the recovery room staring at the wall. The recovery room is a very calming shade of light pink. I like it. My stomach hurts ; well I suppose it's not my stomach. It feels empty, a good kind of 36 KIOSK09 empty. I guess. They said I could wait here until I feel better. I told them I had a ride and they said okay. You're supposed to have a ride scheduled for afterward. Who the hell do you get to come pick you up after aborting the baby: No, no , not a baby. How do you tell someone to come and pick you up after having your uncle's baby aborted? I get up and head for the door. They will still be there . I can take a lot. Six years of abuse, having an abortion. I can take the looks from kids at school who think I'm a whore because I sell morning after pills. But I can't, won't, take another bout with them. Not after that, not after mentioning my mother. I notice the window. It looks like the kind you can open clear up. So I back away from the door, open the window as far as it will go , and crawl out. It's a fenced in area with a bunch of cars parked in gravel. A big wooden privacy fence , probably so the protestors don't take down the doctors names and harass them at their homes. I hop the fence and land on the other side. It hurts my ... it hurts a lot. I can see why they don't want you to walk home. I take a deep breath, bury the pain, and walk down the alley to the sidewalk. I turn the corner and light a cigarette. Haven't had one since I was pregnant. Don't know why, not like I was going to keep the thing. But I didn't smoke until now. I breathe in deep and it tastes good, fills my lungs, and calms me a little bit. Planned Parenthood told me not to smoke , but hell it's not like I'm listening to them. I take about two more steps when a car stops beside me. Its Catherine , one of the girls from school, plays basketball, does theatre , she's a stupid popular kid. I sold her some pills a few weeks ago. She let me eat lunch with her and the stupid popular kids. She stops a few feet away and waves me over. I look into the car. She rolls down the window of what must be her mom's green Taurus and beckons me in. "Hey, Steph. You need a ride home or something?" She looks like she's been crying. "Cmon, I'm sure you could use a ride. " Yeah I could. "No ," I wave her off. "I can walk. " "Cmon, get in, it's no big deal. " I stomp out my cigarette as I open the door. "Thanks." I close the door and give her a nod. "You going home?" "Yeah," I pull my purse up over my lap and hug it close. "It's over on Jackson Street. " We drive for a second before she glances over at me. "Smoking's bad for you , ya know." "Maybe I don't like it here that much," I snap. She stares out the front of the car and bites her lip a bit. I shouldn't have snapped at her. She~ just trying to be nice. "Sorry. " I sit up a little higher in the seat. "I didn't mean to snap." "It's okay," she gives me a smile. Another little fake smile. "I just wanted to thank you ," she pauses and turns down the radio. "For the pills. I just. .." she doesn't know what to say. She isn't really thankful. She looks a little scared. That's how most people look at me. They're glad I'm there , only when they need me. "It's okay," I offer. "I know how . .. I mean I can imagine." She notices how I am clutching my abdomen. I watch the realization hit her, that she just picked me up a block from Planned Parenthood. Now the car is suffocating me , I'm not about to be judged. She doesn't know. She has no fucking idea. "Stop ," I shout. She snaps out of her stare and jerks the wheel a bit. "I said 'stop .' Let me out of the car. Pull over dammit. " She pulls over and stops. I can't even grab the damn door handle I'm so angry. I just want to get out , get away. She doesn't know. She doesn't know. Now I'm fucking crying. I slam my purse on the ground. ''I'm not here to judge. " She looks down. "Good because you don't even know. I'm not some whore. I'm not some goddamned sex fiend or something. I'm not here to ... " I throw my purse on I the floor and hit the dashboard · hIt h with my palms. The tears are still coming, and my stomach hurts. I feel sick, so sick. I rip open the door and vomit out the side of the car onto the gutter. I pull my head back in and lean back in the chair. ''I'm sorry, so sorry, but everyone thinks- " ''I'm not here to judge," Cathy offers. "Who am I to judge?" Now she's crying too. I laugh through the tears. "I guess." She lets out a laugh too. And now we're sitting there, laughing, I don't know what the hell we're laughing about , but we are. We laugh for a few minutes , and then suddenly stop. "Do you want to go get a, I dunno. " She looks back at me. "You want to get some ice cream or something?" "Yeah, I say. " I nod and pick up my purse . "Yeah, I'd like that a lot. " "She notices how I am clutching my abdomen. watch the realization er .. . " KIOSK09 37 " MAKING OTHER PEOPLE'S BEEF" Cold January wind breaks your body like a forty-five mile per hour car-crash this is only morning .. . before the sun wakes before the cock crows before deathly cold thaws into simply freezing coax the dirty white tractor to life fill the wagon feed the bulls you're in the mud you're in the shit making straight lines along the bunks put out hay get stuck pull yourself out get filthy get yelled at blade the snow thaw the fountains. wage a war against winter gather the herd fix the fence gain twenty pounds lose self-worth lose the war get yelled at for everything realize this just ain't right. feeding time again do the same as before now go home eat some dinner 38 KIOSK09 turn a blind eye don't call the collectors don't pay the bills make the bed start a fight...make -up make some love cry some tonight before abruptly falling away realize god is a ghost inhabiting the shit in the yard on your boots and in your heart. KIa PLOEN KIOSK09 39 HURLEY by Koylo Curry ocrylic on convos SATURDAY IN THE PARK by Seon Delperdong digitol CANINE ESS E CE N byAlicio Runyon pockoging design 40 KIOSK09 LIGHTS by Mock Moschmeier ocrylic on convos SEATING PATTERNS by Beceo Bouer digitol photogroph MORNINGSIDE MASCOT by Potrick Oxendole photogroph KIOSK09 / 41 How THE MIGHTY HAVE FALLEN by Becco Bouer dig ito Iphotogroph IND USTRY by Wyeth lynch digitol photogroph 42 KIOSK09 RUSSIAN PRINCESS BLACK AND WHITE byBreonne E vons digitol photogroph by Leslie DePeel digitol photogroph TRIO bySoroh C hombers digitol photogroph KIOSK09 43 I A SHORT STORY I NEED TO CRY BY TYREL DREY I need to cry. I can be angry, happy, sad , perplexed, elated, surprised or any other emotion. But I can't cry I've been doing theatre for four years now, and I've taken the college's best performer award every year. I'm sitting here in a dark corner backstage , staring at a bit of light from the stage that trails the floor as it bends around the curtain. Resting my head on my hand, I search. In theatre we call it an affective memory Some memory, however insignificant or out of place, conjures an emotion. I have a ton of memories that make me happy, more that make me angry, and even more that make me sad. But none that make me cry To be honest , I can't even remember the last time I cried. I can remember very clearly being 13. It was a Sunday We were having breakfast , sausage and hash browns. Dad must have burnt my toast because I remember how black the crumbs seemed sitting on the white phone receiver. "Hey Chuck. " It was my uncle jim. "Hey jim, pretty early for a farmer to be up ." I liked to poke fun at him; he never got out of bed till 10 or so, and took a three or four hour nap every day after feeding the hogs. Pretty good sport, but he didn't laugh that day He chortled. It seemed very forced , and then he asked to speak with my dad. That's when I knew something was wrong. He asked to speak to my dad. Not talk, or holler at, or chat or any other phrase he'd used a million times. No, he asked to speak to my dad. My dad cried. He sat back down at the table very calmly Took a drink of coffee. Lit a cigarette. The smoke from the ember tip mingled with the steam from his coffee and hit him in the face all at once. Maybe that's what made him cry Maybe it wasn't really that his dad had just died. Maybe it was just the smoke and steam, the pepper from the eggs or something. Maybe it was that. Maybe. 44 KIOSK09 The stage manager shouts for actors to come to warm-ups. I hop up and walk back from behind the curtain. I pop my neck and put on my happy face. It's funny, I spend all this time and energy learning how to act , getting in touch with my emotions. I sit and observe people. I can tell when they have a test by how much tension is in their shoulders. I can tell what sport someone plays by how they carry themselves. I can look at someone's posture and tell you what instrument he plays in the marching band. I can spot someone who's angry, tell you whether or not she'll be violent , how hard they'll hit, whether they want a fight or just to seem tough. I can tell you how happy, sad, or angry someone is by a million tiny things they do. It's important for an actor to do this , so he can watch for them in himself. The theatre is doing Dancing at Lughnasa this semester. It's a play set in Ireland in the early 20th century The play recounts the lives of six unmarried sisters and their struggles to keep their family together. It's all recounted through the narration of Michael , the bastard son of the youngest sister. His monologues are intermixed with scenes to weave the story I'm Michael, so half the play is me on stage alone doing monologues. There are five of them in all, and I can't get my head around the fourth one. I stand, and explain how two of the aunts die , alone and derelict in the streets of London some years later, and how much life generally sucks for the remaining sisters. I've got the play down to a tee , except for this monologue . I need to cry for it to work. The director says not to force it, and I won't, but this calls for me to cry Lots of actors who are way worse than me can cry on cue , so why can't I? Practice winds down and jan, the director, asks to speak to me for a moment. I walk up to the front of the stage and hang my feet off the edge . I flash her a quick smile. She's standing just in front of me and grins back. "I got a call from Iowa today," she says. Iowa has a great theatre program and they are considering me for a teaching assistant position there, to help me pay my way through grad school. "They said they were sending someone up to see the play next weekend, wanted to know which seats were closest to because deep down the real Jan wanted to use her hands when she was excited, but had trained herself not to . "Damn," I offer. "Pressures on now, huh?" "You don't seem that excited." Jan can read people too, probably better than me. I shrug, "No, no , just got a lot on my mind right now." I grin a little bit and look up; looking up generally means someone is you so they could watch you. " Iowa is a huge theatre school, a great program, and very hard to get into. She is excited. I can tell because she takes off her glasses when she's excited. She sort of waves them around. Jan has big hands. Big in the acting sense that they take up attention and accentuate points . When you act long enough you learn not to do things like use your hands too much, or use gestures that are too big. I think Jan used her glasses thinking about the future or taking in some kind of meaning. I look up and nod. "That's great. I'm just trying not to get complacent." I raise my eyebrows and laugh a little bit to get rid of the tension for the last part. Jan gives a half-smile. "just don't worry too much. You're doing great; don't get too stuck on that crying thing. You're too good an actor to try and force an emotion. You play it wonderfully. " She pats me on the shoulder. Physical contact builds trust. RAil BRIDGE b Josh Beckwith y oil on convos KIOSK09 45 I'm walking back to my room. It's cold. In northwest Iowa the wind blows all the time . It's nice in summer, but in the winter it makes 30 degrees feel like zero. I leave my eyes open and look into the wind. The freezing dries my eyes almost immediately, and the wind blowing makes them tear up to counteract the dryness. A tear gathers and falls a few inches before disappearing into the dry air. If only it was that easy. My mom always cried. She would cry for anything- graduations , weddings, funerals, birthdays anniversaries, whatever. She was a broken pump . I remember my mom cried when my neighbor got married. Tim had been a good friend of mine for as long as I can remember. His mom, Pat , had died of cancer when we were 15. She was a great lady. A big lady too, but one of the nicest women I'd ever met. She had her angry moments, but she was always sincere and honest. Pat used to make us do chores around the house and pay us too much . She gave us $50 once to paint the fence in their backyard. We got about halfway done when it started to rain. She called us inside and made us cookies while we watched football. Then she gave us the money and took us to Wal-Mart. Told us we could paint the fence tomorrow about noon. Tim and I decided to go fishing instead. I'll never forget the fear in his eyes when his mom showed up on the dock. She didn't say anything; she didn't yell, cry, wave her arms or threaten us in any way. Just looked down at the two of us, with our feet dangling just above the water and said , "You boys must have forgotten about the fence, right. " It wasn't a question, not "I leave my eyes open and look into the wind. The JreeZing dries my eyes almost immediately ... A tear gathers and JaIls a Jew inches beJore disappearing into the dry air: If only it was that easy. " 46 KIOSK09 one bit. We nodded , got up, walked back and painted the fence. She was diagnosed with cancer just a few days after that. Tim and I hung out a lot after she got diagnosed. I think he enjoyed having someone around who didn't stare at his mom. When people think someone is going to die they tend to stare , or not look at all. But 11 year-old boys stare. He liked it, too, because I knew not to ask. Sometimes his mom was gone at chemo ; sometimes she would lie in bed for two or three days at a time. I never acted like anything had changed. The doctors gave her three months. She lasted four years; I think it was just her proving the doctors wrong. Pat was stubborn. At her funeral , Tim cried a very quiet cry. He cried so that if it weren't for the tears streaming down his face he would have looked normal. He smiled when he needed to smile , frowned when he needed to frown. He laughed here and there; he wiped his nose and covered his face when things got sentimental. But the tears seemed somehow ... out of place. I've got to wonder, after watching a parent die for 4 years , were the tears for sadness, joy, or something else? Maybe , if Tim just cried because he thought he should. Back at the dorm, I could use a cigarette to calm down the thoughts a little bit. I could use a beer. No it's cold. I could use some scotch, maybe whiskey. Whiskey warms you up. I walk into my room and open a bottle of Jameson. Its very smooth and fairly strong, but mostly it's cheap. So I pour a glass , pondering Coke for a moment before deciding to just down the shaker glass. I sit and ponder. Who else cries , why, when, how? I pour another glass and down it. Forget cups. I'm not mixing it; might as well just use the bottle. My ex cried once , when we broke up . We had this little conversation about how we just weren't right for each other. I could tell she was on the verge of tears. Her lower lip was shaking. Her lip gloss was less bright on the lower lip because she kept biting it to stop it from shaking. I think I'd told her once that lower lips shake when people are going to cry I used to make her laugh by explaining how to tell what people were thinking by how they acted. Shoulders tensed for stress, football players hold their shoulders back, woodwind players tend to hold their fore arms forward. She always got a kick out of little stuff like that. I loved to see her laugh. That was about the last real thing I felt. I take another swig of the whiskey and it drips down my chin. I wipe it away with my sleeve. I look drunker than I am. I loved to see her laugh, and that's why it killed me inside. Seeing her sitting there , biting the gloss off of her lower lip, losing the shimmer. Watching her eyes well up , the long blinks she used to stop the tears from coming. She didn't want to cry, and I just wanted her to be happy So I said okay, we should break up. If it made her happy I would have said anything. She cried anyway Evidently I was wrong. All my observing my little insights into human nature were for nothing. I take another drink. It settles a little rough, and I pat my chest with my fist. It doesn't help , just another meaningless motion I think I need. Just another meaningless bit for a non-existent audience. What made her cry? Was it because she wanted me to argue, to save the relationship? No, it was too hard for her to talk, to form words, she clearly really wanted this. She looked at me right in the eyes; she wanted to make sure I understood her. People look at the eyes for comprehension. The eyes widen a little bit when someone finally gets a concept. So people watch for that , unconsciously, but they watch nonetheless. I got her point. Why did she still cry 7 I don't know. I put the last little bit of the whiskey in a cup and take it outside to have a cigarette. It's dark out now. The moon is white , a brilliant pale white as it glows through the jagged tree branches. I pull out a cigarette and some matches. I'm trying not to burn myself, so I hold the match as far away from the red chemical head as possible. After wasting six matches I've decided to just get it over with and burn myself. I like smoking, and I'm gonna smoke. Sometimes it hurts to do something you like . I take a drag and finish my whiskey There are two people walking into the dorm through the side door. They're a couple . I can tell because they're holding hands. They're not looking at each other or chatting, so they probably just got done fighting and are still mad even though they've made up. I've just drunk a liter of whiskey, and I can't stop dissecting everything people do . I don't want to. I want to stop, no more thinking. I want to feel something. I throw my coat on the ground and let the sub-zero temperature envelope me . I light another cigarette off the last bit of my first and sit down in the snow. Its cold, but I don't care. At least it's real, and that's all I want. I want to shine . I want to glimmer. I want to cry You spend enough time tweaking your emotions , putting on a false front , and pretty soon you don't know what emotion you're actually feeling anymore. If you play dumb enough, eventually you get dumb. You become a mask Spend enough time faking emotions, and eventually you don't know how you feel anymore. AUTUMN'S LAST DANCE byNicole Raphael digital photograph KIOSK09 47 I wake up with a headache. I drank too much again. I stayed up until about 5 a.m . smoking cigarettes in the snow and freezing my ass off. Then I slept through my classes and woke up with a headache, dehydration, and a runny nose. I have rehearsal in 2 hours. I'm gonna get yelled at. I'm still pissed at everything. So I crack open a beer. A cheap , foamy, simple beer. I drink 10 of them. Then I go to play practice. Now Jan's yelling, telling me how this is unacceptable, kicking me off the show. I don't give a damn. I tell her I don't care about grad school , or Iowa teaching assistantship , or the real world or professionalism. I just want to feel again. I want to not be the robot of human interaction this theatre has made me. I tell her to shove the part up her ass. Now I'm storming out of the theatre through the blackness of the backstage. I'm storming back to the dorm across campus. I know I just took a hit, and I know tomorrow I'll have to fix all this. The good news is most actors do this. But not me . I control myself. I don't throw fits. I don't have problems. I understand my emotions. I keep them in check, I understand them. I dissect them. I control them. 48 KIOSK09 Now I'm back in my room, and I'm staring down at the script , the plain tan cover of the script. The pile of beer cans next to it, the empty emerald bottle of whiskey. The full impact of my mistake hits me. Part of the script is a different color, it's darker, less faded , and it's wet. I'm crying. I've messed up, and now I'm crying. Now I know how. I've got it now. Next time , at least next time, I'll have it. A SHORT STORY THE ENCOUNTER BY LINDSAY W ASHBURN B oom! Boom! My shotgun aim was spot on. I ran down the alley, picking them off easily. At the end of the alley I kicked open the door and blam! One shot and he flew backwards into the burnt out building. But he was not dead yet. He was a zombie . When he came back I went for the knees, knocked him down to give me time . Then, it was the kill shot. I aimed carefully, took my time , and fired . His head exploded in a shower of blood and brains. Yeah! Take that! I pressed pause on my PlayStation 2 controller. My nurse had come into my room to give me my after dinner pudding cup . She busied herself about the room as I tore the shiny flap off the top of the pudding. There is one good thing about being stuck in the hospital for two weeks. If you want pudding, all you have to do is push a button. I had been admitted eight days ago for a serious blood infection, but I was starting to come around. The problem was that I was coming down with a serious case of bored outta-mymind. Luckily, the staff humored me and let my dad bring me my PS2, and some DVDs. Having watched all the movies by the second day, I committed myself to beating the latest version of Resident Evil. I could geek out on a game like that for the rest of my sentence. At least I had a private room to conduct my mission in peace. My nurse took her time in my room. She was the nosy one. After making sure I was comfortable , and ensuring that I was uncomfortable , she headed for the door. Before she shut it behind her she reminded me that I had yet to take my daily walk. I was supposed to take a walk at least once every day. The staff wished I would take more than one , but it was usually just one. The wing of the hospital was set up like all of the other wings. The rooms were set around a circular hallway at both ends of the floor. A long, wide corridor connected these two hallways to each other, making an oddly stretched figure eight. In the corridor were the nurses' station and the elevators. I hated the elevators. It was in those elevators that all of the smells of the different floors of the hospital got trapped and mutated into putrid concoctions unclassifiable by the human olfactory system. When I took my walks, I almost always took the figure -eight around to the other rooms in my hallway, past the nurses' station, into the other circle , around and back past the funky elevators, into my room and back into bed. It was good enough for me, and good enough for my doctors to stop lecturing me about blood clots. I put down my finished pudding cup and licked the back of the spoon. If I wanted to slaughter zombies in peace, I had better take my walk or the nosy one would come back. saved my progress and slipped on my robe while trying not to snag any of the tubes coming out of me. I did have company on these walks , however. Actually, it went everywhere with me , even into the bathroom. My LV stand was overloaded with bags of I don't know what. Mostly antibiotics , I think. The weight at the top from the bags, and the weight midway down from the pump made it slightly top heavy. When I walked I had to pull it along to keep the tubes from ripping out of me , but I also had to steady it from tipping UNTITLE D byHolly Becker oil on convos KIOSK09 49 over. I grabbed the LV stand underneath the pump and made my way towards the door. The weight of the door and the weight of trying to keep the stand steady were almost too much for me, so I grabbed the pole with both hands and pushed the door open the rest of the way with my hip. I made my way around the circle of rooms nearest mine. All sorts of beeps and bloops came from inside each room. I often wondered who was in those rooms and why they were in those rooms. But I still kept on walking. The nurses' station was ahead of me on my right. There were nurses talking to patients' family members, doctors dictating into beige phones, and guys in green smocks picking up orders for this or that. I made my way past them, trying to be invisible, but a few of them said "hi," or "off for your walk?" I really did like most of It them, but was stuck in a place I didn't want to be. Excuse me if I was a little less than cordial. When I got past the nurses' station, the elevators greeted me with a loud ping, opened their doors, and belched a nasty mix of latex and sterilized urine into my face. Up ahead in the other circle hallway there was some sort of commotion. I couldn't see anything, but four guys in green smocks and two nurses rushed past me. They disappeared around the circle and the commotion got much louder. A man in a room down the hall was having a stroke. A big stroke, and he wasn't taking it mildly. I decided that I had better find another route for the rest of my walk. At the end of the nurses' station, directly across from the first elevator, there was an opening to a long white corridor. I had never seen anyone go into or come out of it. This stood at the opening and looked down the length of the tunnel. It was stark white and had no windows or doors. seemed Orwellian and strange, as if it wasn't really there. " "1 50 KIOSK09 looked like as good a place as any to finish my walk, so I turned away from the chaos in the circle hallway and walked towards the opening. I stood at the opening and looked down the length of the tunnel. It was stark white and had no windows or doors. It seemed Orwellian and strange, as if it wasn't really there. Like I was the only one who could see it. I took a deep breath, my lungs filling with the remnants of the elevator stink, and began to descend into the void. