Folio 11 by HFU Folio

folio 11

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I am bound to give of myself because I have received

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The Folio is a belles-lettres journal of contemporary artistic expression. The magazine encompasses the thoughts-i.n words and visual imagery-of both the faculty and student body at Holy Family College. Contributions from other institutions are welcome.

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Contents

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THE INTROSPECTIVE BRIDGE: HOLY FAMILY COLLEGE PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE by Sister Mary Immaculata, D.M.L., Academic Dean WE SOON GROW OLD by Sister M. Florence Tumasz. C.S.F.N., Ph.D. SILVER by Kathy Donnelly I FEEL LIKE A TREE by Kathe Fosbenner GLASS TREES by Sister Veronica Schuck, S.H.R. HALLOWEEN AGAIN by Edward D. Ulrich THE READING CENTER AT HFC by Sister Mary de Lourdes, C.S.F.N. REMINISCENCE OF THE FUTURE by Rosemary Gabriel ON THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ICECAPS AND DAFFODILS by Thomas F. Lombardi, Ph.D., Department of English YELLOW-JACKET by Mary T. McMahon CASSANDRA by Maryann Mazzafro MY HIDEAWAY WORLD by Christine M. Woods THIS TIME MY HEAD'S ON STRAIGHT by Dorian T. Brooke CONSCIENCE by Janice Wilson AGUE by Geraldine C. Daniels INVISIBLE THEY by Dennis Natoli ILLUSTRATIONS Thomas F. Lombardi, Ph.D.: THIS TIME MY HEAD'S ON STRAIGHT. Jesus Marrero: YELLOW-JACKET. Edward D. Ulrich: HALLOWEEN AGAIN; REMINISCENCE OF THE FUTURE; CASSANDRA; CONSCIENCE. Margaret Alfree Ulrich: THE INTROSPECTIVE BRIDGE; MY HIDEAWAY WORLD.

1 3 4 5 6 7 14 15 17 18 19 26 27 33 35 36

The Introspective Bridge ... Twenty-five years ago an idea became a reality. A college was founded. In the greater Northeast of Philadelphia, in a section called Torresdale. A four-year liberal arts college. For women. In February 1954 Holy Family College came into being, an institution of higher learning, chartered by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and conducted by the Sisters of the Holy Family of Nazareth. Holy Family College was not buildings; in 1954 there were no buildings. They came later. The College was people: administrators, faculty, stuoents people with a vision, a faith and a tremendous amount of courage. Believers in a cause. Pioneers. The College had a mission: to educate its students within the framework of the liberal arts tradition. It was committed to serve the needs .of the Church and of society, institutions which sought young women, equipped not only academi cally but also ideally, possessing high standards of living . . . women with purpose, conviction, and enthusiasm, women with leadership potential. Holy Family College was founded on a philosophy, a conviction that educa tion is a lifelong process; that this process is perfective of the individual receiving it; and that ociety reap the benefits wherever such individuals are found. That educated persons are aware and re ponsible; that they contribute actively to the betterment of home and profession; that they face all life situations positivelr, and constructively and purposefully. That they are a credit to themselves, to the College. and to the world at large. In 1954 Holy Family College was a small institution; characterized by a warm fr iendliness shared by faculty and students alike. A family atmosphere in which everyone took pride. A close relationship, strengthened by the inner con viction of each other' personal worth and dignity. Time for one another, under standing, care and concern, complemented by deference and respect: these were the hallmarks which pervaded the atmosphere and characterized the environ ment Today, twenty-five years later, Holy Family College exists, lives, thrives. It has buildings, but continues to "be" those who teach and learn within; a community of people who still believe in the Institution and strive to carry out its mission and its philosophy; people who work together to keep alive the spirit of their predecessors and to promote further a truly familial and academic ambiance throughout the campus. In these first twenty-five years, however, Holy Family College has grown, expanded both physically and academically. It has received accreditations,