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed into my retinas until I felt snow-blind. The tunnel smelled of powerful disinfectant. This place was alien and I was a foreign object in it. The only sound came from the strained wheels of my LV stand. They squeaked at every rotation, the sound amplified in the quiet around me. After about six feet , the floor tilted downward. My LV stand began to pitch forward so I grabbed it with both hands. After I was steady I continued forward, gripping my LV stand like a life raft. I was halfway through the tunnel. My biceps were starting to burn with the strain of holding my LV stand. I knew that if I let go it would either fall over or roll down the rest of the tunnel on its own. Neither of these things was good, so I switched sides and held it to my right instead of my left. I looked back up at the opening to my wing. It hovered in midair in front of my face, just out of reach. I was three-quarters of the way through the corridor. No going back now. This damn thing had to lead somewhere. I shuffled forward, my arms burning. The floor leveled off so I let go of the stand. It wobbled as I let go. I was at a dead end. The corridor ended at a blank wall. What a rip off. When I turned to leave, I saw that it was not a dead end at all. The tunnel took a 90 degree turn to the left into a large open doorway. What was in there) Better yet, who was in there) There were no signs or nameplates anywhere . I hesitated at the corner of the long white corridor, shivering in my hospital gown and robe. I took one last look back up the way I came and then stepped around the corner. Through the door was a large open waiting room littered with chairs and sofas of different sizes. Most of them were some shade of pale blue. They were arranged around an open area in the middle. At the far left end of the room was a desk, unattended. I swept the room with my eyes, searching for something that would identify this place. My eyes moved from the right, past a ring of chairs, and stopped dead at a sofa set near the empty desk. Sitting there alone, was a middle-aged man. He looked normal except that he was wearing a back brace connected to a medical halo. The metal prongs formed a crude cage around his head, stiffening his body. He looked like something out of a Marilyn Manson video. Despite this he sat completely peaceful and content. I stood there watching him. It could have been an hour. It could have been a minute. It felt like a day. He never moved. I'm not even sure he blinked. I couldn't look away. I wanted to say something, or at least make some sort of physical gesture to let him know I saw him and regarded him as a fellow human being. But I just stood. A scream sounded through the corridor, so loud it made me jump. I spun around. My LV was empty, the red light on the pump flashing. I looked back at the man. He hadn't moved. I grabbed my LV stand with both hands and pushed it in front of me as I qUickly hobbled back up the tunnel, around the corner of the nurses' station, past the belching elevators , past the smiling nurses and guys in green smocks, past the rooms down the hall. For the first time, I actually looked inside those other rooms as I passed their doorways. A different scene set in each, but all somehow the same. In one, an arm draped over the side of the bed and stuck out from behind the drawn curtain. Darth Vader breathing and the television with its volume turned all the way down- the only light in the room cast eerie shadows that changed with each camera angle. In another, visitors silently staring at a bed, women holding their purses on their laps, their anticipation flowing out the door in my direction. Each doorway held another feeling, even the ones that were closed. It vibrated through the paneled wood, but people still passed by, not glVmg a second thought to what was on the other side. I hobbled back into my little room, shut the door behind me, and pushed my stand back into its usual place next to my bed. The nosy one would be in any second to change the empty bag. As I grabbed my PS2 controller, wanting nothing more at that moment than to blow off a zombie's head, I thought to myself, "Maybe tomorrow, I'll go outside for my walk." CITY OF GR EE N by Koylo Curry ail an woad panel KIOSK09 51 FROM A LOBSTER TANK Kids splatter their greasy palms on the glass , which is always the worst. Look, you can pinpoint the moment their synapses get a whiff of virgin stimuli: eyes glinting from across the room, they crowd around to blot out our overhead light. And they are upon us. The happy parents , a couple of lifeless thirty-somethings , invariably follow the tugs from their invisible leashes. All descend on us, an orgy, a flock of vultures devoid of decency. As the little ones slap glass and point in my direction, I scan the horizon for the pimpled assistant in the apron with the hook, the Arbiter of Death. Wait, is that him? No . .. Yes! Quick boys, scramble. Get the hell outta my way. Oh God, the pimply teenager is dipping the hook in. Bunch up in the corners! Why was I resting in the middle of the tank? Move! Ugh, the hook prods around me. Such unnatural selection! Is it my time? ... And yet I remain grounded. The pimpled reaper chose somebody else . Our feverish tempest dies down and the hungry human eyes turn to the unfortunate one. Palms peel off the glass, and all returns to calm. Our collective mass diffuses , enjoying the vacant space of the victim. As I listen to the cracks and steam screams of our hapless comrade in the kitchen, I can't help but come to the conclusion that In the cosmic struggle between lobster and human, it's good to be scrawny. MARK H ANn A 52 KIOSK09 P€AR YlR BE p\R 1 tl\n.. 1-t ME A Fl'1 1+ T~AT l-OOK7 LIKe 11-\-1 ;---- !HANK? PI LOI ( ~13ovJ7 LOoC( MR. BEAR b John Bow y itz mixed draw & print media ing KIOSK09 53 A SHORT STORY QUICK TRIP COURTING BY KRISTINA STURM K ailinn came to work for Quick Trip, a convenience store and gas station, the summer before my senior year. She was cold and aloof with me, but always flashing her dazzling smile and melodically laughing with customers. I tried to get close to her throughout our shifts but she never let me near. I tried jokes but she never laughed. I tried questions but she always skirted around the answers. I chalked it up to her superiority. She was a woman returning home from college and I was just a boy, but when our eyes met I knew it was more than this. Her hazel eyes told a harrowing tale of mistrust and hurt. They narrowed at men's passes and rolled at any compliment, but somehow I knew there was a bright light, hidden by a dusty window pane. I had never seen the illumination of a pure green until he walked through our doors. "Hey." Kailinn's voice floated past her broad smile. It was Q.T. policy to greet every customer who walked in the door- if it hadn't been for the tone of her voice I wouldn't have looked up from sweeping. But there was a surprising inflection this time. Her voice cradled a genuineness I had not yet heard. I looked at the man who had just opened the door. He was holding it for a pregnant customer and her summer-tanned kids. I followed his gaze back to Kailinn as she stood at the check stand like a figurehead on the front of a prosperous ship. Dark hair swept across her face , but I could see her solitary dimple and it was enough to clue me in. She was grinning. I disdainfully looked back at him. He wore khaki shorts and a bright blue t -shirt. He swept his sunglasses onto his blonde hair and boldly held her smile. A clatter behind me broke my judgment and I turned to see a bunch of miscreants had dumped Freezoni all over the floor. "Jordan, you need to get the mop ," the manager said. 54 KIOSK09 "Got it." I turned away from this customer's lingering eye contact. I was dismayed at not being able to watch Kailinn reject another Q.T. suitor. A couple times a week some guy waltzed in and offered her his number or asked for hers. She had never been charmed into a number exchange. I held onto the fleeting hope that she was saving her digits for me. I wasn't worried about this guy; he didn't have anything new and definitely not anything I didn't have. I filled the mop bucket and dumped in a cup of Coca-Cola, a trick of the trade, and worked at mopping the melting blue puddle between the island and the drink bar. The store was busy; voices weaved in and out, but I could pull out Kailinn's voice at the check stand. "Marlboro Reds, sure . Can I see your ID?" She was so great with customers. "You need to swipe it?" the customer said. "Naw, I may be an English major, but I bet I can figure out your age ." Everyone chuckled. I could guess she had winked at the older man at the counter. "Alrighty your total is going to be $5.48. Out of ten? And your change makes six, seven, eight, nine and ten. Have a great day and stop back!" 'Tll see you tomorrow!" the man hollered over his shoulder. The intercom clicked on and Kailinn's voice rang out, "Help to the front." I leaned the mop against a wall and popped to the counter next to her. "Sir, I can help you down here?" I nodded toward the same Abercrombie model who had so obviously been entranced by Kailinn already. "Uh ... " he looked to Kailinn then back to me, "go ahead and get someone else ." He turned and whispered something to a greyhaired man holding a cup of coffee. The old man shuffled towards me. I rang him up and made small talk but I kept my eye on the smooth talker as he inched closer to Kailinn. Every time the guy reached the front of the line, he looked behind him at the other people in line and stepped out of line for another quick lap around the store. 1 had to laugh. What, was this guy nervous? If he only knew how surely he would be denied. 1 had grabbed the last pack of Bronson menthols for a customer. 1 scanned all the cigarette slots and mentally noted what 1 needed to stock. The top box fell off my pile and 1 crouched down to get it; it had tumbled right next to Kailinn's legs. Kneeling on the floor 1 noticed they were beautiful. Muscular. Tan. 1 could almost see softness. 1 wished 1 could take her home, where we would sit on the couch. She would drape them across my lap. 1 could touch them freely then. Her right leg kicked up , almost into my face , breaking me from my daydream. 1 fell back in surprise. The tip of her shoe dragged across the floor and hooked behind her left ankle. 1 had never seen her do this before. What the hell? "How are you today?" Kailinn said. "Can't complain- it's hot out but the office is air-conditioned." He slid a Snickers and a Dr. Pepper across the counter. "How are you?" "Peachy, thanks. It's gonna be $2.04." She looked up at him again. I quit stocking cigarettes. I wanted to see his rejection. He pulled out three ones. She took the bills and gathered his change. "Your change will make three." She held her cupped hand out for his. He tucked his hand under hers , and I swear I saw the sparks flying. She dropped the change and quickly pulled her hand back. 1 looked from face to face. Both had flushed pink. "Stop back. " She dismissed him and looked down at me "Let me help you with those. " She dropped qUickly to her knees beside me. I'm not sure what the guy did next , 1 was too caught up in crouching close enough to smell her perfume. Being within inches of her made me feel drunk. She was fumbling with the cartons of cigarettes. "I "Oh my-Ianta, Jordan ." She said my name. She said my name breathily. I could feel the sweet air from her mouth . I looked into her eyes and for the first time saw a bright green swirl through the brown. It was like that guy had taken a cloth to the dirty window pane . "Did you see that guy?" "Yeah, what a tool. The office? No one believes that, 1 bet he sits at home and watches MTV drinking his Dr Pepper and Snickers. He's real cooL" I chuckled, but she wasn't laughing. I watched a few traces of green disappear back into her brown eyes . They were no longer soft and laughing. "Right." She tossed the carton she had been tugging at back on to the floor and stood up . From my place on the floor 1 watched her legs carry her out of the checkstand and away from me. Awesome Jordan, maybe she actually liked that guy. I'm such an idiot! Someone was snickering behind me. I quit beating myself up and turned to look at my manager. "What?" I asked. "If it was any more obvious that you are in love 1 think Disney would be filming." Terry was leaning against the cigarette racks behind me . His blonde hair had thinned enough to allow the light to reflect off his scalp. He may have been getting older but he was married with four kids. Surely he knew a thing or two about love, but he was wrong about me . I just shook my head at him and stood up. Kailinn found the only other clerk working that day, and they were excitedly gabbing away in the corner, but 1 couldn't hear them so I guess they couldn't hear me. "1 am not in love. Do you think she watched a few traces of green disappear back into her brown eyes. They were no longer soft and laughing. " KIOSK09 55 CRUSH E PE D PSI by Alysso Filipek digitol photogroph 56 KIOSK09 actually likes that guy?" Terry just scoffed and walked past me to help another customer at the counter. I assumed I was rid of the brazen blonde after his Snickers and Dr. Pepper craving had been quenched, but I was wrong. This guy kept coming back. There had to be a mole giving out her schedule to him. I never saw him when she wasn't there, but every time she worked he sauntered in, always buying the same things- a candy bar and a Dr. Pepper. I wanted to resent him, but something about him made her even more beautiful. Her steps were light on the way into work and she sang in the coolers. I wanted to make her sing in the coolers, not him. I didn't understand why she was so interested in him. They never talked about anything. But somehow I couldn't hate him. Somehow he brought her to me. "Hey jordy." Her ponytail bobbed as she popped her head in the cooler. "Why in the world do you call me thatt" I loved that she had given me a nickname. "Fine," she picked up an empty pop flat and tossed it at me , "I'll quit." "Stop." I threw the box back. She swung the door shut blocking the throw. Her head peeked in through the window and she stuck her tongue out at me and disappeared. I kept sliding cans and bottles down the shelf. The doors would open and slam shut letting spurts of conversation and warm air rush past the racks. The intercom beeped. "Help to the front." Mini rushes weren't bad. Terry always put Kailinn on the middle register; the regulars loved her and I got to stand by her side on the second register, so who was I to complain? A middle-aged man with a loaf of bread and a 24-pack of Mountain Dew handed me his food stamps card. Our only food stamps reader was on the first register. I walked up behind Kailinn and comfortably rested a hand on the small of her back to let her know I was behind her. This intimacy I only recently learned I could do. My hand seared from the heat of her body. I leaned around her to swipe the food stamps card. She took a half step back into me, in order to reach down and grab a bag. The step placed her dangerously close to me. I knew her body could fit perfectly into mine if she so much as leaned back. She bent slightly to grab the bag; she pressed into my leg, "Oh, I didn't see you there." She winked. The green in her eyes was becoming a constant thing and I loved it. I pushed a few buttons on the card reader and grabbed the keypad. "Sir if you could put your pin in here." I handed the pin pad to the customer. "Did you want a sack for your bread?" "No thank you," the man's voice was hoarse as he handed me back the pin pad. "Can I get a pack of Bronson no-filters, too?" "Sure thing." I grabbed a pack from the cigarette drawer below me. "It's going to be $3.59." "Hey you!" Kailinn said. Even though I was focused on the customer I knew who had walked through the door. "Aloha." He perched his sunglasses on the top of his head and smiled- always Mr. Suave. The rush was over and only a few people remained milling around the store. "Uh, Kailinn, why don't you go fill cups," Terry said, nodding toward the guy who was standing by the cups. Was Terry trying to set them up? How could he do that to me? She blushed. "Just for you , Terry " Kailinn and Terry had grown fond of each other. Terry doted on her like a father, and Kailinn was eager to please. She walked off the stand and towards the cups . I looked at Terry. "Why'd you have to go and do that?" "Jordan. She likes him. Look. " His eyes pointed towards them. She was filling cup lids and he was leaning against the countertop next to her. Her single dimple grew as she tipped her head back and laughed. He was saying something to her but I couldn't hear it. He reached up and brushed the hair away from her eyes. She blushed. I could imagine him telling her that she was beautiful and her eyes were gorgeous, all the things I wanted to tell her. What did he know? Who was he to make her smile that way? ''I'm gonna go stock the large vault. Don't expect me back any time soon. " I shoved past Terry and threw open the vault doors. I dragged the step ladder to the end of the beer and started pushing the boxes to the front. I wished I could just drink some of it, so I could forget about him touching her. The doors burst open and I turned to see Kailinn lean up against the wall. "Jordy?" She tucked her hands in her front pockets and looked at me- green eyes dazzling against the grey of the cooler. "Yea?" I went back to moving beer around. "Can I talk to you? I need a guy's opinion." I didn't want to be that guy It was going to be about him. I had managed three weeks of their Quick Trip courtship without really hearing about him and now here it came- the atomic bomb to my heart. "Is it about him?" "Duane ," she corrected. "Well, he hasn't asked for my number or to go get coffee or anything." She looked up at me . From my position on the step ladder I could see just how curvy she was. I loved the nights when I worked later than she and she had plans. She'd change in our bathroom and come out in non-work clothes. Her figure was glorious. I imagined taking her home with me and exploring the winding roads of her body She was still looking at me , so I ended I my adventure early and raised my eyebrows at her. "Do you think he actually likes me?" Her voice was small. "If he didn't why would he been in here spending two dollars every day?" "$2 .04." She winced a smile realizing how ridiculous the correction was. "Well, why hasn't he asked?" "Maybe he's shy?" "So should I ask him?" "Sure if you want to." Maybe if she asked him he'd be put off by her forwardness, or maybe he'd be turned on by it. "But I'm not that type of girl! " Her face pleaded me to tell her what to do. "Just be patient. He's probably working up the courage." ''I've even dropped hints like , 'I don't have anything going on tonight,' or 'what are you doing this weekend?' but he never picks up on it. " She had come closer and was leaning on the stool now; she was close enough I could feel her heat in the cold cooler. "Well," I didn't know what to say "You're a great girl. He's probably just shy " The intercom interrupted us , "Help to the front." ''I'll go," she said and rushed out. Another few weeks passed and he hadn't asked her out. She caught me in the cooler on a regular basis to chat. I began to appreciate this guy His inability to ask her out seemed to match mine , but as he was growing bolder, "Her Single dimple grew as she tipped her head back and laughe( He was saying something to her but couldn't hear it. " KIOSK09 57 MOMENT by Breanne Evans