Holy Family College- Past, Present, Future acquired recognition and reputation; it has amended its charter to add another degree and also to accommodate the requests made by male applicants. It has initiated new fields of concentration and revised others; established centers to aid children of the local community, as well as a campus nursery school and kindergarten; it has expanded its evening and Saturday offerings to adapt to the needs of adult students and to facilitate their progress in academia; it has opened its doors to the senior citizen, and it has offered it facilities to numerous and varied local groups seeking a site to carry out their respective activities. The campus of HFC has added acreage and buildings; it has largely inÂ creased its student population and teaching personnel; it has multiplied its supportive staff and student services; it has triumphed over the growing years and reached full maturity. And yet, the unique, intangible, indelible character imprinted at its foundation, the quality of its education, the close relationship of faculty and students, the dedication and commitment of the entire staff, the enthusiastic response of its student leadership: these have remained unchanged. What will be the Holy Family College of these next twenty-five years? How will it be described in 2004? Will its mission, its philosophy, and its character remain, while its curriculum and its student population keep pace with an ever-changing and ever-demanding world? Will the College continue to grow? Will it still have a place in the greater Northeast of Philadelphia? Will its alumni and students continue to support its ideals and its beliefs? Who will be here to witness the answer? Some of us? None of us? Can we go through these walls, these halls, these rooms, and not feel compelled to care? Can any one of us who has been a part of the first twenty-five years not dream of those to come? What can we do to assure the future well-being of Holy Family College? Perhaps each of us can leave behind a little of our heart and take away a great deal of the spirit. Then we will continue to live in Holy Family, and Holy Family College will continue to live in us. And the past, the present, and the future will be one.

Sister Mary Immaculata, D.M.L. Academic Dean

Sr. M. Florence Tumasz, C.S.F.N., Ph.D.

We Soon Grow Old

We soon grow old, old with our memoriesÂ Photographs stored away within an albumned mind To gaze at, wistfully relive, When leisure's kind. We soon grow old watching year after year Our latest fledglings take to wing and fly And signing that again links broken are, When youth goes by. We soon grow old and yet we would not pass Our torches blazing with white flames of truth To other hands while ours are strong. 'Tis a joy To grow old with youth!

Kathy Donnelly

Silver

Shimmering in vagueness, it allows a creation, a fabrication, a mellowing, of hurts and transgressions. Ice-like, but never cold, warmed by the sunshine, drawing in its rays, the colors of the rainbow. Living the dimension of yet to come, a mirror, it captures the image, sharpens and defines it, clarifies and explains it. Vixen, demanding attention, fascinating, it draws, teases, tantalizes, the shades of color and meaning across its smooth, unfurrowed brow. Eternal, it shadows, yet, predominates, forever future-then suddenly forever past, forever forever. Reflecting the facets of yesterday, a moment passed, a second spent, silver.

Kathe FosbenrJ,er

I Feel Like A Tree I feel like a tree Secure with old thick roots And sturdy branches reaching out To touch the one I love But I cannot I can only bend with the wind My leaves begin to rustle I am restless No other trees surround me I am alone

Sister Veronica Schuck, S.H.R.

Glass Trees

The raindrops fell The branches a source of solidity created beauty by the invisible hand A source of wonder A mirror for one's mind, transparent, yet concrete When the sun shines ... glistening crystal, wishing well imagining a miracle come true A gift for sensitive eyes a sight to be shared with a friend.

Edward D. Ulrich

Halloween Again The moon appeared surrounded by silver clouds as dusk became night. Whisps of wind reeled about pulling leaves from swaying branches. The wind howled. It swept the street as if to level walls: only the ivy held fast. Gusts of wind pressed against the windows of Kaponi Hall, a grey fieldstone mansion at the north end of Weisskugel. The wind continued to lick at the blue tinted glass. The window flew open as winds buffeted the ancient panes like batÂ teringrams. Suzanne-Marie rose from her throne-like chaise lounge, startled by the blustery intruder. She pulled the windows shut again and lowered a restraining bar that spanned the framework. Before returning to her seat, she gathered up the stationery that was blown from atop the mahogany grand piano. Suzanne chuckled softly as she read the retrieved correspondence. The letters were affirmative replies to an invitation for Suzanne's Halloween party. She counted them-six in all. ''This will be a memorable night for all,'' Suzanne thought aloud. David Koeh had the same thought when he prepared for the Halloween masquerade. David chose to dress as Count Dracula. He made sure he looked the part-livid complexion, black suit, grey ascot, and enlarged canines. The climatic touch, however, was the black silk cape lined in silver. Dracula was ready. David looked at his pocket watch and realized that he was runÂ ning a little late. He picked up his wolfhead cane, raised his collar, and exited the door. David had to fight the wind in his face as he made his way across the meadow and through the center of the cemetery; then, he climbed the steep slope leading to Kaponi Hall. Upon reaching the portico, David paused to prepare himself for the greeting. He pressed the door chime and positioned his cape over his raised arm, partially covering his face. Suzanne opened the