digital photograph 58 KIOSK09 I was creeping into the friend zone. One night after work she came sprinting back into the store. I could see her gleaming smile as she bolted back through the doors. "LOOK!" She slammed a receipt onto the counter. I looked at the receipt It was for $2.04. "It was under my windshield wiper." She giggled and flipped it over. On the back was a note scrawled in blue ink. "After you get off Friday, plan to go out with me , Duane." I felt like throwing up but everyone else was thrilled. "Thats in two days!" "Be sure you look good!" "Are you excited?" The clerks were all chiming in, but I was silent. "You were right Jordy! He was just shy!" She playfully punched my arm. "Yea, woo . I was right." I walked to the back leaving them chirping with excitement. Why hadn't I jumped the gun? Why didn't I ask her out first? His stupid note stole the limelight again. I could only imagine what sort of gallant white-knight heroics he would pull off Friday. Friday at work the air was jittery. Every time the door opened, all heads turned. The sun was beginning to set and Kailinn was off at eight. We drew the window tints and there was still no sign of Romeo. Terry asked her to stay on for a little bit after eight because we needed the third register. Kailinn's chipper mood sank as the night progressed, her green eyes fading into brown. It was eight-thirty and I knew she was beginning to wonder if it had all been a cruel joke. A help call from one of the pumps went off. "How can I help you?" She was monotone. "Yea I need some help with the pump, I can't get my gas to start," the voice from the other end said. "The computer says you ran your card. Did you select your grade of gas?" I watched her lean over the mic and talk. "Yeah, it still won't go ." "Un-click your pump and try again." People's inability to run our incredibly simple pumps was frustrating for us. In the end we almost always had to go outside to do exactly what they said they had done. "Nope, still not working. Maybe you should just come out." "Okay sir, I'll send someone right out." She turned and looked at me and then looked at the other clerk. "Will you handle this?" The other clerk walked to the door. "Uh, actually Kailinn I think you should handle this guy." The clerk grinned at Kailinn. "Fine." She stomped off the register, but when she got to the door her whole demeanor changed. Her posture straightened her cheeks scrunched into a smile. It was him. He was a half hour late, and she didn't even care. I never would have made her wait. Everyone in the store tried to peek out the window. He was sitting on the hood of his car, waiting under the lights of our gas pumps. As she got closer, to him and farther from me , my heart sank. He grabbed her and pulled her to him. She tried to push herself off his chest, but his hand came around, grabbing her butt. Everyone who was crowded around the windows to watch this romantic scene was now gaping at each other. My blood was pumping. She was struggling against him. She pulled her hand away and hit him in he face . He let go and she ran back to the store. She burst through the doors. I'd never seen her cry before , but something about watching the waterfall of her tears made me want to save the world, to kill him and to save her. She bolted to the bathroom. Everyone who had been rooting for them was now standing, mouths hanging wide open. I went after her. I pounded on the door of the bathroom. No answer- so I started to push the door open. "Kailinn?" I asked , peering through the small crack. She looked back for an instant. "Jordan, no. Leave me alone ." The door slammed back into my face , but before it hid her from me , I saw mascara staining her cheeks. There was no longer green in her eyes ; they were brown. I was no longer Jordy; I was Jordan. When there was a them, I had an us. But now she didn't have him, and I wasn't sure if I could ever have her. KIOSK09 59 UNCLE ICARUS My mother buckled me up in the back next to a coffee cake she baked. - Marv's favorite. We drove for miles, all the way to Waterloo , where Marv lived. I hated going to Marv's, because he lived with other handicapped people and they smoked and shouted fuck , shit, and fuck that shit, but he was her brother. We gave Marv his cake and he thanked us, but his speech was slurred and slow like a broken tuba. He tried talking to me, but he didn't realize a five-year-old and forty-year-old handicapped man have very little to discuss. On the way home, I told Mother I hated Uncle Marv and never wanted to go back to that place. She started crying and said, "The accident wasn't his fault," to which I retorted, "Was Icarus' fall not his fault?" Mother pondered this and said, "No, it was Daedalus' fault for building the wings for him." Her answer was impeccable, but far from irrefutable. "Who built the shoddy plane, with passion instead of knowledge? Who chose not to wear a helmet? Who didn't heed the warning of wise Daedalus?" I asked. She gave me some gummy bears and I quieted down, though the seatbelt was a bit too tight. GREGORY ANDERSON 60 KIOSK09 GRANDPA TELLS A STORY That day the little menfolk were a listless herd, as sometimes was the case . They clustered, belt buckles glinting like spackle on a roof bent upward toward a celestial something, and I'll be damned if each wasn't waiting, ears pricked, mouths cottoned, fixated sunward in a blue-eyed funk: A secret sense of purpose had penetrated the ears of the menfolk that dawn break. Each awoke mindful of a Pied Piper, a primal voodoo tugging at his heart, promising warmth. Later, the womenfolk arose , having sunk heavy-center in their beds , perturbed by the neutered smells of their bedrooms , to find missing boots , missing coats , empty resting places. Panic spread as each knew, though none dared speak, of her husband's exodus. The village , it seemed, was in an uproar. The womenfolk gathered purposefully in town square. Each, expressing her futility, stood, head cocked back, staring sunward , churning hours into eternities. At the coming of dusk. the womenfolk, as if on cue , disbanded. Each retraced her steps back through her empty doorway, Past her empty coat rack, into her empty bed where she sank heavy center into night. You see , kids, life's a symphony when the hurricane brings the caskets to the surface , and you're organizing the dead bodies, grinning, belt buckles glinting, in the sun of a Sunday morning. MARK HANTLA KIOSK09 61 • A MEMOIR WAIKIKI BEACH BY AUSHA WILEY . I ARROW SHOE byAmy Foltz 2 plote w reduction print ood 62 KIOSK09 t was my last day on Waikiki Beach. I spread out my hotel towel , but when I turned on my stomach my toes were still in the sand. This didn't bother me as I wiggled and dug them deeper and deeper into the warmth. Cara spread her towel and sat down beside me . Her cheap sunglasses were so large they made her look like a movie staror maybe an alien. The beach was crowded with hundreds of people on each side of us and a mass of twenty-five story resorts behind us. I tried to listen for the waves crashing into the shore, but instead I heard children behind me, so I put on my headphones. Just as I started getting bored and agitated by the sun, an old man began setting up camp in the small space next to me. His dark skin was wrinkled from many days on the beach just like this. With a hollow metal pole , he dug into the sand to make a hole for his umbrella to stand. I glanced back to see him strategically wrapping himself in a towel as he changed from baggy shorts to a Speedo. "Hey Cara ," I said, "check this out. " She turned to look. "Damn it, Laura! " Cara said. "I think I just saw a grey pube. " I shook my head and laughed. He sat in his folding chair, low to the ground , and plopped a handful of books and loose papers next to him. He pulled out a green canteen full of coffee and poured himself a cup. I don't recall how the conversation began, but after awhile we knew he was 70 years old and spent over 50 of those years on the beaches of Hawaii. I was curious so I asked bluntly, "What do you do for work?" "I don't believe in work. " This man was crazy. Who doesn't work? Hard work is all I know. I was raised on the American Dream. Anything is possible with enough hard work. "How do you make money?" I asked, squinting. "Have you ever heard of the stock market?" "Well, yeah. " "Well, the stock market pumps money just like your heart pumps blood. " He tapped on his wrist in a steady rhythm. ''I'll put it this way. You could work at McDonalds and put half your earnings in the stock market and you'd be set. How many hours do you take at schaaP" "I took 17 last semester." "Well then, six hours of research in the library would be easy." I realized he was talking about spending six hours studying the stock market. As we talked he ate pineapple chunks out of a plastic bag. I imagined this was all he ever ate. It looked like he hadn't had a good Iowa steak for years. A teenage boy approached him and said, ''I've been thinking about it and I decided I wanted surf lessons." The old man said, "A hundred dollars. That'll be for two days- a verbal lesson and a lesson out in the water. Come back at noon with no oil on the skin and no alcohol on the brain. " I wondered if the old man put half of every hundred dollars he made teaching surfing in the stock market. Probably not. He proudly told us he never married. I wondered if he was lonely surrounded by tourists . One man walked by and said, "Hey there, Jacque. " Jacque shrugged indicating he had no idea who this man was . He said, "Everyone knows me , but I don't know anyone ." Everyone on the beach at this moment would fly back to reality within the next week, except for Jacque. I asked , "Do you ever get sick of all these tourists?" He laughed. "No , I screw tourists." I made sure my bikini was covering as much of my smooth skin as it could. I wondered if Jacque was his real name. I think he made it up- just like he told us he had a Ph.D. in political science. And how later on he told two guys behind us drinking at the bar that he owns a modeling agency for tall women and we were his clients. I said, "Jacque , you know, I've never surfed before. " "Well, you're an idiot," he said, "because never surfing is like never hearing music. " Our conversation started to slow down as the sky began to sprinkle rain. I looked up at the irony of a cloudless sky as a shiver ran down my back. Cara woke up and took off her head phones and started complaining that she was cold. Jacque said, "Just get in the ocean. That's what it's there for." So we looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and quickly got up , running toward the sand, and in unison jumped over the incoming wave. After the rain stopped, we waded back to our spot on the sand but Jacque was gone. We took our places back on our towels, and let the sun evaporate the small pools of water on our skin. There were times when I honestly avoided thinking about my future , but this wasn't one of those times . It seemed crazy that something that hadn't even happened yet could be so terrifying. My future scared me the same way that the ocean scared me . I didn't know what was out there , I didn't know my possibilities, the same way that I would never see what was hidden beneath the deepest waters. I could go snorkeling and see some coral and small fish , but not the mountains and monsters beneath. Up to this point in my life I was uninspired. In a strange way this man on the beach changed me. He made me think about my future and it didn't seem so bad. I could do whatever the hell I I wanted. I could get to the other side of the ocean even if it meant leaving Iowa and moving to Hawaii. Even if I had to eat pineapple for the rest of my life. Even if I had to screw Jacque for my airfare. As the sun set, two guys approached Cara and me. One guy was obviously better looking than the other, kind of like a superhero and his sidekick. They introduced themselves as Brendan and Luke and told us that our friend Jacque had sent them over. I thought , "Thank you Jacque!" We sat on our towels facing the ocean and the guys sat facing us. Brendan, the one with a six pack, sat with his elbow resting on his knee, his chin on his hand. I could tell by his direct, yet smooth approach that he'd had a few drinks. When we got through with all the boring chatter such as age and location, we talked about selection. Brendan asked , "What do you look for in a man?" We shrugged our shoulders, neither one of us willing to share , so instead we turned the question around , "Well what do you like in women?" "I like tall women," he said winking. I wondered if he had been talking to two short women, he'd tell them the exact opposite. "My future scared me the same way that the ocean scared n1e. I didn't know what was out there, didn't know my possibilities, the same way that I would never see what was hidden beneath the deepest waters." KIOSK09 63 We found out that Brendan lived in Hawaii for part of each year as a contractor and was an avid surfer. I jumped on the opportunity and asked him for surf lessons. He agreed, and as the two of us walked along the beach. Cara jumped up and said she wanted to go , too. So my romantic twosome turned into a not-so-romantic threesome. We ran up the beach and stopped at the first place that rented out surfboards. As we approached, a worker putting away boards said, "Sorry, we don't rent out surfboards after five." My whole body suddenly felt heavy Who has the right to tell me I can't surf? We stopped at the next place where the worker told us the same thing. Brendan saved the day and said , "Hey man, this is their last day here , couldn't we just rent a board for half an hour?" "It better be back in a half an hour," the worker said. I tried picking up my surfboard, but dropped it, surprised by the weight. I tried again, this time with my muscles tightened and prepared. I was awkward carrying the surfboard down the beach. Brendan helped Cara find her balance so she could swim on top of her board. I waded out a ways and then spread out on my stomach and paddled straight into the waves. As the waves came toward us, Brendan coached us to put our hands on the board and push our bodies away, arching our backs to let the water flow between our chests and the boards. 64 KIOSK09 We paddled out to where Brendan told us the wave would break. We let a couple waves pass , and Brendan told Cara to go first. She paddled hard towards shore as Brendan gave her a push. The wave began to carry her away and she started to rise , but then fell. The next wave was mine. He pushed , I paddled. I could feel the wave start to pick me up , so I slowly lifted to my knees and then to my feet. I was standing, but only for a second. I fell sideways and came safely up from the water. We tried a couple more waves before our 30 minutes were up . We paddled back to shore , turned in our surfboards and started walking to our spot on the beach. Brendan said , "We missed the red flash. " "What's the red flash? " I asked. "On a clear night like this, just as the sun is completely below the horizon, there's a flash of red light that reflects off the ocean. " The thing is , I did see a flash. A Single flash of light over a dark, bottomless ocean. A NIGHTMARE ABOUT BEING OLD AND ALONE The tiles beneath my naked body are cold, reminding me of how old I am getting. They're not as soft as her. Drifting into pine green memories of Wisconsin, her skin beneath me instead of cold tiles. In the great cheese state we danced to Bob Dylan, drunk off vodka we couldn't afford and made love in Wisconsin on the orange carpet floor. In the morning she would spray herself with that green plastic bottle, covering herself in some fruity concoction. Strawberry-watermelon or something like that. The only thing I smell now are the volumes of books I haven't touched for years, but keep anyway Back in Wisconsin we read books we didn't understand and drank vodka we couldn't afford and again made love on the orange carpet floor. I stand up to take a leak and walk out my office door. No one should be around, it's late or maybe it's early I'm wrong, there's a secretary, she's working late , or maybe early I stop walking and look at her. Something should be said, some excuse to why I've been sleeping naked in my office, but I can only think of Wisconsin and empty bottles of vodka and her tearing up the orange carpet to reveal hardwood. I let out a laugh and say, "Well isn't this the cat's pajamas?" GREGORY ANDERSO N KIOSK09 65 • PAGE FROM THE PAST How LOVERS CAN ENJOY CITRUS FRUITS WHILE DINING ON SEAFOOD The steaming trout on my plate, With his glossy, deadened eye, looks at it , The dimpled, yellow wedge. I smell Country Tyme and Lemon Pledge. Parsley leaves shield the naked citrus, As the fig leaves did for man and woman in The Garden of Eden, This time, it is my lover who wants first fruits. I squeeze it tauntingly and lick its ripened edge , The juice leaving my fingers squeaky. Greedily, he takes the prized piece of fruit and puts it in Whole , smiling a yellow rind, Lips barely puckered, His cheeks slightly sucked in, like the dead fish On my plate. He draws in the biting juice and drains the citrus Dry. With bits of pulp between his teeth and a pool of Distasteful spit under his tongue, he pulls my face to his. The other patrons Gasp. Our mouths caress, with bitterness. The Lemon Kiss. TRISH REGNERUS (1993) 66 KIOSK09 COLOPHON A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE KIOSK " S Ubject to editorial fallibility, the best will be printed." This quote first appeared in the foreword of the 1938 issue of Manuscript, the ancestor of the Kiosk. In the earlier years at Morningside , student satire and short fiction was often published in the yearbook, but an idea for a student literary magazine began to grow in 1937 during a meeting of the Manuscript Club. In March, 1938, students and faculty gathered to read aloud stories and pokiosk ems, which had undergone a screening process; only pieces of "sufficient literary merit" made it to readings , recalled Miriam Baker Nye, first editor. That fall , South Dakota poet laureate Badger Clark visited campus, further fueling student desire for a literary magazine , and so on December 7th, 1938 Manuscript was printed and distributed. Response to the publication was instant. One of the stories described students skipping Chapel to go to an ice cream parlor, and the next week President Roadman started taking roll during Chapel. Over the following years, students were driven to submit their work and have their voices heard. Manuscript was printed for 16 issues, but disappeared in 1952 , only to rise again in 1955 under the title , Perspectives . After skipping 1957 , it reappeared under the direction of faculty advisor William Palmer. In 1971 , students renamed it Kiosk, and it has been printed nearly every year since , advised by Donald Stefanson, Carole Van Wyngarden, Janice Eidus, Scott Simmer, Robert Conley, Jan Hodge , and for the past 20 years by Stephen Coyne. The Kiosk has included cover art from nearly the beginning, but in 2006 student editor Cliff Thompson along with assistance of John Kolbo and the support of Morningside President John Reynders revamped the format of the magazine to better accommodate student art; thus , art began to take a more central role in the magazine. In some ways this story mirrors the current atmosphere of the Kiosk . Morningside was fortunate this year to have Marvin Bell, former poet laureate of Iowa, visit the campus , which certainly raised awareness of the English Department and its literary magakiosk zine . The Kiosk sponsored its first poetry slam in February of 2009 , and excitement buzzed around campus during the week of the slam. Submissions have skyrocketed in recent years. In the last two years, the Kiosk has won two major national awards. It was a finalist in the Pacemaker Award, sponsored by the Associated Collegiate Press , and received a gold medal from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association. KIOSKS OF THE PAST from left to rignt, 2006,2007,2008,2009 The Kiosk is published annually by Morningside College and is distributed at no cost to Morningside students and alumni. It is printed in four process colors on a digital printing press on 80# matte coated cover and 80# matte coated book paper stock. Adobe InDesign CS3 is the page layout software used to assemble the entire publication. KIOSK09 67 • CONTRIBUTOR'S NOTES WRITING Daniel Anderson , graduated in 1977 with a BA in English at Morningside. He is now Associate Pastor at Wesley United Methodist Church in Sioux City. Gregory Anderson is a Junior from Sioux City. In 2007, his poem, "Kismet," won first place in the Kiosk's literary contest. He edited the Kiosk in 2008. He is majoring in English education. Stephen Coyne is a Professor of English at Morningside College. He has served as faculty advisor to the Kiosk since 1989. His short stories and poems have been published in numerous literary journals. Tyrel D rey is a junior from Storm Lake, Iowa. He is pursuing majors in both theatre and English. He is involved in several honor societies on campus, and is a member of the Delta Sigma Phi fraternity. His short story, "Distortion," won second place in this year's Kiosk literary contest. Mark Hantla is a junior religious studies major pursuing a career in teaching and ministry. This is his first year submitting to the Kiosk. His interests include writing, history, philosophy, and music. Colin O 'Sullivan is a senior at Morningside College. He is finishing his BS in Chemistry.This is his third contribution to the Kiosk. His piece, "Where are My Glasses?" won an Editor's Choice award in 2008. Kiel Ploen is a 2008 Morningside graduate.This is his second contribution to the Kiosk. His piece. "An Odd Bit," won second place in the Kiosk's Publication Contest in 2008. Victoria Reed graduated with a BA in English with a teaching credential in May of 2008. She accepted a job at an International school in Honduras for the 2008-2009 school year 68 KIOSK09 Krystal Shearer is a sophomore from Emerson, Iowa, majoring in Engl ish. Her new motto has become , "Work without boundaries; create without boundaries." This is Krystal's first contribution to the Kiosk. Kristina Sturm is a senior English Education major from Polk City, Iowa. After May graduation, she plans to move back to Polk City. Her goal is to teach high school English in a rural Iowa high school as well as coach tennis. Randy Uhl recently finished his Master's degree in educational leadership and is currently teaching high school Engl ish and literature at Lawton-Bronson Community School. A graduate from Morningside Co llege in 1990, he has contributed numerous times to the Kiosk over the past twenty years. LindsayWashburn is a junior at Morningside. She is working toward an English degree with an emphasis in both literature and writing, as well as a minor in psychology. Besides school , Lindsay is involved in the local theatre community. Her poem, "To Speak of Horses," won third place in this year's Kiosk literary contest. She would like to thank Jeremy and her friends and family for always being supportive with her writing. Ross Wilcox is a junior at Morningside College. He is studying English and literature in the hopes of becoming an English professor His poem, "Ionne," won first place in this year's Kiosk literary contest. Alisha Willey graduated from Morningside College in 2008 with her BA in English and psychology. She currently attends the University of South Dakota where she is working toward her EdS in school psychology. At USD Alisha works as a graduate assistant in Athletic Academics where one of her primary jobs is tutoring athletes in English. ART Sash a Backhaus is a junior studio art major from Westside, Iowa. She also is a minor in English and is a part of the Morningside softball team. Mack Maschmeier, a senior graphic design major and studio art minoe is from Fremont. Nebraska. He won first and third places in last year's Kiosk. Becca Bauer, from Alliance, Nebraska, is a senior majoring in graphic design, advertising, and photography. After four years at Morningside, she will graduate in May 2009. Patrick Oxendale is a senior biology major His true passion is spending time with his wife and daughtee but unfortunately that doesn't pay the bills. Holly Becker is a Junior art education major from Sioux City. Nicole Raphael , a freshman majoring in art, is from Papillion, josh Beckwith is a senior art student from Sioux City. This is Nebraska. After graduation she hopes to pursue her career as a photographer in the fashion industry. his second year contributing to the Morningside Kiosk. jasmine Richards is a senior double majoring in K-I 2 art john Bowitz was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He has taught art at Morningside College since 1977. education and elementary education from Hawarden, Iowa. She plans on getting a job in education after graduation. Sarah Chambers is a sophomore majoring in photography from Sheldon, Iowa. She has two photos and also contributed to last year's Kiosk. Alicia Runyan, from Cherokee, Iowa, is a senior majoring in graphic design, advertising, and studio art. After graduating in May, she hopes to attain a job in publication design. Kayla Curry is a senior studio art major from Sioux City. Anne Torkelson is a senior art education major She has contributed to the Kiosk for the past three years. Sean Delperdang is a junior from Akron, Iowa, majoring in graphic design and advertising TonyWiley is a freshman from Diagonal, Iowa. He is majoring in art education with a minor in photography. Leslie DePeel is a Junior photography and business double major She comes from O'Neill , Nebraska. She hopes to own her own photography studio one day. Breanne Evans, a senior majoring in business administration with an emphasis in marketing, comes from Crofton , Nebraska. Digital photography is not her usual hobby, but she IS making strides to become more appreciative of "fine" art. Alyssa Filipek is a freshman graphic design and advertising major She's from Bettendorf, Iowa. Amy Foltz is an adjunct art faculty member at Morningside College, where she teaches design, printmaking and figure drawing. Foltz has an MFA from The University of South Dakota and a BFA from Ohio State University. Annika Kolbo is a junior art education and music major from Sioux City, Iowa. Wyeth Lynch is a senior photography and intemational affairs double major from Prole, Iowa. He contributed to the Kiosk last year Copyright 2009 by the Kiosk, a publication of MorningSide College. After first publication all rights revert to the authors and artists. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of the Kiosk staff or MorningSide College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be suitable for children. KIOSK09 69 M MORNINGSIDE LEG E COL 150 I MORNINGSIDE AVE. SIOUX CITY, IOWA 51106 The Morningside College experience cultivates a passion for life-long learning and a dedication to ethical leadership and civic responsibility  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Kiosk: Volume 71 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Perspectives Manuscript Subject The topic of the resource Student Publications Description An account of the resource The Kiosk contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-28 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Hantla, Audrey: Editor-in-Chief Lieder, Phil: Associate Editor, Fiction Bubb, Kyle: Board Member, Fiction Drey, Tyrel: Board Member, Fiction Hodges, Shea Hartmann: Board Member, Fiction Washburn, Lindsay: Board Member, Fiction Radosti, Adrianna: Associate Editor, Non-Fiction Ponder Marcie, Board Member, Non-Fiction; Copy Editor Sturm, Kristina, Board Member, Fiction Runyun, Alicia: Visual Editor Siepker, Linsey: Assistant Editor, Art Torkleson, Ann: Assistant Editor, Art Domayer, Emily: Copy Editor Prewett, Alicia: Copy Editor Coyne, Stephen: Faculty Advisor Kolbo, John: Faculty Asvisor McGaffin, Terri: Faculty Advisor Anderson, Gregory: Associate Editor, Poetry Konecne, Maggie: Board Member, Poetry Maschimer, Mack: Board Member, Poetry O'Sullivan, Collin: Board Member, Fiction Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Drey, Tyrel: Author Anderson, Daniel: Author O' Sullivan, Colin: Author Uhl, Randy: Author Washburn, Lindsay: Author Coyne, Stephen: Author Shearer, Krystal: Author Anderson, Gregory: Author Wilcox, Ross: Author Reed, Victoria: Author Ploen, Kiel, Author Hantla, Mark: Author Strum, Kristina; Author Wiley, Alisha: Author Regnerus, Trish: Author Lynch, Wyeth: Artist Richards, Jasmine: Artist Wiley, Tony: Artist Backhaus, Sasha: Artist Runyan, Alicia: Artist Torkelson, Anne: Artist Filipek, Alyssa: Artist Kolbo, Annika, Artist Foltz, Amy: Artist Maschmeier, Mack: Artist Chambers, Sarah: Artist Curry, Kayla: Artist Delperdang, Sean: Artist Bauer, Becca, Artist Oxendale, Patrick: Artist Evans, Breanne: Artist DePeel, Leslie: Artist Beckwith, Josh: Artist Raphael, Nicole: Artist Becker, Holly: Artist Bowitz, John, Artist Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2009 Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-28 Kiosk Manuscript Perspectives student publications http://libprod.morningside.edu/omeka/files/original/9ef536c6a53b38d0884d48ff502b80ec.pdf 4da96f4c9e63bca53fd89c03fffa6663 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Manuscript: Volume 05, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Perspectives Kiosk Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource This PDF file of the Manuscript contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ponder, Marcie Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2013-01-13 Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-22 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-22 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF 3.85 MB Language A language of the resource 32 Pages Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Manuscript-Vol05-No01_KDC_1943_01-01_01.pdf Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger PDF Text Text MANUSCRIPT MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE VO L. 5 • No. 1 I ��MANUSCRIPT MARY ELLEN SNYDER, MARJORIE FOSTER. MIRAH MILLS, Volume 5 Co-Editors Faculty Adviser SPRING, 1943 Number 1 TABLE OF CONTENTS Foreword ______ ___ _________ ____________ _____ _ ____ _______ _ _____________ _______________ _ _ ______ __ ________ 2 ____ _ ___________ _ __ __________ ____ _____________ ____ 3 _ Freedom, Joan Elsinga _______ _ _____________ Why Didn't I?, Eleanor Thorpe ___________ _ _______ _________________ ________________ ______ 4 _ _____ ______ ___ ____ Soldier's Baptism, George Holcomb __________________ _ __ _______ _ _ _ _ 5 New Snow, J ack Howe _________________ __ __ ___________________________________________________ 7 __ Betwixt Dawn and Dusk, Jack Howe _ ___________________ _______ _ ___ _____________ 8 _____ _ _ _ _ ____________ 12 __ The Skeptic, Florence Coss ______ _________________________________________ __ _________ _ __________________ _ __ __ ___________________________________ 13 Blackie, Ivan Gossoo ________ On Taking a Bath, Florence Coss ___ _ ________ ___ _____ _ ______ ______________________ 14 __ _____ _ ________ 17 The Triangle, Ruth Lynch _______________ ___ ____ ____________________________________ _ To a Light Bulb, Ruth Lynch _______ ___ _ _ ____ ____ __________________________________________ 17 A Letter for Janet, Marjorie Foster.. ____ ___________________ _ ___ ____ _____ __ __ _18 ____ ____ _ The Conqueror, Eleanor Thorpe_ ___________________ _____________ __ ________________ __ 19 ___ Storm, Mary Ellen Snyder _______________ ______ _ _ __________________________________ 20 _ ____ ____ _____ _ ___ ______ ___ _ Return, Mary Jean Logan _ ________ ______ __ _ _ _________________ ____ __ _ ___ ___ 21 It's Spring, Mary Ellen SnydeL ______________ __ ________ ___________________________ _ 28 ____ A Rondeau, Mary Ellen Snyder.. ______________ __________ _______ __________ _______________ 28 Published by the Students at Morningside College, Sioux City, Iowa. Twenty-five cents a copy. �.. FOREWORD It is with a deep sense of satisfaction and pleasure that the editors of Manuscript present this issue for publication. At a time when the whole world is involved in a great conflict, we feel that there is a special need for the continuation of a project such as this. We wish to express our thanks to all those who have made contributions to the magazine, and to Miss Mirah Mills for her valuable aid and inspiration . �, Freedom We have been invaded by a superior force. The quietly intellectual way of life has been interrupted by marching khaki-clad men. From the large, rain-flecked window above my desk I stare fascinated each hour at these military displays. What does it all mean? Why is this extreme regimentation so distasteful to us? In the answers we must give lie the reasons for our participation in the conflict. Those men marching so precisely down below are fighting for me in my study. They are learning physics and mathematics to preserve the freedom which makes it possible for all of the rest of us to study culture and beauty. After many years the question still remains, "What is freedom?" Many words have been spoken, written, and sung about it, but what is it essentially? In the same way that I cannot tell you much about God although I know of Him, I cannot tell you of freedom. But I can show you the evidence of it. A tall white-haired man wrote in a large, old-fashioned front room about "cabbages and kings." His two best liked subjects were his atheistic beliefs, and the social emancipation of women. He wrote in the late 90's, era of rigid conventionality, and in a stern Calvinistic community. In a typically crowded dormitory room a dark-haired, sensuous girl writes of love, passion, beauty, dreams while always striving for the ultimate ideal- the expression of the idea in such a way that it can be communicated exactly to another mind. Everything she experiences is calculated to aid her in reaching this ideal. She will always go on toward this ideal, for perfection is not the attaining of the ultimate, but the constant striving after it, with better and better results. A daughter of practical Dutch farmers is planning a life in the professional theatre. Every day she works inspired by the fascination of it. The human soul can be expressed in many ways- painting, sculpture, literature. But to the blonde daughter of peasantry play direction is ideal self-expression- the translation of the idea into a succession of pictures which live and breathe. This then is freedom, not America "Uuber Alles" but the free mind over all. The human intelligence working freely can produce �.. 4 MANUSCRIPT miracles of beauty or science. But even if it were not producing that which is worth while, the fact that the mind is free to do as it pleases is an end in itself. After this war is over, it will no longer be the "everlastin' teamwork of every bloomin' soul" but the soul itself which will be all-important. As I think of these things, my soul wells up within me in a sense of well being. The marching rhythms outside blend into the indistinguishable noises of the quiet community and there is left only the certainty that soon, very soon, man all over the world may again view freely beauty and the dream. - Joan Elsinga, '45. Why didn't I say Come back, we can figure it out? Why didn't I laugh When you made that remark? Why didn't I go When you wanted me there? Why didn't 1Yes, but I didn't; and nowThere's no time to tell You just why I refused Your last kiss; To laugh when you say I'm not pretty; To come as your wife When you call. I didn't. You're gone. It's too late. - Eleanor Thorpe, '43 . �SPRING, 5 1943 Soldier's Baptism Creeping over all objects, infiltrating into every crevice open to atmosphere, light began its gradual conquering of the darkness. Against a horizon of clearness emerging from the cloudiness of night, the jagged edges of a forest began to assume a definite shape, . and blurred images to blend no longer with the gloom. The air was crisp. It touched living flesh which tingled and stiffened as its cells were penetrated by the .coolness. It was the beginning of a dawn broadly hinting of such things as for the fowl of the air to wing to warmer climes while the ground was yet free from frost and snow. In spite of the fresh vividness of a new day, there was one who, to the very inmost nook of his soul, dreaded the approach of the slightest tinge of light. He clutched in his gloved hand a splendid rifle. Not with pride of care or possession, but with unwilling resignation, much as one, barehanded, might clutch the cold, frosty, steel handle of a shovel with which a ditch had to be dug. God, how he hated the thing so murderous in his hand. The very thought of the hole which its bullet or bayonet could gouge through a body made him shiver, and he felt an urge to give the weapon a fling and run on and on. He thought of all the shells which would be tearing at him soon through space, intent upon killing or disabling him. Their signal was dawn. "God, how I hate this!" he muttered aloud, and jumped, quivering, at the sound of his own voice alone in the commotion of a waking war-world. A world waking to begin its business of murdering. At the break of the day he was supposed to be all set to fall in behind the tanks. Those mechanic monsters were already beginning to choke and cough their resentment against the coldness which was trying to prevent their "innards" from being loose and limber. The nearest man-made leviathon for destruction was only one hundred yards away. Between it and him were several men staggered at irregular intervals. Some of them would come back from the day's job. Some would not. He wondered- and watched a lieutenant moving from place to place readying the "non-com" officers. Passing close, he paused and whispered, "All set, kid?" The kid's mouth opened, but he could utter no audible sound ex- �6 MANUSCRIPT cept a quivering sigh, as if he had held his breath and re.leased it suddenly. "You'll feel better when we get going," the lieutenant smiled, and hurried on. The kid could not belie.ve it. When the firing began, the bullets would be after him. He could not even dodge nor duck as he had when boxing. An unseen enemy was to threaten his life from where. he knew not. The tanks were beginning to roar, and immediately the enemy sent shells of exploratory nature whistling through the air above him. He dropped prone from his kneeling position and hugge.d the ground. From behind him now, deafening crashes began to sound as the tank busters returned their eighty millimeter shells screaming toward the enemy. Then too he heard the command yell, and he jerked upright, grabbed his rifle, and lurched forward. The tanks and tank busters flashed before him through a haze, and he seemed as if alone, lurching along through a deafening fore.st toward destruction. The. whistles of shells ended more abruptly and closer at hand. As in a dream he saw a tank spitting crescendos of noise, suddenly groan and rise off the ground after an explosion, settling low and crumpling when it returned to earth. It smoked and was quiet. A shell struck close. He. felt himself pushed as if by a huge pillow, and he watched the ground come up to meet him. He got to hi~ knees, stumbling upward and onward. Suddenly he realized how insignificant a part of nature he really was. It flashed through him like a shock. He had but to fill his place.. He was not alone. He saw himself like a cog in a grinding gear. If he slipped out he would be replaced, but until he slipped out he must not let his cog slip. Perhaps God would need him for future use; perhaps not. He would cease. trying to decide that. The haze was clearing, and he looked around alive and seeing. To one side, his hand tightly gripping the shattered calf of his left leg, the lieutenant lay. The kid swerved automatically the other way but quickly pulled back toward the. injured man. Shaking his head, the lieutenant smiled grimly and yelied, "Carryon, kid!!" He remembered the cog, and with a fervent, courageous, "Yes, Sir!" he waved his rifle proudly, and smilingly moved on toward his destiny. -Pvt. George Holcomb. �SPRING, 1943 7. New Snow I am the first who has passed this way, For there are no marks upon the snow, No print of child's foot, Or sagging, oldish arch. I will go as I have come, And if I once look back 'Twill be a stolen glance, Which comforts not. At times my path joins others, And we walk a spell together. 'Tis for the nonce, The ways diverge. Ahead is unbroken crystal, Cold, still, as far as eye can see. When I am over it, What will I tread? - Pvt. Jack Howe. �8 MANUSCRIPT Betwixt Dawn and Dusk It was about a quarter to nine when Dr. Peebles emerged on the Challanders' front porch and took his way over the cracked con· crete walk to his car. What the doctor was expecting happened. Before he could even step inside his grey coupe, Mrs. Higgins, he,r presence having been previously denoted by the fluttering of a lace curtain in her front window, flung open the door of her adjoining house and bore down upon him much as a hawk does upon its defenseless prey. "Morning, Doctor Peebles," she cackled triumphantly, her beaklike nose, slightly out of proportion to the rest of her wizened features, twitching mechanically, "is something wrong at the Challanders'?" She might as well have added, "Is old Nat drunk again ?" thought the doctor, for the implication spoke through every syllable of her question. "Nat took a drink of some medicine which was intended for external use only," said the doctor as he slid into the car seat and closed the door. He turned on the ignition and starte.d the engine. "He could have killed himself, but he only took a small dose. He'll be up and around in a few hours." He shifted gears, stepped on the accelerator, and rolled away. For a moment, Mrs. Higgins, arms akimbo, watche.d the fleeing roadster and the billowing clouds of dust which swirled upward from the street and fell again in powdery profusion, then she stalked back into the house, turned the flame low under the tomatoes she was preparing for canning, and strode across the vacant lot to the corner house. "Maude," called Mrs. Higgins as she opened the back screen door and entered the rear hall. "In the kitchen," replied a small voice accompanied by a chirping canary and the rhythmic slap-slap-slap of a wooden spoon beating cake batter. Mrs. Higgins turning through a side door, entered the cheerful kitchen. Perched on a high stool near the window, Maude, some fifty pounds overweight and with a more or less cherubic countenance flayed the devil's food with a stroke that would have done credit to a tennis player. �SPRING, 1943 9 Not even waiting for formalities, Mrs. Higgins plunged into her subject. "My dear, did you hear about Nat Challander?" "No." Maude's beating slowed perceptibly. "Is he in jail again?" "Not this time. He almost went to a harder place to get out of than a jail." Mrs. Higgins chuckled at her jest and her audience joined her out of politeness. The beating stopped and the batter lay neglected. "Well"- Mrs. Higgins had found by long experience that this was a comfortable way to introduce a tale-"it seems as how old . Nat Challander almost killed himself!" "Killed himself!" cried Maude in a squeal composed of equal portions of horror and delight. "Yes, my dear." Mrs. Higgins was well satisfied with the effect of her words. "Early this morning, while he was reaching for· a bottle of whiskey, he accidentally grabbed a bottle of poison and took a drink of that. Young Nat wre.stled with him and got it away, and Dr. Peebles says he'll be on his feet after a bit." For a few minutes longer the two women chatted and then the messenger, remembering her tomatoes and the other neighbors, still living their lives in ignorance, took her leave. For a considerable time after Mrs. Higgins' departure, the greenand-yellow kitchen was deserted. On a table, forsaken, sat the devil's food batter. Even the canary ceased his chirping and cocked his head attentively as if listening to the sounds emitting from the adjoining room. Two jerky impatient rings were followed closely by Maude squealing, "Central . . . Central, give me 321." A fly alighted in the cake bowl and was presently joined by a comrade. "Is that you, Helen? Oh ... Well, call Miss Helen to the phone, Lily." The canary contemplated a bath, decided against it, and took a few pecks from his food inste.ad. "Helen? This is Maude. Helen, have you heard about Nat Challander? ... Prepare yourself for a shock! Old Nat nigh killed himself!" The Dutch wall clock in the kitchen chimed ten softly, and the captive bird, its attention arrested, eyed it speculatingly. "Well, of course, the doctor says it wasn't but then you know Doc Peebles. If you ask me it was an out-and-out attempted suicide. It's really a pity for his family that he had to bungle the job." A brindled cat paced into the kitchen from the rear hall, glanced at bird and table, chose the latter, and leaped �10 MANUSCRIPT upon it. "Yes, I suppose you are right. But how Mrs. Challander and the children can love .a n old sot like that is beyond me. If I were in her place, I'd give him a gun and send him out to the barn, where nothing would distract him and make him miss." The cat licked the edge of the mixing bowl, while the flies, feeling their rights had been usurped, buzzed noisily overhead. "Well, I have to go now, Helen. I'm mixing a cake for the church sale, and I can just get it done by one. Good-bye." Across the village, Grandpa Winters listened intently at his telephone, his deafened ears trying to catch part of the conversation. Finally, mild