bulky doors and gasped as Dracula's arm lowered, revealing a glow-white face with micro-sequins reflecting the evening light. "Good evening, Marie-Antoinette," said David, speaking with a Rumanian accent. "May I come in?" "Good Lord, you scared me, David," replied Suzanne. "Come on in. Everyone is here now except Joanne." Suzanne called across the room to Jonathan, "Hey, Jonathan, the Count is here." Jonathan DiGreggorio entered the foyer. "Welcome, your Excellency,'' he greeted in a warm voice, ''the party is in the parlor." He gestured toward the adjoining room. Suzanne and Jonathan directed David into a well-lighted Tudor styled drawing room. They introduced him to the other guests: Queen Elizabeth I, Carmela Kentrel; Cleopatra, Rosemary Sainte; and Julius Caesar, Totn Lorraine. When David approached Caesar and Cleopatra, Rosemary started, "Oh, no, look at what's coming. Tom, you greet it. Then tell me if you survive!" With a show of prowess, Tom grasped his toga diplomatically and approached the Count. "Welcome, Count Dracula! I want you to meet some old blood.'' "Now watch how you phrase that, Caesar, dear," Rosemary interjected. "I hope you're merely referring to the fact that we lived centuries before our friend here and not to my age.'' "Precisely, my dear, even though it's a fact that you have been around for years. Shall we say two thousand decades?'' David approached Rosemary. ''Age does not concern me- only beautiful veins such as yours," he drawled in Rumanian. "See that, Caesar. You haven't come, seen, and conquered me yet. This fellow has good taste.'' Dracula sat next to Cleopatra, placing his arm around her shoulders. "Yes, I have become a connoiseur in my field." Rosemary pulled away from his hold. "I'll bet you have, too," she replied sarcastically. "Just don't take any samples tonight. I need what I have." The doorbell rang and Suzanne suggested that David answer.

Joanne did not expect to be received by the horror she encoun tered. The final guest to arrive almost retraced her steps; however, Dracula, through his finesse and a strong grip, persuaded the Tzarina Alexandra to remain. Once inside the Tzarina was wel comed into the royal gathering. Everyone knew that Joanne would come dressed as Alexandra. She adored the Romanov Dynasty, and Alexandra was her favorite historical personage. A respite developed in the conversation, and Suzanne intro duced some games: apple bobbing, peanut racing, and a treasure hunt. Then later, the clock tolled midnight. Jonathan whispered something to Tom and Carmela. Suzanne insisted on knowing what was said. Jonathan revealed that he had asked Tom and Carmela to perform a seance. He also informed the group that Tom was a psychic receiver and that Carmela was not only a medium, but she had the background to conduct a productive seance. No one officially agreed; nor did anyone refuse, and so the seven prepared for a seance. Carmela took command of the preparations. She began by plac ing masking tape in the form of a circle on the burgundy carpeting. With Joanne's help she ran the spool of tape through the circle, forming two criss-crossing triangles, which resembled the Star of David. "Suzanne," Carmela requested, "we need matches and some candles to put around the circle.'' ''Oh, sure,'' replied Suzanne. ''There are several candles around the room. If Jonathan and David would like to set them up, I'll get the matches from the mantlepiece.'' David and Jonathan collected four candelabra from the corners of the melancholy room and placed them at equidistant intervals around the circle. Suzanne approached the mantle above the fire place with great caution; it seems that a log rolled over which caused sparks to leap from the dancing flames. She removed the fire screen to poke the logs; then, she swept the ashes back, added more wood, and replaced the screen. Suzanne reached for the box of matches lying on the marble mantle. She also took down a small