clicks told him the partie.s were hanging up. That first one would be Maude and the second one would be Helen. That would be Mrs. Hedgeley, the wife of the creamery man, and that other one, a full te.n seconds after the others had hung up, would be the Matthews sisters. They still thought that by hanging up so late no one knew they were listening in. Grandpa put his own receiver back on the hook, and whistled to himself. It was an unsteady, tune.less whistle, clear in spots and in others resembling the moaning of an autumn wind on the Minnesota prairies, the kind of whistle that is the peculiar property of young boys just learning to purse their lips and old gentlemen no longer able to control their breaths. Thus, to the accompanime.nt of what he imagined to be "My Wild Irish Rose," Grandpa Winters attempted to reconstruct what he had heard. The truth of the matter was that the only words he had caught were "Nate Challander," "suicide," "gun," and "barn," but that was enough to envision what had happened, and besides, as he had learned when recounting his Civil War experiences, if one added a little here and there, it did not really hurt anything. Shortly be.fore three o'clock, Nat Challander felt well enough to get up. After all, it was Saturday afternoon, and a man could not lie abed on Saturday, what with farmers coming into town from miles around, and the whole place as busy as a beehive. Making no more noise than was absolutely necessary, Nat tip-toed into the kitchen, and, after making sure that no one was near, took a cracked blue pitcher from a shelf over the stove. He tipped it and poured the contents- a dollar bill and some coins-into his hand. After stuffing the bill into his pocket and dumping the coins �SPRING, 1943 11 back into the container, he set the household "safe" back in its identical position, and went through the creaking screen door onto the back porch_ But he had no sooner set foot outside the door than Molly and Lucinda, two of the younger girls, came running toward him, each grabbing for a pant-leg while they chanted in imperfect unison, "Daddy gotta tell us story before we let go." With a little dickering, however, Nat managed to bribe them off with a stick of gum which he found in his pocket, and, as he turned down the walk, the shrill tones of their voices followed him as they argued as to which should have the larger piece, the gum having broken unevenly. A few minute.s later found Nat approaching Main Street. Up ahead, he could see the red brick building which housed Meriwether's General Store, and now he could hear the murmuring voiGes of the men sitting on the. bench in front of the show-window. Every small town has such groups of men. In the summertime, they sit on benches, either in the park or in some other convenient place, comment on passers-by, and litter the. street with chips from their whittling; in winter, they move indoors, preferably into some general store, toast their feet against iron stoves, and slip occasional cracke.rs from the barrel. Right now, apparently, Grandpa Winters held the floor, or perhaps, one could more accurately say "held the sidewalk," and by this time, Nat, practically at the corner, could he.ar his words, as they drifted toward him from the unseen speaker. "Yep, I'd never a-believed that Old Nat Challander had the nerve~", Nat halted abruptly, "- excepting as how I heard it firsthand from a good source. It seems as how he just went out to the barn, aimed his gun and pulled the trigger. I guess no one's very broke up about it. In fact, it will be a good thing for his family." "Right you are, Brother Winters, he.'s been nothin' but a burden upon his poor wife for the past twenty years." That was the Deacon. "When I told Mr. Peabody about it," continued Grandpa, "he said that now that Old Nat was dead and couldn't be an evil influence no longer, he was willing to put Young Nat through a trade school and le.t him make something out of himself." "Of course, the Odd Fellows will take care of the funeral expenses," vouchsafed another member of the bench. Nat remembered -vaguely that, ye.ars ago, he had belonged to the Odd Fellows. �12 MANUSCRIPT "I suppose his widder can git county aid now that she ain't got no husband to support," laughingly declared the local wit. The others joined in the mirth, and Nat, his mind in a whirl, turned mechanicall y and stumbled homeward. It was while Mrs. Higgins was tightening the top of the last jar of tomato juice that a loud explosion, the report of a gun, perhaps, shattered the drowsy quietude of early evening. Mrs. Higgins, tugging at her apron strings, rushed to the kitchen door. "I'd have sworn that came from Challanders' barn," she mused. "Now what on earth do you suppose could have happened?" The hall clock tolled six. -Pvt. Jack Howe. The Skeptic With dismal tread my sorrow stalks my mind; Its presence beats a rhythm on my heart; To you I do not mean to be unkind, But grief has made of me a thing apart. These hours in solitude are best endured; I may not share my agony with you. Although your heart is genuinely stirred, And what you say to me may still be true, Your murmured sympathies are hard to bear In moments filled with bitterness and pain; And always in the midst of my despair The hollow phrase beats on my throbbing brain. The echo of those words will haunt me stillIs there condolence in "It is God's will"? -Florence Coss, '43. �13 SPRING,1943 Blackie What makes some dogs so much like human beings and some human beings so much like dogs, is a question that used to rise in my mind rather frequently as a boy. I was quite sure that certain dogs possessed definite human qualities. Of this one thing I was absolutely certain-my own little dog Blackie was human. He had a disposition, and a temperament, and a character all his own. At different intervals, he could be as gentle and sweet as old bespectacled Aunt Mary, or as mischievous as the neighbor's two-year-old son. He possessed every commendable human characteristic, with only a minimum of bad habits. Whenever a job had to be done, Blackie was first on hand, eager and willing to help. For each armful of wood carried in, he would contribute one stick immediately afterward. In each basket of ciderapples picked up from under our trees, there were usually at least two small apples that Blackie had brought with an enormous display of tail-wagging and pride. He fairly shouted, "Am I not a very remarkable fellow?" and there was no question in anyone's mind but that he should be praised highly for his accomplishment. No person could have been more considerate of the feelings of others. He would not think of rushing headlong into the kitchen with his muddy feet. Instead he yapped patiently for admittance, then walked (not ran) to his own little blanket only three feet from the door. There he sat, eagerly and expectantly, until it was acknowledg.ed that his feet were dry, and permission was granted to proceed farther. Always aware of the comforts of others, Blackie had no sooner watched Dad sit down to remove his work shoes than he would appear on the scene, laboriously dragging a bedroom slipper, equally as long as himself. After depositing it at Dad's feet, he would dash back after the remaining one; then he would stand close by, tail fanning his posterior into a frenzy, to receive (not at all modestly) the plaudits and acclaim of the household. This was Blackie, friendly, jovial, vivacious; a companion, a gentleman, and a scholar. Was he less than human? It would be difficult to convince me of that. But was he not a dumb animal? Not in the least. Human speech is only one form of expression. Blackie's �14 MANUSCRIPT liquid eyes and perpetually bobbing tail could express far more eloquently than words his delight, his disappointment, his sorrow, his disgust, his sarcasm, his hunger, or his fatigue. This was Blackie - my dog, my friend. I could ask no finer. - Ivan Gossoo, '43. On Taking a Bath One of the besetting sins of our culture is the failure to appreciate the joy of performing some of the functicms necessary for comfortable living. So many things which could be enjoyable are looked upon as uninteresting and unavoidable "duties." I look with compassion upon all those who have not discovered the infinite pleasure involved in taking a bath. I wonder how anyone can escape the feeling o( delight, unless he does not know how to bathe properly. Bathing is not often considered seriously because it is a habit into which most people, fortunately, have fallen, but the various methods and manners involved are seldom thought about. However, the art of taking a bath is one which, when fully appreciated, may never be considered lightly. Concerning bathing there are four schools of thought. The first includes those who swear by the admittedly more modern method of the· shower. Most people who go in for this game indulge in the morning immediately upon jumping out of bed. The water, if one is to be really sporting, should be cold. I am forever barred from this group because I have never been known to "jump" out of bed in the morning, and when I do arise, a shower is unthought of. The thought foremost is to get my eyes open, my teeth clean, and the approved amount of clothing on my back. And cold water! I shudder at the thought. Enthusiasts for this method of bathing insist upon its in· vigorating effect as well as its superiority in the matter of keeping clean. In my opinion, the early-morning-cold-showerers are missing the good things in life. The idea of becoming invigorated early in the morning is one which I fail to appreciate, and if a shower does this, I can not help but look upon it with repulsion. A second class of bathers even more to be shunned includes people who consider that taking a bath has only one purpose-cleansing , I �SPRING, , I 1943 15 the body. These are the duty-bound people who run the water into the tub methodically and as a regular part of the routine of preparing for bed. There is no feeling of anticipation of the act; taking a bath is merely the thing one does before retiring. This, of course., is highly desirable in view of sanitation and personal at· tractiveness, but to refuse to consider the pleasure in store in the process is to lose much of the real merit in bathing. In this classi· fication, however, are the working men and women who realize that at least a "once.over-lightly" is a necessity in order to maintain a certain degree of respectability. These people know that it is impossible to follow the path of least resistance after a really strenuous day and to fall into bed on aching limbs. I do not blame them for looking upon the nightly bath as a mild curse on weary bodies instead of a blessing. However, most of the regular bathers do not fall into this class. And to these I look with pity. The third school is rapidly losing ground, and it is hoped that the enrollment may continue to decline. These are the. few in whose mind bathing and Saturday night are forever linked. The first objection to this group is the obvious one that their cleanliness is ques· tionable. In the second place, an act which is performed only once a week can not be fully appreciated, or it would take place more often. One redeeming feature of this habit, I have been told, is that the Saturday night bathers may get more thoroughly clean because they are more serious in the process-naturally they would if this bath were to be the only one for seven days!! Perhaps this is true, but why limit thoroughness to one night a week? , , The fault of the first three groups lies in the fallacious notion that the sole purpose of the bath is to maintain a state of cleanliness. This is, no doubt, the primary function of bathing, but if this were its only claim to "popularity," I am one of those who might be tempted to lose interest. Taking a bath is like sitting in a comfortable chair with a cold drink on a hot day, or relaxing with a good book after work; it is a method of attaining a state of comfort and is an aid to deep thought in the midst of confusion; or merely as an end in itself, it is one of the welcome products of the modern age. However, to reach the heights of comfort and relaxation which a bath affords, the process must be a serious one and the conditions must be ideal. The first requirement for enjoyable bathing is a warm �16 MANUSCRIPT room-not so hot as to be uncomfortable, but one in which the bather is not struck down by a rush of cold air as he leisurely emerges from the tub. An even more important part of the operation is a tank-full of really hot water. Enough for a good-sized tub three-fourths full will not suffice if one is to get all the possible pleasure from the act. As it is almost physically impossible to ste.p into a tub of very hot water, the temperature must be moderate in the first stage. As soon as the bather is comfortably settled in the tub the next move is to turn on the hot water with his toe--in any self-respecting bath-tub this is possible--and relax and heave a blissful sigh as the warmth envelopes him. As an added attraction, an interesting piece of reading matter may be held care.fully above the water-line and perused indolently. However, if the bath is partly a means of escape from daily drudgery, the hands are free to relax quietly in the gentle, soothing liquid which serves as an opiate to dull, unpleasant, and troubled thoughts. The length of time spent is one of the most attractive aspects of this sort of bath. There must be no feeling of hurry- the bath is the all-important thing. The extent of the rite is decided in the tub and is purely a matter of personal taste. When one has reached the saturation point- in comfort and lethargy- that is the time to begin to think about bringing the bath to an end. Before this happens, the enthusiastic bather has added much more hot water until he is all but floating. This is a desirable state from which it is difficult to emerge, but by that time., a considerable period of time has elapsed and the more mundane affairs must be considered, so, with an ad· mirable show of will-power, the weak and wrinkled bather lets the water out, and this process necessitate.s either getting out of the tuL or remaining sitting there without any reason- or water. Mter a brisk rubbing with a large towel, he is ready for anything. The obvious question now is, "When does one get clean?" That is unimportant, be.cause that was not the real purpose of the bath. A consideration of the practical side of bathing is out of place here. -Florence Coss, '43. ,. �SPRING, 17 1943 The Triangle Anthony Pinch, a bag of gold, and Sin Stonily sat together in a room. Strange that these three, staunch friends for years, Should sit surrounded by a wall of bitter gloom! None of them spoke. The man was dead. Killed by his own hand, and with no regret. The bag of gold stared coldly at the floor, And Sin lighted a cigarette. Anthony's soul leaned on the windowpane, Shivered a bit, and looked into the blue; And being a starving soul, and thinly clad, It scarcely ruffled the curtains passing through. -Ruth Lynch, '44. To a Light Bulb You cannot mend a light bulb when it burns Its filament to nothing. Let it pass. The most persistent mechanician learns The absolute futility of glass. You cannot mend a love whose ebbing fire Proclaims its life of incandescence done; Even a poet, commonly a liar, Will say go out and get a better one. -Ruth Lynch, '44. �18 MANUSCRIPT A Letter for Janet October 20, 1942. Dear Janet: If you were only ten again, you would be out in the yard today building a wonderful house of leaves. It would be. one of the first dream houses that you had ever planned and so I would be sitting near the window in order to watch your sturdy little body bustle about in an effort to carry out the commands of your busy imagination as fast as it could furnish them. When you gave a final loving, pat to an undefine.d heap of golden leaves that was to you a plump red sofa and tossed back one long smooth braid with a satisfied air, I would know that I must lay aside my work and prepare to follow you into your charming house of leaves; for you soon would come skipping in to beg me to pretend that I was your sister just arriving from Omaha for a visit. Never able to resist your entreaties, I would "make-believe" with you in a yard full of leaves that through the magic of your imagination had become a home for a day. When your braids were cut and your hair was styled to suit a "junior miss," I visited no more charming leaf house.s. Expression for all your dreams was found in a notebook entitled, "House Planning." As I carefully turned the pages with you, I learned why my copies of The American Home and The House Beautiful had been cut up and torn beyond recognition; for there in gleaming splendor were pictures of rambling colonial houses with huge white pillars, winding staircases with rich velvet carpeting, and luxuriant guest rooms with beruffled canopies over the four-poster beds. Never had a more elaborate house been built than the one which you assembled in your cherished notebook. I remember still the enthusiasm with which you kept your plans alive in your notebook; even so, keep your dreams alive in your heart by means of your hope and faith in tomorrow. Do not let your dreams die today because war does not allow for planning or realization of plans. Even as the wind sent your house. of leaves swirling away into the neighbor's yard, so the war is sweeping all plans away into the future. But remember, Janet, that as a little girl you always had the courage to gather up the scattered leaves and build again some calmer dc;ty; so do not be afraid to gather in �SPRING, 1943 19 your dreams and be ready to realize them in the peace and security that a tomorrow will surely bring. Your loving mother. -Marjorie Foster, '44. The Conqueror The fog sweeps in conquering the land in its dictatorial grasp. There is no struggle. How can there be? One cannot fight this thing which unseen, unheard, overpowers man's keenest weapons. The fog covers the land with his dripping hands, till even the shape of things has changed. The deep abyss is level with the hilltop. The golden leaves are camouflaged to gray. No escape is possible. His soldiers lurk in every spot with always more in the hidden corners where man might flee. The darkness presses down. An incredible dimness comes over the brightest lights. Narrow arrows pierce lights on the street. Gray fingers reach within the house: to surround the glowing bulbs. Only the leaping grate-flames are strong enough to hold off the usurper. Darkness and silence- man's most dread enemies reign. The sharp wail of the whistle: becomes the low wail of a ghost. The street-ear's clang is a low jangle. The city's murmuring protest is smothered. Slowly but steadily the last spark of light dies. Man's eyes are glazed and wide. His lips move witlessly. His mind is halted. Doggedly he: plods about his work as the fog's whip lashes. Blindly his hands grope for life. Steadily his days pass by. The conqueror is unrelenting. There is no outcry, only deep resignation. But finally man's mind begins to stir. A band of light steals around the edge of the gray. The flame leaps up, till all is glaring bright and man is free once more. - Eleanor Thorpe, '43. �20 MANUSCRIPT Storm 'Twas a bright and busy morning; My gay spirits bounded high. In all the world there was, that hour, None happier than I. In the golden glow of mid-day While the world was happy still, The blackest cloud I ever saw Came up behind the hill. Through the silver hush of twilight, The storm raged wild and fierce, Your words like arrows flying by Sought out my heart to pierce. At the blackest hour- at midnight:, No refuge could I find, No thoughts for consolation then To ease my troubled mind. But the faint pink flush of dawning When the long black night was o'er, Brought to my soul a restful peace I had not known before. -Mary Ellen Snyder, '44. �SPRING, 21 1943 Return Judith watched the familiar farm lands blur past her window as the Evening Passenger drew close to Daleton. Memories welled up with the lump in her throat and she shrugged vainly as if to push them back. It had taken three years to get courage to face these memories, and somehow, even yet, she was afraid. It wasn't the town, with its memories of her parents, or the house, that must still be alive with the activities of the suddenly scattered Marshalls; it was the memory of Kern. As the weathered gray of the railroad siding slid slowly past the train, she grimaced slightly. Daleton meant Kern. She knew now, as she remembered the town, that every street corner, every shaded walk, and a million and one hallowed spots would bring Kern back to her. When she had thought of coming home these past three years, it had always meant coming home to Kern. Coming home was a crazy idea, she told herself as she stepped down from the train. It had been Pete's idea. "Go home for a week. Get the small town American's reaction to the war before you le.ave for London," thus he had closed his announcement of her first foreign assignment. Excitement bred in the thought of being in London under fire, of coming home for the first time in three years, of possibl y seeing Kern, had carried her through the swift hours, until now. Fear gripped her quickly as she turned up Main Street. Dreaming pipe dreams, that's what you've been doing, she thought sharply, steadying herself. For three years you've been telling yourself that Kern wasn't the man, that you didn't want him, and here you are, wanting, almost praying that you'll see him, and still afraid, that when you do you'll find that all the memories, and the dreams of reconciliation that you have built on those memories are shattered. As her high heels ticked off her walk down Main Street, and her eyes wandered at will to familiar places, the memories of Kern came rushing back: Kern, bronze in a white jersey, smiling down at her in Timmy's; Kern" grim and determined, as the deadline at the Press neared and the linotype jumbled threateningly; Kern, cocksure with a hint of Bourbon on his breath, saying, "What's the matter, Judy," the long, silent battle of bitterness; Kern, with his sharp, cutting "This is goodbye then, Judy," and then, just sitting there on the steps alone. �22 MANUSCRIPT As suddenly as that he had changed from a man into a memory. Her abrupt departure to Aunt Kathy's, the absorbing job on the Chronicle, and the almost miraculous climb from cub to special reporter had aided the transformation. The past three years had been so swift, so fast moving that there had been little time to do more than glance back, no time to go back to salve old wounds. Kern was just a memory, but a crying, aching memory that had haunted her as she watched the dusk fall over city parks, and had made every man she met a reminder of himself . Yes, Kern was a memory, but, she told herself softly as she unlocked the door at home, he's a memory that might be transformed once more into a man. The house. was dark and dusty. Her parents had closed it several months ago to escape the loneliness without the young Marshalls. As she set her bag down in the front hall and turned on the lights, she almost dreaded the week she. was to spend here. The house was lonely, and for a moment she regretted the assignment that had brought her home. Her room was much the same as she remembere.d it, with the east window looking down on the curving walk and the concrete steps leading to the dimly-lit street. Further down the block, the lights of Main Street blinked in flashing rep fica of city advertising. She unpacked slowly, thinking of Pete and the new assignment, of Kern and the times she had told him good night on these concrete steps. She smiled as she thought of the long hours they had spent on the Press, putting it to bed about this time of night, wandering over to Timmy's for coffee and a dance, then coming home to sink quietly onto the steps in silence. Those quiet understanding silences had marked the serenity of their relationship. Judy changed from her traveling costume into a sweater and plaid skirt, letting her hair fall softly to her shoulders. She looked as completely like a high school girl as the snapshot of her and Kern that still clung to the mirror border. The sweater was the color of rich cream, and her hair lay almost like chocolate topping. Judy became conscious that she was hungry. The kitchen would be empty for sure. Perhaps Timmy's was open. Timmy remembered her. "Coffee, Judy?" It was almost as if she were still a steady customer. Timmy's hadn't changed. There was still the long, narrow �SPRING, 1943 23 counter, the row of worn stools, the tiny tables with their immaculate covers, crowded into the small room; and through the archway, she caught the reflection of the nickelodeon on the dancefloor. "Yes, coffee, Timmy." She wound her legs casually about the stool. How is everything? War bothering you much?" "No, the war isn't bad on business at all. Sorta tough on help, though." Timmy slid the cup of coffee across the geometric patterns of the counter topping. Judy sipped it thoughtfully. The war shouldn't bother Timmy's help: Young Tim usually was all the help he needed. "How about Young Tim?" "He's in the Air Corps. It's the popular branch of the service here. Most of the youngsters have gone." Youngsters: the word hit Judy. She and Kern and Young Tim were youngsters to Timmy. They always had been. Perhaps Kern was gone, too. It seemed as though her heart would never stop sinking. She groped for words. "How about Kern?" But Timmy was smiling wannly. "Still thinking about him, eh, Judy?" Timmy's hand across hers was fatherly. She nodded mutely, and Timmy went on. "Folks around here have been saying that you'd probably have found another man in Chicago. I kinda hoped not. You know, Judy, you and Kern, well, I sorta hoped." "Me, too, Timmy." Timmy was still Father Confessor. Things hadn't changed a lot. "Then why did you run out on him that way? Honest, Judy, he was pretty nigh washed up there for a while." Timmy poured himself a cup of coffee. "The Press almost went to pot, people were getting pretty fed up, and then he snapped out of it." "Out of what, Timmy?" She knew what, but she hoped apprehensively that she was wrong. "You know, the bottle. Every Sheean has to hit the raw edge of a bottle before he straightens up. His father, all his family, has done it that way. Don't think he's touched a drop for a long time, though. The Press is the best paper in this corner of the state." "Who's helping at the Press now?" July could almost imagine. It would be one of the Laird girls with their cheap, trite newspaper �24 MANUSCRIPT phrases; or male-minded Peggy Quimby. From her mother's last letter, they seemed to be the only girls left in town. Kern would enjoy having them at the Press, she tortured herself. Timmy would have answered, but as she asked her question, the shop door opened. She swung around on the stool to follow Tim's gaze. Too stunned to be sure, she watched the lank form of the new customer settle onto a stool. Before she was certain, she caught the familiar words, "Supper for a tired printer, Timmy?" It was Kern then. The light in the shop was dim, and she hadn't been sure. Kern! It seemed as though she couldn't breathe; her heart was pounding so fast. She wanted to look at him, to touch him, to feel the taut, strong shoulde.rs under her hands. If only it were a real homecoming and Kern were there to welcome her. But it wasn't. She could hear that same voice saying "This is goodbye then, Judy.'~ And she couldn't help remembering how completely it was goodbye. Timmy was talking gaily, mischievously. "There's a girl here asking about a job at the Press." But he's mistaken, Judy told herself excitedly, I'm not home to stay. He must understand that. Then like a dawn, she realized what Timmy was doing! Timmy, who could mend anything. Kern had turned toward her, as Judy slid off her stool and moved to the front of the shop. "Judy!" His voice was rich and eager. Judy's heart sang. -"About the job on the Press?" she continued to play Timmy's game. Her voice was cool, impersonal, completely-stranger. "Do you need someone?" Oh, oh, wrong card to play, she warned herself, as she watched the smile fade from Kern's face. It was all gone. He was business, hard and sharp. "You know, Miss Marshall, you're almost blacklisted at the Press." Judy stiffened hotly. "Your abrupt departure some time ago," he offered in cool explanation. "Besides, I don't think we need reforming." So things really hadn't changed. Kern was still rankling under that last bitter quarrel. Well, Miss Marshall, she clipped the words off angrily in her mind, that settles any hopes you may have had. Please have the kindness to get out before you make a fool of yourself. Already tears started in her eyes. She searched her purse for a dime for the coffee, and slid it across the counter trying not to meet Timmy's eyes. �SPRING, 1943 25 "G'night, Timmy." She bit her lips as she faced Kern. "I'm not reforming printers these days, Mr. Sheean." The words were cold, cutting, and as she turned toward home, she hated herself for saying them. Tears brimmed over onto her cheeks, and she made no attempt to dry them. "Fool, fool, stupid, miserable fool!" The words rang over and over again in her mind. You build a lot of hopes like a silly school girl, and then behave like one to boot. The house was high and grim atop the gently curving terrace. It would be lonely, and dark, and still, and Judy felt she couldn't stand loneliness, or darkness, or stillness. So she sat down where the evergreens made a deep shadow on the concrete steps, and as her tears dried, stared morosely at the dim circle of the street light. "Back on the same old steps. I don't seem to have gone far in the world," she murmured to herself and to the steps. Remembering Kern as he had looked when they had talked here on the steps, Judy regretted her recent hehavior. Kern had hated pretense, sham sophistication. Why hadn't she been sincere when she talked to him at Timmy's? She could see Kern in her mind as he used to be here in the shadows with her, his face a woodcut of black shadows and gold-tinted highlights, his shirt, white, catching the light from the street, and his voice, low, eager, and swift moving. Judy bent her face down and felt the harsh weave of the plaid on her cheek. She was a silly, stupid fool for quarreling with Kern, for coming back, for everything. Yet the words ran over and over in her mind, "I still want him." Still want him: the lanky figure, relaxed on the restaurant stool, the strong, taut shoulders, the bronzed arms with the fingers that bit into her arms as he kissed her, the bl ue eyes with their outline of black lashes that looked down with a love that matched her own, the. laugh that came like an "all clear" signal at the end of a quarrel. Yes, she wanted him. "Oh, Kern!" she said despairingly aloud. "What, Judy?" She drew .her head up quickly. It couldn't be Kern! But it was. He stood at the bottom of the steps, outlined against the street light. She hadn't heard him coming; her thoughts had been too absorbing. But Kern was here. "Kern, oh Kern!" His arms were around her as if he would never let her go, and her breath came with difficulty, but it was Kern, and he was kissing her. Everything was gone. There were not three years �26 MANUSCRIPT without him, there were not bitterness and quarreling, there was just Kern. The night was lovelier than Judy had thought, with the moon tracing silver and black patterns across the lawn, and the crickets keeping the night in tune. They made a rhythmic background for Kern's voice as he was saying: "Timmy told me to come up. I thought when you asked me about a job you were just taunting. You know, big shot comes home. I thought I'd give it right back to you. I'm sorry, Judy, honest." Then there were just the crickets, until Judy heard her own voice. "I'm sorry, too, Kern. All the things I said, the way I ran out on you, on the job rather. I didn't mean to reform you, it was just that ..." The right word wouldn't come. Then Kern helped. "J ust that Sheeans and whiskey shouldn't mix, don't you mean?" He was grinning. "I know it, but a Sheean has to almost drown himself in the stuff before he's sure. You know an Irishman never believes anyone but himself." "What are you believing about yourself these days, then?" "Just, Sheeans and whiskey shouldn't mix. And, what's more, I believe myself." His eyes were a sparkly, blarney-Irish as the street light caught them. As he tilted her chin to kiss her, he was just like he had always been, laughing, gay, affectionate. "How about the Press? How is it?" Kern looked sober for an instant. "I've just finished my affairs with the Press for a while. I'm going into something else." "But, Kern, we promised each other we'd publish the Press together. You can't quit!" Kern couldn't leave their plans to run the Press as a model small town weekly. They were once so complete in detail, so full of the dreams of a partnership. But those plans were made three years ago, maybe it was different now. Maybe he didn't remember the plans. "I'm not quitting, Judy, I've just got something, that is, a big story to cover." But that sounded so far from plausible that Judy knew her doubt was obvious. "Okay, Sis, if you want it right on the chin, Mr. Sheean is going to war. Navy Air Corps. "Air corps?" Her voice sounded hazy. "But the Press?" �27 SPRING,1943 "A kid who was with me at the University is coming up to work on it 'til I get back. Unless you want the job." Judy almost regretted the London assi~ment. The Press would be a part of Kern to hold to. The war, not seeing him, knowing he was in constant danger would be demoralizing, disconcerting. But to be in Daleton, with just memories to walk with, would be unbearable now. "I'm covering y'o ur same big story, Kern. The Chronicle finally gave me a London assignment." "London! Gee whiz. Wish you'd represent the Press there, too." As his soft laugh passed, the silence was thought-filled. "Kern, those three years. I hate to think how they were wasted,'~ she ventured. "I know it, Judy. I've only got four days before I go. I'd hate to waste them, too." He drew her closer to him, and the crickets seemed to step the tempo up. Her cheek brushed against the soft jersey of his shirt, and her lungs ached with breath that didn't come fast enough. Four days together after three years. No, they weren't to be wasted. "Judy, about the Press." His voice came through a maze of cricket sounds. "It's going to need somebody besides me after the war. That is, if we put our plans into action. Want the job?" "Yes, Kern." Judy's heart sang: Just like before, the linotype jumbling threateningly, putting the Press to bed, coffee and dancing at Timmy's, sitting here on the steps, after the war. "But Judy, there's a new requirement for the job. Something a little more permanent than that verbal contract we had before." "Such as?" That wasn't like Kern to require a contract from her. "Well, I'd sort of like a marriage license." Kern twisted a brown curl around his finger, then bent to kiss her. It was like a dream, like the dreams that crying, aching memory of Kern had brought to her as dusk fell in a city park, and only when Judy heard her own voice saying, "Yes, Kern," was the dream a reality. - Mary Jean Logan, '45. �28 MANUSCRIPT It's Spring Why do young maids dress more sightly? Why do young lads whistle lightly? Why do old folks walk more sprightly? I know- it's spring. Why do stars now twinkle nightly, And the old moon shine more brightly? Why do couples hold hands tightly? I know- it's spring. - Mary Ellen Snyder, '44. A Rondeau Pull up a chair and sit a while And reminisce with me. We'll smile At joys we knew once long ago; We'll talk of friendly folks we know, And thus the lonely hours beguile. Remember when we trudged a mile To visit friends? Now we just dial And say, "Hello." Oh, please don't go; Pull up a chair. We'll talk about the modern style Of life, and of our private trial. We'll talk of children- how they grow, And why it is we love them so. We'll bring out thoughts we've had on file; Pull up a chair. - Mary Ellen Snyder, '44. ��� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource The Art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College. Through its several titles—Manuscript, Perspectives, and Kiosk—the magazine has a long history of celebrating creative writing and art on campus. It began publication in 1938 under the title of Manuscript before changing its name to Perspectives in 1953. Then in 1971 it took another name that it is known by currently: Kiosk. It is still published annually by the Morningside College English Department. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Morningside College Library Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Type The nature or genre of the resource Collection Text Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Manuscript Perspectives Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1938- Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-01 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Morningside College Library Morningside College English Department Ponder, Marcie: Digital Creator Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical PDF Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Fullerton, Adam: Cataloger Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger McKinley, Aly: Cataloger Title A name given to the resource Kiosk Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource "The Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication, all rights revert to the authors. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of The Kiosk staff or of Morningside College. The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be appropriate for children," (The Kiosk, 2003). Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any text included in a document via OCR, or text on the back of a photo. This can be typed or handwritten text. MANUSCRIPT MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE VO L. 5 • No. 1 I MANUSCRIPT MARY ELLEN SNYDER, MARJORIE FOSTER. MIRAH MILLS, Volume 5 Co-Editors Faculty Adviser SPRING, 1943 Number 1 TABLE OF CONTENTS Foreword ______ ___ _________ ____________ _____ _ ____ _______ _ _____________ _______________ _ _ ______ __ ________ 2 ____ _ ___________ _ __ __________ ____ _____________ ____ 3 _ Freedom, Joan Elsinga _______ _ _____________ Why Didn't I?, Eleanor Thorpe ___________ _ _______ _________________ ________________ ______ 4 _ _____ ______ ___ ____ Soldier's Baptism, George Holcomb __________________ _ __ _______ _ _ _ _ 5 New Snow, J ack Howe _________________ __ __ ___________________________________________________ 7 __ Betwixt Dawn and Dusk, Jack Howe _ ___________________ _______ _ ___ _____________ 8 _____ _ _ _ _ ____________ 12 __ The Skeptic, Florence Coss ______ _________________________________________ __ _________ _ __________________ _ __ __ ___________________________________ 13 Blackie, Ivan Gossoo ________ On Taking a Bath, Florence Coss ___ _ ________ ___ _____ _ ______ ______________________ 14 __ _____ _ ________ 17 The Triangle, Ruth Lynch _______________ ___ ____ ____________________________________ _ To a Light Bulb, Ruth Lynch _______ ___ _ _ ____ ____ __________________________________________ 17 A Letter for Janet, Marjorie Foster.. ____ ___________________ _ ___ ____ _____ __ __ _18 ____ ____ _ The Conqueror, Eleanor Thorpe_ ___________________ _____________ __ ________________ __ 19 ___ Storm, Mary Ellen Snyder _______________ ______ _ _ __________________________________ 20 _ ____ ____ _____ _ ___ ______ ___ _ Return, Mary Jean Logan _ ________ ______ __ _ _ _________________ ____ __ _ ___ ___ 21 It's Spring, Mary Ellen SnydeL ______________ __ ________ ___________________________ _ 28 ____ A Rondeau, Mary Ellen Snyder.. ______________ __________ _______ __________ _______________ 28 Published by the Students at Morningside College, Sioux City, Iowa. Twenty-five cents a copy. .. FOREWORD It is with a deep sense of satisfaction and pleasure that the editors of Manuscript present this issue for publication. At a time when the whole world is involved in a great conflict, we feel that there is a special need for the continuation of a project such as this. We wish to express our thanks to all those who have made contributions to the magazine, and to Miss Mirah Mills for her valuable aid and inspiration . , Freedom We have been invaded by a superior force. The quietly intellectual way of life has been interrupted by marching khaki-clad men. From the large, rain-flecked window above my desk I stare fascinated each hour at these military displays. What does it all mean? Why is this extreme regimentation so distasteful to us? In the answers we must give lie the reasons for our participation in the conflict. Those men marching so precisely down below are fighting for me in my study. They are learning physics and mathematics to preserve the freedom which makes it possible for all of the rest of us to study culture and beauty. After many years the question still remains, "What is freedom?" Many words have been spoken, written, and sung about it, but what is it essentially? In the same way that I cannot tell you much about God although I know of Him, I cannot tell you of freedom. But I can show you the evidence of it. A tall white-haired man wrote in a large, old-fashioned front room about "cabbages and kings." His two best liked subjects were his atheistic beliefs, and the social emancipation of women. He wrote in the late 90's, era of rigid conventionality, and in a stern Calvinistic community. In a typically crowded dormitory room a dark-haired, sensuous girl writes of love, passion, beauty, dreams while always striving for the ultimate ideal- the expression of the idea in such a way that it can be communicated exactly to another mind. Everything she experiences is calculated to aid her in reaching this ideal. She will always go on toward this ideal, for perfection is not the attaining of the ultimate, but the constant striving after it, with better and better results. A daughter of practical Dutch farmers is planning a life in the professional theatre. Every day she works inspired by the fascination of it. The human soul can be expressed in many ways- painting, sculpture, literature. But to the blonde daughter of peasantry play direction is ideal self-expression- the translation of the idea into a succession of pictures which live and breathe. This then is freedom, not America "Uuber Alles" but the free mind over all. The human intelligence working freely can produce .. 4 MANUSCRIPT miracles of beauty or science. But even if it were not producing that which is worth while, the fact that the mind is free to do as it pleases is an end in itself. After this war is over, it will no longer be the "everlastin' teamwork of every bloomin' soul" but the soul itself which will be all-important. As I think of these things, my soul wells up within me in a sense of well being. The marching rhythms outside blend into the indistinguishable noises of the quiet community and there is left only the certainty that soon, very soon, man all over the world may again view freely beauty and the dream. - Joan Elsinga, '45. Why didn't I say Come back, we can figure it out? Why didn't I laugh When you made that remark? Why didn't I go When you wanted me there? Why didn't 1Yes, but I didn't; and nowThere's no time to tell You just why I refused Your last kiss; To laugh when you say I'm not pretty; To come as your wife When you call. I didn't. You're gone. It's too late. - Eleanor Thorpe, '43 . SPRING, 5 1943 Soldier's Baptism Creeping over all objects, infiltrating into every crevice open to atmosphere, light began its gradual conquering of the darkness. Against a horizon of clearness emerging from the cloudiness of night, the jagged edges of a forest began to assume a definite shape, . and blurred images to blend no longer with the gloom. The air was crisp. It touched living flesh which tingled and stiffened as its cells were penetrated by the .coolness. It was the beginning of a dawn broadly hinting of such things as for the fowl of the air to wing to warmer climes while the ground was yet free from frost and snow. In spite of the fresh vividness of a new day, there was one who, to the very inmost nook of his soul, dreaded the approach of the slightest tinge of light. He clutched in his gloved hand a splendid rifle. Not with pride of care or possession, but with unwilling resignation, much as one, barehanded, might clutch the cold, frosty, steel handle of a shovel with which a ditch had to be dug. God, how he hated the thing so murderous in his hand. The very thought of the hole which its bullet or bayonet could gouge through a body made him shiver, and he felt an urge to give the weapon a fling and run on and on. He thought of all the shells which would be tearing at him soon through space, intent upon killing or disabling him. Their signal was dawn. "God, how I hate this!" he muttered aloud, and jumped, quivering, at the sound of his own voice alone in the commotion of a waking war-world. A world waking to begin its business of murdering. At the break of the day he was supposed to be all set to fall in behind the tanks. Those mechanic monsters were already beginning to choke and cough their resentment against the coldness which was trying to prevent their "innards" from being loose and limber. The nearest man-made leviathon for destruction was only one hundred yards away. Between it and him were several men staggered at irregular intervals. Some of them would come back from the day's job. Some would not. He wondered- and watched a lieutenant moving from place to place readying the "non-com" officers. Passing close, he paused and whispered, "All set, kid?" The kid's mouth opened, but he could utter no audible sound ex- 6 MANUSCRIPT cept a quivering sigh, as if he had held his breath and re.leased it suddenly. "You'll feel better when we get going," the lieutenant smiled, and hurried on. The kid could not belie.ve it. When the firing began, the bullets would be after him. He could not even dodge nor duck as he had when boxing. An unseen enemy was to threaten his life from where. he knew not. The tanks were beginning to roar, and immediately the enemy sent shells of exploratory nature whistling through the air above him. He dropped prone from his kneeling position and hugge.d the ground. From behind him now, deafening crashes began to sound as the tank busters returned their eighty millimeter shells screaming toward the enemy. Then too he heard the command yell, and he jerked upright, grabbed his rifle, and lurched forward. The tanks and tank busters flashed before him through a haze, and he seemed as if alone, lurching along through a deafening fore.st toward destruction. The. whistles of shells ended more abruptly and closer at hand. As in a dream he saw a tank spitting crescendos of noise, suddenly groan and rise off the ground after an explosion, settling low and crumpling when it returned to earth. It smoked and was quiet. A shell struck close. He. felt himself pushed as if by a huge pillow, and he watched the ground come up to meet him. He got to hi~ knees, stumbling upward and onward. Suddenly he realized how insignificant a part of nature he really was. It flashed through him like a shock. He had but to fill his place.. He was not alone. He saw himself like a cog in a grinding gear. If he slipped out he would be replaced, but until he slipped out he must not let his cog slip. Perhaps God would need him for future use; perhaps not. He would cease. trying to decide that. The haze was clearing, and he looked around alive and seeing. To one side, his hand tightly gripping the shattered calf of his left leg, the lieutenant lay. The kid swerved automatically the other way but quickly pulled back toward the. injured man. Shaking his head, the lieutenant smiled grimly and yelied, "Carryon, kid!!" He remembered the cog, and with a fervent, courageous, "Yes, Sir!" he waved his rifle proudly, and smilingly moved on toward his destiny. -Pvt. George Holcomb. SPRING, 1943 7. New Snow I am the first who has passed this way, For there are no marks upon the snow, No print of child's foot, Or sagging, oldish arch. I will go as I have come, And if I once look back 'Twill be a stolen glance, Which comforts not. At times my path joins others, And we walk a spell together. 