candle in a pewter holder. ''Here's something to put in the middle,'' she said as she placed the candle at the circle's center. Carmela lighted the candles and began to explain procedures. "You will sit inside what is known as the Double Seal of Solomon. The seance will be held within this unbroken seal for protection against unfriendly spirits. Everyone is to hold hands and concen足 trate on the flame in front of you. The flame will be the focal point. Our intense concentration on the flame should magnify and grow as a single force. With this force we can make the flame rise or even use it to contact the spirit world. Now for the cautionary stipula足 tions. Under no circumstances is anyone to break the hand circle, and, above all, no one is to go outside the protective seal until we have concluded our seance. I assure you that we don't want to trap any spirit in this room by breaking the chain.'' Carmela gestured everyone to be seated. To Carmela's right sat Joanne, David, and Tom; Rosemary, Suzanne, and Jonathan were seated to her left. They held hands to form a continuous link with one another. "Well," said Carmela, "whom do we contact?" After a slight debate, the seven agreed to try contacting the real Count Dracula-Vlad Tepes. No one was certain whether Vlad, a Transylvanian count, was merely a mass-murderer of the mid足 fifteenth century or, in actuality, a member of the living dead. Uncertainty, however, did not deter the group from attempting a contact. Carmela began to beckon Dracula to appear and speak to them. Again she tried-a third and a fourth time. "Come on, people, concentrate,'' she demanded. "Oh, Count Vlad," she continued, "the Voivode Dracula, ap足 pear before us. Speak to us. Give us a sign. We summon you. You who governed the province of Walachia. You who killed and drank the blood of your victims. We command you to appear and give us a sign. By the Order of the Dragon to which you belonged, we demand that you give us a sign." A torrent of air broke through the ancient window casing-the restraining bar no longer held fast-and whirled around the room

extinguishing all the candles except for the central one. All re mained transfixed, stupified with fear. The logs in the fireplace rolled down again, causing sparks to jump and shoot. Flames licked at the fire screen; some worked their way outside the protective screen where they vanished with distance. "Keep within the seal," shouted Carmela. Her speech was breathless. "We've got to send him away," she wailed, tears forming in her eyes. "Spirit of Count Dracula we beseech you, be gone! Do not haunt us. You may rest again. Go! We command you, go!" The central candle flickered; the flame rose as the necromancers intensified their concentration with prayer. Then a chill surged throughout the room. A cold presence was felt by Tom. "Some thing touched me," he shouted. "I felt it on my left shoulder." "I feel it, too," Jonathan cried, "on the left!" In turn, Suzanne, Rosemary, and Carmela experienced the :icy presence. When Joanne felt the chill, she jumped, causing Carmela and David to move. Carmela caught herself before crossing Solomon's Seal. For just a second, however, David's cape covered the peripheral tape, breaking the eternal dimension which all circles have. Uncon sciously, he repositioned. The torrent subsided, and the room grew warmer. "Let's stop now!" said Jonathan as he pulled his hands away from his partners. "I feel spooked. I'm cold, too." It was agreed that the seance should be ended. Moreover, it was the consensus that everyone felt the cold presence on his left shoulder, except for David, who felt a chilling surge throughout his body. Everyone agreed with his feeling, as goose flesh became · epidemic. More logs were added to the fire, and several persons took seats at fire's side. Joanne and David did not get seated, and so they resumed their postures on the floor-a little closer than before and nearer to the fire. Conversation was fixed on the seance for the remainder of the evening.

Time advanced quickly, and the party disbanded. Final farewells were made, and the royal entourage began to walk homeward. The weather had not changed all evening. The wind continued to reel about in whisps-stirring all loose objects-and howled, although it sounded more wolf-like than before. "Can I walk you home, Alexandra?" said David in a thickened Rumanian drawl. ''You do look beautiful in this moonlight, and you bring back such fond memories. I was once free spirited and uninÂ hibited as I am once again." Dracula and Tzarina walked in the direction of the cemetery; she was cloaked under his wing. The wind howled like wolves' lugubriÂ ous chanting. The night was perfect for Halloween-for treats and for tricks.

Sister Mary de Lourdes, C.S.F.N.

The Reading Center at HFC

There is always an open door, To Room 307 on the third floor, For any elementary major, Her teaching skills to wager. First, the diagnostic testing, Proceeds with in-between resting, Followed by a sound prescription Of the needed skills instruction. Rapport and teacher-pupil relation Is the initial motivation. Meaning and proper word perception, Remains the constant realization. Pupil progress is recorded. Reward and praise, well afforded! 'Tis ten of the twenty five years, H F C is curing reading fears.

Rosenwry Gabriel

Reminiscence of the Future "Father, where did we come from?" asked little Garth one day while playing at the base of the Bird-Man Temple. Why it was given that name had long been forgotten by the people. "Whatever would make you ask such a question, child? You know we came from the Heavens. That is why we come here to worship.'' "Tell me the stories of our past, Father. Tell me them both!" ''Very well, my son. The time has come for you to learn the Truth so that you may tell your son. Sit while I tell you the story that the people know. "Once, long age, we lived in a different world. There was beauty all around. There were no wars or anything less than pure loveliÂ ness. We grew too powerful, sinned and lost all we had. We were put out of our garden paradise to repent our sins." "Now tell me the true one, Father: why we worship this strange old object that once flew!" "Long ago, even before we could write, we lived in utter bliss. As we grew, we named our home and called it Eden. We lived there happily for a long time, until we grew too powerful. Our leaders, Zeus, Apollo, Athena, Isis, Ra, and the others, were angered by our power. We grew away from our worship of them. There was a bad war. Many of us were lost to their laser lightning bolts. Those of us that were left after we lost the war were told we had to leave Eden and go to a distant place called Terra, our home now. We missed Eden so much that we named nearby places after our old leaders. Mars, Saturn, Jupiter, Venus, Vulcan, Mercury, Neptune, and Pluto are only some of the Great Ones we honor in this way. "They were sad to see us leave as well, for we were truly their children long, long ago. They sent us out in this metal bird to come

here, with a promise of their return to us. Even to this day they return to watch our progress. I fear, however, that we are losing our link with Eden. The people have been kept from the truth for too long. They doubt and fear the coming of our old leaders. Someday we may completely forget all that was. It is your place, my son, to tell the people, for I am an Old One and they no longer believe in my words. The day is coming when all will be lost, and we will find ourselves facing something that will seem new, strange, unreal, and alien, when, in actual fact, it was our beginning."

Thomas F. Lombardi, Ph.D., Department of English

On the Difference Between Icecaps and Daffodils We saw our mothers and our fathers, with new eyes. The fields beneath the harvest moon in age. And shall we see them afterwards, U nrecognizably recognized? The Vikings sighted Iceland through the mist; The Arctic sameness-sameness now is Reykjavik. Whose unborn eyes shall search tomorrow's fat fjords? The polar winds unweather weather's steady flow below, Homewarding daffodils define the solid memories Of sleepers whistling in the quiet earth.

Mary TM . cMahon

Yellow-J acket

t A yellow-· :..\Jacke landed On my fi�er; Could she \have mistaken me \ For a fl ower?

Maryann Mazzafro

Cassandra

The rain seemed to be sifted from the clouds as a fine spray of moisture descended upon the old, iron-grey stone house. Proud in its antiquity, the stoical structure stood secluded from the main road amidst the lofty evergreens which lined the forest. Guarding the majestic abode was the august stare of its massive oaken door, beyond which one would surely expect to encounter large, sparsely

furnished rooms. Yet quite the opposite was true. Such a warmth pervaded the quaint interior of the house that the atmosphere seemed almost contrived. It was as if two domineering forces had conquered the structure and neither would relinquish his share. The dual nature of the house was most apparent in the living room, where a green shag rug covered the dusty wooden floor, and wallboard ceiling masked the orginal nine-foot high rafters. Many a lively polka and soft German ballad echoed through these rafters in the sixty-year history of the house, but few traces of the immigrants who had first settled there remained. Only the west wall tesÂ tified to the Ludwigs' former residency. There, above the stone fireplace hung a severe portrait of the straight-laced and pious Frau Ludwig. On the mantle below sat the treasured wooden cuckoo clock which she had brought from her home in the Black Forest. Ever since Frau Ludwig's son-in-law, Brous Kalpowizc, had agreed to live in the old house, such changes had taken place which virtually transformed the living room. In addition to carpeting the floor and lowering the ceiling, the Pole insisted upon buying a new, soft-cushioned sofa in place of the hard-wood chairs. The most drastic change that Brous had demanded concerned the rocking chair in front of the large casement window on the east wall. There in the sunshine Frau Ludwig had spent most of her afternoons rocking and crocheting. "No room for this thing," Brous had mumbled as he had pushed the chair into a corner. He had then sealed shut the casement window and had hung floor length velvet drapes as a backdrop for his mahogony upright piano, upon which he proudly displayed the bust of his favorite Polish composer, Frederic Frarn;ois Chopin. Brous abandoned his compulsion to remodel the house when his wife had given birth to their daughter, Cassandra. It was on that day seven years ago that the Pole had forbidden the use of the German language in the house. "No more of the Nazi tongue!" he had screamed to Frau Ludwig. "My daughter will not learn your calÂ loused ways!'' Pride and obstinancy would not allow the old