'Tis for the nonce, The ways diverge. Ahead is unbroken crystal, Cold, still, as far as eye can see. When I am over it, What will I tread? - Pvt. Jack Howe. 8 MANUSCRIPT Betwixt Dawn and Dusk It was about a quarter to nine when Dr. Peebles emerged on the Challanders' front porch and took his way over the cracked con· crete walk to his car. What the doctor was expecting happened. Before he could even step inside his grey coupe, Mrs. Higgins, he,r presence having been previously denoted by the fluttering of a lace curtain in her front window, flung open the door of her adjoining house and bore down upon him much as a hawk does upon its defenseless prey. "Morning, Doctor Peebles," she cackled triumphantly, her beaklike nose, slightly out of proportion to the rest of her wizened features, twitching mechanically, "is something wrong at the Challanders'?" She might as well have added, "Is old Nat drunk again ?" thought the doctor, for the implication spoke through every syllable of her question. "Nat took a drink of some medicine which was intended for external use only," said the doctor as he slid into the car seat and closed the door. He turned on the ignition and starte.d the engine. "He could have killed himself, but he only took a small dose. He'll be up and around in a few hours." He shifted gears, stepped on the accelerator, and rolled away. For a moment, Mrs. Higgins, arms akimbo, watche.d the fleeing roadster and the billowing clouds of dust which swirled upward from the street and fell again in powdery profusion, then she stalked back into the house, turned the flame low under the tomatoes she was preparing for canning, and strode across the vacant lot to the corner house. "Maude," called Mrs. Higgins as she opened the back screen door and entered the rear hall. "In the kitchen," replied a small voice accompanied by a chirping canary and the rhythmic slap-slap-slap of a wooden spoon beating cake batter. Mrs. Higgins turning through a side door, entered the cheerful kitchen. Perched on a high stool near the window, Maude, some fifty pounds overweight and with a more or less cherubic countenance flayed the devil's food with a stroke that would have done credit to a tennis player. SPRING, 1943 9 Not even waiting for formalities, Mrs. Higgins plunged into her subject. "My dear, did you hear about Nat Challander?" "No." Maude's beating slowed perceptibly. "Is he in jail again?" "Not this time. He almost went to a harder place to get out of than a jail." Mrs. Higgins chuckled at her jest and her audience joined her out of politeness. The beating stopped and the batter lay neglected. "Well"- Mrs. Higgins had found by long experience that this was a comfortable way to introduce a tale-"it seems as how old . Nat Challander almost killed himself!" "Killed himself!" cried Maude in a squeal composed of equal portions of horror and delight. "Yes, my dear." Mrs. Higgins was well satisfied with the effect of her words. "Early this morning, while he was reaching for· a bottle of whiskey, he accidentally grabbed a bottle of poison and took a drink of that. Young Nat wre.stled with him and got it away, and Dr. Peebles says he'll be on his feet after a bit." For a few minutes longer the two women chatted and then the messenger, remembering her tomatoes and the other neighbors, still living their lives in ignorance, took her leave. For a considerable time after Mrs. Higgins' departure, the greenand-yellow kitchen was deserted. On a table, forsaken, sat the devil's food batter. Even the canary ceased his chirping and cocked his head attentively as if listening to the sounds emitting from the adjoining room. Two jerky impatient rings were followed closely by Maude squealing, "Central . . . Central, give me 321." A fly alighted in the cake bowl and was presently joined by a comrade. "Is that you, Helen? Oh ... Well, call Miss Helen to the phone, Lily." The canary contemplated a bath, decided against it, and took a few pecks from his food inste.ad. "Helen? This is Maude. Helen, have you heard about Nat Challander? ... Prepare yourself for a shock! Old Nat nigh killed himself!" The Dutch wall clock in the kitchen chimed ten softly, and the captive bird, its attention arrested, eyed it speculatingly. "Well, of course, the doctor says it wasn't but then you know Doc Peebles. If you ask me it was an out-and-out attempted suicide. It's really a pity for his family that he had to bungle the job." A brindled cat paced into the kitchen from the rear hall, glanced at bird and table, chose the latter, and leaped 10 MANUSCRIPT upon it. "Yes, I suppose you are right. But how Mrs. Challander and the children can love .a n old sot like that is beyond me. If I were in her place, I'd give him a gun and send him out to the barn, where nothing would distract him and make him miss." The cat licked the edge of the mixing bowl, while the flies, feeling their rights had been usurped, buzzed noisily overhead. "Well, I have to go now, Helen. I'm mixing a cake for the church sale, and I can just get it done by one. Good-bye." Across the village, Grandpa Winters listened intently at his telephone, his deafened ears trying to catch part of the conversation. Finally, mild clicks told him the partie.s were hanging up. That first one would be Maude and the second one would be Helen. That would be Mrs. Hedgeley, the wife of the creamery man, and that other one, a full te.n seconds after the others had hung up, would be the Matthews sisters. They still thought that by hanging up so late no one knew they were listening in. Grandpa put his own receiver back on the hook, and whistled to himself. It was an unsteady, tune.less whistle, clear in spots and in others resembling the moaning of an autumn wind on the Minnesota prairies, the kind of whistle that is the peculiar property of young boys just learning to purse their lips and old gentlemen no longer able to control their breaths. Thus, to the accompanime.nt of what he imagined to be "My Wild Irish Rose," Grandpa Winters attempted to reconstruct what he had heard. The truth of the matter was that the only words he had caught were "Nate Challander," "suicide," "gun," and "barn," but that was enough to envision what had happened, and besides, as he had learned when recounting his Civil War experiences, if one added a little here and there, it did not really hurt anything. Shortly be.fore three o'clock, Nat Challander felt well enough to get up. After all, it was Saturday afternoon, and a man could not lie abed on Saturday, what with farmers coming into town from miles around, and the whole place as busy as a beehive. Making no more noise than was absolutely necessary, Nat tip-toed into the kitchen, and, after making sure that no one was near, took a cracked blue pitcher from a shelf over the stove. He tipped it and poured the contents- a dollar bill and some coins-into his hand. After stuffing the bill into his pocket and dumping the coins SPRING, 1943 11 back into the container, he set the household "safe" back in its identical position, and went through the creaking screen door onto the back porch_ But he had no sooner set foot outside the door than Molly and Lucinda, two of the younger girls, came running toward him, each grabbing for a pant-leg while they chanted in imperfect unison, "Daddy gotta tell us story before we let go." With a little dickering, however, Nat managed to bribe them off with a stick of gum which he found in his pocket, and, as he turned down the walk, the shrill tones of their voices followed him as they argued as to which should have the larger piece, the gum having broken unevenly. A few minute.s later found Nat approaching Main Street. Up ahead, he could see the red brick building which housed Meriwether's General Store, and now he could hear the murmuring voiGes of the men sitting on the. bench in front of the show-window. Every small town has such groups of men. In the summertime, they sit on benches, either in the park or in some other convenient place, comment on passers-by, and litter the. street with chips from their whittling; in winter, they move indoors, preferably into some general store, toast their feet against iron stoves, and slip occasional cracke.rs from the barrel. Right now, apparently, Grandpa Winters held the floor, or perhaps, one could more accurately say "held the sidewalk," and by this time, Nat, practically at the corner, could he.ar his words, as they drifted toward him from the unseen speaker. "Yep, I'd never a-believed that Old Nat Challander had the nerve~", Nat halted abruptly, "- excepting as how I heard it firsthand from a good source. It seems as how he just went out to the barn, aimed his gun and pulled the trigger. I guess no one's very broke up about it. In fact, it will be a good thing for his family." "Right you are, Brother Winters, he.'s been nothin' but a burden upon his poor wife for the past twenty years." That was the Deacon. "When I told Mr. Peabody about it," continued Grandpa, "he said that now that Old Nat was dead and couldn't be an evil influence no longer, he was willing to put Young Nat through a trade school and le.t him make something out of himself." "Of course, the Odd Fellows will take care of the funeral expenses," vouchsafed another member of the bench. Nat remembered -vaguely that, ye.ars ago, he had belonged to the Odd Fellows. 12 MANUSCRIPT "I suppose his widder can git county aid now that she ain't got no husband to support," laughingly declared the local wit. The others joined in the mirth, and Nat, his mind in a whirl, turned mechanicall y and stumbled homeward. It was while Mrs. Higgins was tightening the top of the last jar of tomato juice that a loud explosion, the report of a gun, perhaps, shattered the drowsy quietude of early evening. Mrs. Higgins, tugging at her apron strings, rushed to the kitchen door. "I'd have sworn that came from Challanders' barn," she mused. "Now what on earth do you suppose could have happened?" The hall clock tolled six. -Pvt. Jack Howe. The Skeptic With dismal tread my sorrow stalks my mind; Its presence beats a rhythm on my heart; To you I do not mean to be unkind, But grief has made of me a thing apart. These hours in solitude are best endured; I may not share my agony with you. Although your heart is genuinely stirred, And what you say to me may still be true, Your murmured sympathies are hard to bear In moments filled with bitterness and pain; And always in the midst of my despair The hollow phrase beats on my throbbing brain. The echo of those words will haunt me stillIs there condolence in "It is God's will"? -Florence Coss, '43. 13 SPRING,1943 Blackie What makes some dogs so much like human beings and some human beings so much like dogs, is a question that used to rise in my mind rather frequently as a boy. I was quite sure that certain dogs possessed definite human qualities. Of this one thing I was absolutely certain-my own little dog Blackie was human. He had a disposition, and a temperament, and a character all his own. At different intervals, he could be as gentle and sweet as old bespectacled Aunt Mary, or as mischievous as the neighbor's two-year-old son. He possessed every commendable human characteristic, with only a minimum of bad habits. Whenever a job had to be done, Blackie was first on hand, eager and willing to help. For each armful of wood carried in, he would contribute one stick immediately afterward. In each basket of ciderapples picked up from under our trees, there were usually at least two small apples that Blackie had brought with an enormous display of tail-wagging and pride. He fairly shouted, "Am I not a very remarkable fellow?" and there was no question in anyone's mind but that he should be praised highly for his accomplishment. No person could have been more considerate of the feelings of others. He would not think of rushing headlong into the kitchen with his muddy feet. Instead he yapped patiently for admittance, then walked (not ran) to his own little blanket only three feet from the door. There he sat, eagerly and expectantly, until it was acknowledg.ed that his feet were dry, and permission was granted to proceed farther. Always aware of the comforts of others, Blackie had no sooner watched Dad sit down to remove his work shoes than he would appear on the scene, laboriously dragging a bedroom slipper, equally as long as himself. After depositing it at Dad's feet, he would dash back after the remaining one; then he would stand close by, tail fanning his posterior into a frenzy, to receive (not at all modestly) the plaudits and acclaim of the household. This was Blackie, friendly, jovial, vivacious; a companion, a gentleman, and a scholar. Was he less than human? It would be difficult to convince me of that. But was he not a dumb animal? Not in the least. Human speech is only one form of expression. Blackie's 14 MANUSCRIPT liquid eyes and perpetually bobbing tail could express far more eloquently than words his delight, his disappointment, his sorrow, his disgust, his sarcasm, his hunger, or his fatigue. This was Blackie - my dog, my friend. I could ask no finer. - Ivan Gossoo, '43. On Taking a Bath One of the besetting sins of our culture is the failure to appreciate the joy of performing some of the functicms necessary for comfortable living. So many things which could be enjoyable are looked upon as uninteresting and unavoidable "duties." I look with compassion upon all those who have not discovered the infinite pleasure involved in taking a bath. I wonder how anyone can escape the feeling o( delight, unless he does not know how to bathe properly. Bathing is not often considered seriously because it is a habit into which most people, fortunately, have fallen, but the various methods and manners involved are seldom thought about. However, the art of taking a bath is one which, when fully appreciated, may never be considered lightly. Concerning bathing there are four schools of thought. The first includes those who swear by the admittedly more modern method of the· shower. Most people who go in for this game indulge in the morning immediately upon jumping out of bed. The water, if one is to be really sporting, should be cold. I am forever barred from this group because I have never been known to "jump" out of bed in the morning, and when I do arise, a shower is unthought of. The thought foremost is to get my eyes open, my teeth clean, and the approved amount of clothing on my back. And cold water! I shudder at the thought. Enthusiasts for this method of bathing insist upon its in· vigorating effect as well as its superiority in the matter of keeping clean. In my opinion, the early-morning-cold-showerers are missing the good things in life. The idea of becoming invigorated early in the morning is one which I fail to appreciate, and if a shower does this, I can not help but look upon it with repulsion. A second class of bathers even more to be shunned includes people who consider that taking a bath has only one purpose-cleansing , I SPRING, , I 1943 15 the body. These are the duty-bound people who run the water into the tub methodically and as a regular part of the routine of preparing for bed. There is no feeling of anticipation of the act; taking a bath is merely the thing one does before retiring. This, of course., is highly desirable in view of sanitation and personal at· tractiveness, but to refuse to consider the pleasure in store in the process is to lose much of the real merit in bathing. In this classi· fication, however, are the working men and women who realize that at least a "once.over-lightly" is a necessity in order to maintain a certain degree of respectability. These people know that it is impossible to follow the path of least resistance after a really strenuous day and to fall into bed on aching limbs. I do not blame them for looking upon the nightly bath as a mild curse on weary bodies instead of a blessing. However, most of the regular bathers do not fall into this class. And to these I look with pity. The third school is rapidly losing ground, and it is hoped that the enrollment may continue to decline. These are the. few in whose mind bathing and Saturday night are forever linked. The first objection to this group is the obvious one that their cleanliness is ques· tionable. In the second place, an act which is performed only once a week can not be fully appreciated, or it would take place more often. One redeeming feature of this habit, I have been told, is that the Saturday night bathers may get more thoroughly clean because they are more serious in the process-naturally they would if this bath were to be the only one for seven days!! Perhaps this is true, but why limit thoroughness to one night a week? , , The fault of the first three groups lies in the fallacious notion that the sole purpose of the bath is to maintain a state of cleanliness. This is, no doubt, the primary function of bathing, but if this were its only claim to "popularity," I am one of those who might be tempted to lose interest. Taking a bath is like sitting in a comfortable chair with a cold drink on a hot day, or relaxing with a good book after work; it is a method of attaining a state of comfort and is an aid to deep thought in the midst of confusion; or merely as an end in itself, it is one of the welcome products of the modern age. However, to reach the heights of comfort and relaxation which a bath affords, the process must be a serious one and the conditions must be ideal. The first requirement for enjoyable bathing is a warm 16 MANUSCRIPT room-not so hot as to be uncomfortable, but one in which the bather is not struck down by a rush of cold air as he leisurely emerges from the tub. An even more important part of the operation is a tank-full of really hot water. Enough for a good-sized tub three-fourths full will not suffice if one is to get all the possible pleasure from the act. As it is almost physically impossible to ste.p into a tub of very hot water, the temperature must be moderate in the first stage. As soon as the bather is comfortably settled in the tub the next move is to turn on the hot water with his toe--in any self-respecting bath-tub this is possible--and relax and heave a blissful sigh as the warmth envelopes him. As an added attraction, an interesting piece of reading matter may be held care.fully above the water-line and perused indolently. However, if the bath is partly a means of escape from daily drudgery, the hands are free to relax quietly in the gentle, soothing liquid which serves as an opiate to dull, unpleasant, and troubled thoughts. The length of time spent is one of the most attractive aspects of this sort of bath. There must be no feeling of hurry- the bath is the all-important thing. The extent of the rite is decided in the tub and is purely a matter of personal taste. When one has reached the saturation point- in comfort and lethargy- that is the time to begin to think about bringing the bath to an end. Before this happens, the enthusiastic bather has added much more hot water until he is all but floating. This is a desirable state from which it is difficult to emerge, but by that time., a considerable period of time has elapsed and the more mundane affairs must be considered, so, with an ad· mirable show of will-power, the weak and wrinkled bather lets the water out, and this process necessitate.s either getting out of the tuL or remaining sitting there without any reason- or water. Mter a brisk rubbing with a large towel, he is ready for anything. The obvious question now is, "When does one get clean?" That is unimportant, be.cause that was not the real purpose of the bath. A consideration of the practical side of bathing is out of place here. -Florence Coss, '43. ,. SPRING, 17 1943 The Triangle Anthony Pinch, a bag of gold, and Sin Stonily sat together in a room. Strange that these three, staunch friends for years, Should sit surrounded by a wall of bitter gloom! None of them spoke. The man was dead. Killed by his own hand, and with no regret. The bag of gold stared coldly at the floor, And Sin lighted a cigarette. Anthony's soul leaned on the windowpane, Shivered a bit, and looked into the blue; And being a starving soul, and thinly clad, It scarcely ruffled the curtains passing through. -Ruth Lynch, '44. To a Light Bulb You cannot mend a light bulb when it burns Its filament to nothing. Let it pass. The most persistent mechanician learns The absolute futility of glass. You cannot mend a love whose ebbing fire Proclaims its life of incandescence done; Even a poet, commonly a liar, Will say go out and get a better one. -Ruth Lynch, '44. 18 MANUSCRIPT A Letter for Janet October 20, 1942. Dear Janet: If you were only ten again, you would be out in the yard today building a wonderful house of leaves. It would be. one of the first dream houses that you had ever planned and so I would be sitting near the window in order to watch your sturdy little body bustle about in an effort to carry out the commands of your busy imagination as fast as it could furnish them. When you gave a final loving, pat to an undefine.d heap of golden leaves that was to you a plump red sofa and tossed back one long smooth braid with a satisfied air, I would know that I must lay aside my work and prepare to follow you into your charming house of leaves; for you soon would come skipping in to beg me to pretend that I was your sister just arriving from Omaha for a visit. Never able to resist your entreaties, I would "make-believe" with you in a yard full of leaves that through the magic of your imagination had become a home for a day. When your braids were cut and your hair was styled to suit a "junior miss," I visited no more charming leaf house.s. Expression for all your dreams was found in a notebook entitled, "House Planning." As I carefully turned the pages with you, I learned why my copies of The American Home and The House Beautiful had been cut up and torn beyond recognition; for there in gleaming splendor were pictures of rambling colonial houses with huge white pillars, winding staircases with rich velvet carpeting, and luxuriant guest rooms with beruffled canopies over the four-poster beds. Never had a more elaborate house been built than the one which you assembled in your cherished notebook. I remember still the enthusiasm with which you kept your plans alive in your notebook; even so, keep your dreams alive in your heart by means of your hope and faith in tomorrow. Do not let your dreams die today because war does not allow for planning or realization of plans. Even as the wind sent your house. of leaves swirling away into the neighbor's yard, so the war is sweeping all plans away into the future. But remember, Janet, that as a little girl you always had the courage to gather up the scattered leaves and build again some calmer dc;ty; so do not be afraid to gather in SPRING, 1943 19 your dreams and be ready to realize them in the peace and security that a tomorrow will surely bring. Your loving mother. -Marjorie Foster, '44. The Conqueror The fog sweeps in conquering the land in its dictatorial grasp. There is no struggle. How can there be? One cannot fight this thing which unseen, unheard, overpowers man's keenest weapons. The fog covers the land with his dripping hands, till even the shape of things has changed. The deep abyss is level with the hilltop. The golden leaves are camouflaged to gray. No escape is possible. His soldiers lurk in every spot with always more in the hidden corners where man might flee. The darkness presses down. An incredible dimness comes over the brightest lights. Narrow arrows pierce lights on the street. Gray fingers reach within the house: to surround the glowing bulbs. Only the leaping grate-flames are strong enough to hold off the usurper. Darkness and silence- man's most dread enemies reign. The sharp wail of the whistle: becomes the low wail of a ghost. The street-ear's clang is a low jangle. The city's murmuring protest is smothered. Slowly but steadily the last spark of light dies. Man's eyes are glazed and wide. His lips move witlessly. His mind is halted. Doggedly he: plods about his work as the fog's whip lashes. Blindly his hands grope for life. Steadily his days pass by. The conqueror is unrelenting. There is no outcry, only deep resignation. But finally man's mind begins to stir. A band of light steals around the edge of the gray. The flame leaps up, till all is glaring bright and man is free once more. - Eleanor Thorpe, '43. 20 MANUSCRIPT Storm 'Twas a bright and busy morning; My gay spirits bounded high. In all the world there was, that hour, None happier than I. In the golden glow of mid-day While the world was happy still, The blackest cloud I ever saw Came up behind the hill. Through the silver hush of twilight, The storm raged wild and fierce, Your words like arrows flying by Sought out my heart to pierce. At the blackest hour- at midnight:, No refuge could I find, No thoughts for consolation then To ease my troubled mind. But the faint pink flush of dawning When the long black night was o'er, Brought to my soul a restful peace I had not known before. -Mary Ellen Snyder, '44. SPRING, 21 1943 Return Judith watched the familiar farm lands blur past her window as the Evening Passenger drew close to Daleton. Memories welled up with the lump in her throat and she shrugged vainly as if to push them back. It had taken three years to get courage to face these memories, and somehow, even yet, she was afraid. It wasn't the town, with its memories of her parents, or the house, that must still be alive with the activities of the suddenly scattered Marshalls; it was the memory of Kern. As the weathered gray of the railroad siding slid slowly past the train, she grimaced slightly. Daleton meant Kern. She knew now, as she remembered the town, that every street corner, every shaded walk, and a million and one hallowed spots would bring Kern back to her. When she had thought of coming home these past three years, it had always meant coming home to Kern. Coming home was a crazy idea, she told herself as she stepped down from the train. It had been Pete's idea. "Go home for a week. Get the small town American's reaction to the war before you le.ave for London," thus he had closed his announcement of her first foreign assignment. Excitement bred in the thought of being in London under fire, of coming home for the first time in three years, of possibl y seeing Kern, had carried her through the swift hours, until now. Fear gripped her quickly as she turned up Main Street. Dreaming pipe dreams, that's what you've been doing, she thought sharply, steadying herself. For three years you've been telling yourself that Kern wasn't the man, that you didn't want him, and here you are, wanting, almost praying that you'll see him, and still afraid, that when you do you'll find that all the memories, and the dreams of reconciliation that you have built on those memories are shattered. As her high heels ticked off her walk down Main Street, and her eyes wandered at will to familiar places, the memories of Kern came rushing back: Kern, bronze in a white jersey, smiling down at her in Timmy's; Kern" grim and determined, as the deadline at the Press neared and the linotype jumbled threateningly; Kern, cocksure with a hint of Bourbon on his breath, saying, "What's the matter, Judy," the long, silent battle of bitterness; Kern, with his sharp, cutting "This is goodbye then, Judy," and then, just sitting there on the steps alone. 22 MANUSCRIPT As suddenly as that he had changed from a man into a memory. Her abrupt departure to Aunt Kathy's, the absorbing job on the Chronicle, and the almost miraculous climb from cub to special reporter had aided the transformation. The past three years had been so swift, so fast moving that there had been little time to do more than glance back, no time to go back to salve old wounds. Kern was just a memory, but a crying, aching memory that had haunted her as she watched the dusk fall over city parks, and had made every man she met a reminder of himself . Yes, Kern was a memory, but, she told herself softly as she unlocked the door at home, he's a memory that might be transformed once more into a man. The house. was dark and dusty. Her parents had closed it several months ago to escape the loneliness without the young Marshalls. As she set her bag down in the front hall and turned on the lights, she almost dreaded the week she. was to spend here. The house was lonely, and for a moment she regretted the assignment that had brought her home. Her room was much the same as she remembere.d it, with the east window looking down on the curving walk and the concrete steps leading to the dimly-lit street. Further down the block, the lights of Main Street blinked in flashing rep fica of city advertising. She unpacked slowly, thinking of Pete and the new assignment, of Kern and the times she had told him good night on these concrete steps. She smiled as she thought of the long hours they had spent on the Press, putting it to bed about this time of night, wandering over to Timmy's for coffee and a dance, then coming home to sink quietly onto the steps in silence. Those quiet understanding silences had marked the serenity of their relationship. Judy changed from her traveling costume into a sweater and plaid skirt, letting her hair fall softly to her shoulders. She looked as completely like a high school girl as the snapshot of her and Kern that still clung to the mirror border. The sweater was the color of rich cream, and her hair lay almost like chocolate topping. Judy became conscious that she was hungry. The kitchen would be empty for sure. Perhaps Timmy's was open. Timmy remembered her. "Coffee, Judy?" It was almost as if she were still a steady customer. Timmy's hadn't changed. There was still the long, narrow SPRING, 1943 23 counter, the row of worn stools, the tiny tables with their immaculate covers, crowded into the small room; and through the archway, she caught the reflection of the nickelodeon on the dancefloor. "Yes, coffee, Timmy." She wound her legs casually about the stool. How is everything? War bothering you much?" "No, the war isn't bad on business at all. Sorta tough on help, though." Timmy slid the cup of coffee across the geometric patterns of the counter topping. Judy sipped it thoughtfully. The war shouldn't bother Timmy's help: Young Tim usually was all the help he needed. "How about Young Tim?" "He's in the Air Corps. It's the popular branch of the service here. Most of the youngsters have gone." Youngsters: the word hit Judy. She and Kern and Young Tim were youngsters to Timmy. They always had been. Perhaps Kern was gone, too. It seemed as though her heart would never stop sinking. She groped for words. "How about Kern?" But Timmy was smiling wannly. "Still thinking about him, eh, Judy?" Timmy's hand across hers was fatherly. She nodded mutely, and Timmy went on. "Folks around here have been saying that you'd probably have found another man in Chicago. I kinda hoped not. You know, Judy, you and Kern, well, I sorta hoped." "Me, too, Timmy." Timmy was still Father Confessor. Things hadn't changed a lot. "Then why did you run out on him that way? Honest, Judy, he was pretty nigh washed up there for a while." Timmy poured himself a cup of coffee. "The Press almost went to pot, people were getting pretty fed up, and then he snapped out of it." "Out of what, Timmy?" She knew what, but she hoped apprehensively that she was wrong. "You know, the bottle. Every Sheean has to hit the raw edge of a bottle before he straightens up. His father, all his family, has done it that way. Don't think he's touched a drop for a long time, though. The Press is the best paper in this corner of the state." "Who's helping at the Press now?" July could almost imagine. It would be one of the Laird girls with their cheap, trite newspaper 24 MANUSCRIPT phrases; or male-minded Peggy Quimby. From her mother's last letter, they seemed to be the only girls left in town. Kern would enjoy having them at the Press, she tortured herself. Timmy would have answered, but as she asked her question, the shop door opened. She swung around on the stool to follow Tim's gaze. Too stunned to be sure, she watched the lank form of the new customer settle onto a stool. Before she was certain, she caught the familiar words, "Supper for a tired printer, Timmy?" It was Kern then. The light in the shop was dim, and she hadn't been sure. Kern! It seemed as though she couldn't breathe; her heart was pounding so fast. She wanted to look at him, to touch him, to feel the taut, strong shoulde.rs under her hands. If only it were a real homecoming and Kern were there to welcome her. But it wasn't. She could hear that same voice saying "This is goodbye then, Judy.'~ And she couldn't help remembering how completely it was goodbye. Timmy was talking gaily, mischievously. "There's a girl here asking about a job at the Press." But he's mistaken, Judy told herself excitedly, I'm not home to stay. He must understand that. Then like a dawn, she realized what Timmy was doing! Timmy, who could mend anything. Kern had turned toward her, as Judy slid off her stool and moved to the front of the shop. "Judy!" His voice was rich and eager. Judy's heart sang. -"About the job on the Press?" she continued to play Timmy's game. Her voice was cool, impersonal, completely-stranger. "Do you need someone?" Oh, oh, wrong card to play, she warned herself, as she watched the smile fade from Kern's face. It was all gone. He was business, hard and sharp. "You know, Miss Marshall, you're almost blacklisted at the Press." Judy stiffened hotly. "Your abrupt departure some time ago," he offered in cool explanation. "Besides, I don't think we need reforming." So things really hadn't changed. Kern was still rankling under that last bitter quarrel. Well, Miss Marshall, she clipped the words off angrily in her mind, that settles any hopes you may have had. Please have the kindness to get out before you make a fool of yourself. Already tears started in her eyes. She searched her purse for a dime for the coffee, and slid it across the counter trying not to meet Timmy's eyes. SPRING, 1943 25 "G'night, Timmy." She bit her lips as she faced Kern. "I'm not reforming printers these days, Mr. Sheean." The words were cold, cutting, and as she turned toward home, she hated herself for saying them. Tears brimmed over onto her cheeks, and she made no attempt to dry them. "Fool, fool, stupid, miserable fool!" The words rang over and over again in her mind. You build a lot of hopes like a silly school girl, and then behave like one to boot. The house was high and grim atop the gently curving terrace. It would be lonely, and dark, and still, and Judy felt she couldn't stand loneliness, or darkness, or stillness. So she sat down where the evergreens made a deep shadow on the concrete steps, and as her tears dried, stared morosely at the dim circle of the street light. "Back on the same old steps. I don't seem to have gone far in the world," she murmured to herself and to the steps. Remembering Kern as he had looked when they had talked here on the steps, Judy regretted her recent hehavior. Kern had hated pretense, sham sophistication. Why hadn't she been sincere when she talked to him at Timmy's? She could see Kern in her mind as he used to be here in the shadows with her, his face a woodcut of black shadows and gold-tinted highlights, his shirt, white, catching the light from the street, and his voice, low, eager, and swift moving. Judy bent her face down and felt the harsh weave of the plaid on her cheek. She was a silly, stupid fool for quarreling with Kern, for coming back, for everything. Yet the words ran over and over in her mind, "I still want him." Still want him: the lanky figure, relaxed on the restaurant stool, the strong, taut shoulders, the bronzed arms with the fingers that bit into her arms as he kissed her, the bl ue eyes with their outline of black lashes that looked down with a love that matched her own, the. laugh that came like an "all clear" signal at the end of a quarrel. Yes, she wanted him. "Oh, Kern!" she said despairingly aloud. "What, Judy?" She drew .her head up quickly. It couldn't be Kern! But it was. He stood at the bottom of the steps, outlined against the street light. She hadn't heard him coming; her thoughts had been too absorbing. But Kern was here. "Kern, oh Kern!" His arms were around her as if he would never let her go, and her breath came with difficulty, but it was Kern, and he was kissing her. Everything was gone. There were not three years 26 MANUSCRIPT without him, there were not bitterness and quarreling, there was just Kern. The night was lovelier than Judy had thought, with the moon tracing silver and black patterns across the lawn, and the crickets keeping the night in tune. They made a rhythmic background for Kern's voice as he was saying: "Timmy told me to come up. I thought when you asked me about a job you were just taunting. You know, big shot comes home. I thought I'd give it right back to you. I'm sorry, Judy, honest." Then there were just the crickets, until Judy heard her own voice. "I'm sorry, too, Kern. All the things I said, the way I ran out on you, on the job rather. I didn't mean to reform you, it was just that ..." The right word wouldn't come. Then Kern helped. "J ust that Sheeans and whiskey shouldn't mix, don't you mean?" He was grinning. "I know it, but a Sheean has to almost drown himself in the stuff before he's sure. You know an Irishman never believes anyone but himself." "What are you believing about yourself these days, then?" "Just, Sheeans and whiskey shouldn't mix. And, what's more, I believe myself." His eyes were a sparkly, blarney-Irish as the street light caught them. As he tilted her chin to kiss her, he was just like he had always been, laughing, gay, affectionate. "How about the Press? How is it?" Kern looked sober for an instant. "I've just finished my affairs with the Press for a while. I'm going into something else." "But, Kern, we promised each other we'd publish the Press together. You can't quit!" Kern couldn't leave their plans to run the Press as a model small town weekly. They were once so complete in detail, so full of the dreams of a partnership. But those plans were made three years ago, maybe it was different now. Maybe he didn't remember the plans. "I'm not quitting, Judy, I've just got something, that is, a big story to cover." But that sounded so far from plausible that Judy knew her doubt was obvious. "Okay, Sis, if you want it right on the chin, Mr. Sheean is going to war. Navy Air Corps. "Air corps?" Her voice sounded hazy. "But the Press?" 27 SPRING,1943 "A kid who was with me at the University is coming up to work on it 'til I get back. Unless you want the job." Judy almost regretted the London assi~ment. The Press would be a part of Kern to hold to. The war, not seeing him, knowing he was in constant danger would be demoralizing, disconcerting. But to be in Daleton, with just memories to walk with, would be unbearable now. "I'm covering y'o ur same big story, Kern. The Chronicle finally gave me a London assignment." "London! Gee whiz. Wish you'd represent the Press there, too." As his soft laugh passed, the silence was thought-filled. "Kern, those three years. I hate to think how they were wasted,'~ she ventured. "I know it, Judy. I've only got four days before I go. I'd hate to waste them, too." He drew her closer to him, and the crickets seemed to step the tempo up. Her cheek brushed against the soft jersey of his shirt, and her lungs ached with breath that didn't come fast enough. Four days together after three years. No, they weren't to be wasted. "Judy, about the Press." His voice came through a maze of cricket sounds. "It's going to need somebody besides me after the war. That is, if we put our plans into action. Want the job?" "Yes, Kern." Judy's heart sang: Just like before, the linotype jumbling threateningly, putting the Press to bed, coffee and dancing at Timmy's, sitting here on the steps, after the war. "But Judy, there's a new requirement for the job. Something a little more permanent than that verbal contract we had before." "Such as?" That wasn't like Kern to require a contract from her. "Well, I'd sort of like a marriage license." Kern twisted a brown curl around his finger, then bent to kiss her. It was like a dream, like the dreams that crying, aching memory of Kern had brought to her as dusk fell in a city park, and only when Judy heard her own voice saying, "Yes, Kern," was the dream a reality. - Mary Jean Logan, '45. 28 MANUSCRIPT It's Spring Why do young maids dress more sightly? Why do young lads whistle lightly? Why do old folks walk more sprightly? I know- it's spring. Why do stars now twinkle nightly, And the old moon shine more brightly? Why do couples hold hands tightly? I know- it's spring. - Mary Ellen Snyder, '44. A Rondeau Pull up a chair and sit a while And reminisce with me. We'll smile At joys we knew once long ago; We'll talk of friendly folks we know, And thus the lonely hours beguile. Remember when we trudged a mile To visit friends? Now we just dial And say, "Hello." Oh, please don't go; Pull up a chair. We'll talk about the modern style Of life, and of our private trial. We'll talk of children- how they grow, And why it is we love them so. We'll bring out thoughts we've had on file; Pull up a chair. - Mary Ellen Snyder, '44.  Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Manuscript: Volume 05, Number 01 Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Kiosk Perspectives Subject The topic of the resource Student publications Description An account of the resource Manuscript contains literary works by Morningside College students and alumni. The first edition was published biannually; after that, it was published annually in the Spring. All types of work were accepted, but were "subject to editorial fallibility." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Elsinga, Joan: Author Thorpe, Eleanor: Author Holcomb, George: Author Howe, Jack: Author Coss, Florence: Author Lynch, Ruth: Author Foster, Marjorie: Author Snyder, Mary Ellen: Author Logan, Mary Jean: Author Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Morningside College: English Department Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1943 Date Available Date (often a range) that the resource became or will become available. 2014-10-22 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Snyder, Mary Ellen: Co-Editor Foster, Marjorie: Co-Editor Mills, Mirah: Faculty Adviser Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Periodical Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Date Accepted Date of acceptance of the resource. Examples of resources to which a Date Accepted may be relevant are a thesis (accepted by a university department) or an article (accepted by a journal). 2014-10-22 Mediator An entity that mediates access to the resource and for whom the resource is intended or useful. In an educational context, a mediator might be a parent, teacher, teaching assistant, or care-giver. Kluender, Bethany: Cataloger Kiosk Manuscript Perspectives student publications