woman to abandon her native tongue or deprived Cassandra of her German heritage. So whenever the Pole would leave the house, Frau Ludwig would sit at the piano holding her granddaugther as she sang songs from the old country. All went well with this arrangement until one teeming, blustery night when Brous came home early. As he closed the oaken door, the forbidden German lyrics of a lullaby pierced his ears. With embers raging in his eyes, Brous mechanically approached the source of his torment and, slowly, tautly wrapped the cord from the velvet drapes around her neck. There, at the piano bench slumped the lifeless grandmother over the sleeping child. "I will be bothered by that gutteral tongue of the concentration camp no more!" were Brous' only words as he was condemned to life m pnson. Three years after the death of Frau Ludwig, Brous strangled himself in his cell. His widow and daughter were, then, the only two left in the old iron-grey house. The rain continued to sprinkle upon the house on the six-year anniversary of Frau Ludwig's death as Mrs. Kalpowizc and CasÂ sandra sat on the soft-cushioned couch paging through the family photo-album. "Mommy, who's that?" "That's me, when I was your age, Cassandra," replied the reminiscing mother. "You're only seven here? You look a lot older, Mom. You look at least ten years old!" "Well, we dressed differently in those days." Cassandra turned the page. After scrutinizing several other picÂ tures of her blue-eyed, dark haired mother, she tested the woman again: "Mommy, are you sure this is you?" "Of course, I'm sure!" affirmed Mrs. Kalpowizc as she smiled. "Well, then, are you my real mother?" the child continued. "Certainly, darling. Why do you ask?" "Well, Janie Harris looks just like her real mother. They both

even have the same freckles, and I don't look anything like you. Who do I take after?'' "Oh, I don't know. Let's look at some of your pictures and find out.'' Turning toward the second half of the book, Mrs. Kalpowizc revealed the baby pictures of Cassandra. "There, that's who you look like. You look like your grandmother," the woman said as she pointed to a picture of Frau Ludwig holding Cassandra. "You have her brown eyes and her golden hair." "But, Mommy, Grandmom's hair is grey, and I don't have her wrinkles." As the child protested, Mrs. Kalpowizc could see just how much of Brous was also in their daughter. Whenever Cas sandra was angry or determined, she would tilt her head up, allow ing her square jaw to jut out, much like her Polish father. The song of the cuckoo clock, signifying 8:30, shook Mrs. Kal powizc from her thoughts. "My goodness, it's late! Time for bed, young lady," the mother announced as she gently twisted her daughter's golden braids. "But, Mommy, I haven't finished looking at the pictures." "There'll be time for that tomorrow, Cassandra." The child's plump face grew longer as she pressed her lips to gether in firm rebellion and wrinkled her brow. Mrs. Kalpowizc found it difficult to correct Cassandra when she made such faces, for at those times she looked so much like her strong-willed German grandmother. Instinctively, the woman looked up at the portrait of her proud mother. Although the picture seemed out of place in the modern ized living room, Mrs. Kalpowizc kept it for strength-the strength she needed in rearing a child like Cassandra by herself. Usually, Cassandra was an amiable, high spirited child, but sometimes she would grow somber, a darkness would come over her golden brown eyes, and her face would grow old and severe like her grandmother's. The last time such a transformation dominated the girl was two

weeks ago on a rainy Friday, when her relatives were visiting. In the midst of quiet conversation, Cassandra began to reply in Ger man. When asked where she had learned the language, she re sponded in a mature tone of voice, "I always knew it." Later that evening Mrs. Kalpowizc' s sister asked if Cassandra was learning to play the piano. Before her mother could say no, Cassandra had proceeded to the smooth mahogony instrument and flawlessly exe cuted Chopin's "Polonaise in A-Flat." The visitors were amazed by the apparent genius of the child. Mrs. Kalpowizc was terrified. Expelling the horror of this incident from her mind, the flustered mother repeated her former command: "To bed with you, Cas sandra!" By this time the soft precipitation from the clouds had strengthened to a steady rhythmic beat upon the roof. The constant ticking of the cuckoo clock grew painfully loud. As the pouting child grew somber, her golden brown eyes grew darker, and sever ity replaced the pink glow in her cheeks. With the resolute firmness of a mature woman, Cassandra rose to her feet, chanting, "Einig keit und recht und freiheit ... '' 1 The tempo of the steady min quickened as a tumultuous clap of thunder resounded throughout the house, and Cassandra was abruptly silenced. As a flash of light streaked from the glass eyes of the Chopin bust, an impish gleam simultaneously shone in the child's eyes. Cas sandra held her head higher, revealing a stalwart determination in her square, jutting jaw. Swaggering confidently toward the piano, she once again drew forth a melody from the ivory keys. This time, however, the composition was a proud victory march written by her own father. Mrs. Kalpowizc stood transfixed by the music of the man who had strangled her mother. A surge of electricity flashed in the sky as gusts of wind tore at the stone structure. The once tame rain had grown violent. "Leave us alone, Brous!" the terror-stricken mother pleaded. Cassandra abruptly turned from the keyboard. Relaxing her jaw, she lowered her head and cradled her arms. As she rocked to a steady ticking of the cuckoo clock, the child in a withered, unsteady

voice sang, "Mein Kind, de miisst jetzt schlaffen, und traumst eined Traum wohl schon. " 2 The lullaby continued as flaming emÂ bers leapt in her eyes and the light once again glistened in the glass eyes of the Chopin bust. Mechanically, Cassandra reached with one arm for the curtain cord behind the piano. Her withered voice grew louder, "Du miisst des gliick und liebe traumen, mein Kind, mein schones Kind," 3 as she slowly, tautly wrapped the cord around her neck. The next morning, Mrs. Kalpowizc was awakened by the glaring rays of the sun through the bare casement window. The ticking of the cuckoo clock had ceased; the glass eyes of the Chopin bust were closed. There on the green shag rug lay the smiling Cassandra.

1 2 3

She &ings the words of the German National Anthem: "Unity and law and freedom ... " "My child, you must now dream, and dream a dream so sweet." "You must dream of happiness and love, my child, my lovely child."

Christine M. Woods

My Hideaway World Most hideaway worlds are fantasy, But, mine is solid and real. It's a room of my own where I am meÂ Where I am permitted to feel. Now the rest is pretend all around me: Words come to life from a song. I've pretended so long that I truly believe My room is where I belong. Âˇ So I hide away in my hideaway world Escaping the life I can't bear; Where I can have feelings, whatever I feel, The ones I'm deprived of out there.

Dorian T. Brooke

This Time My Head's On Straight ''You listen to me, Steven-you're not going anywhere. What do you think this is here, a hotel? Coming in at four in the morning, sleeping until four in the afternoon. Well, tonight you're staying home with your father and me, and I don't want to hear another word about it!" "Geez, it's freezing outside," I said as I opened the front door. I pulled on my worn army jacket and said, "What were you saying, Mom?" "Maybe if you'd wear a decent coat and get rid of those thin dungarees and wear a hat you wouldn't be so cold. I said you're staying home tonight with your family!" "Look, Mom, just lay off me, will you? I walk in the room, and you snap on me. I'm really getting sick and tired of your aggravaÂ tion. So just leave me alone, OK?" It always started out like that. Finally, it got to the point where I dreaded the thought of going home. All they ever did was yell and scream at me. "Steven do this. Steven do that. Steven don't do that. Steven get your hair cut,'' and every other darn thing. That's all I ever heard. So one day I walked out and had no intention of ever going back. I was eighteen-a stupid kid who wore grubby jeans, flannel shirts, work boots, and had long hair. So all the old folks thought I was radical. Maybe I wasn't your all-American boy, but I wasn't a radical either. I was just a typical kid who wore what I wore because it was comfortable and who couldn't give a hang about what people thought. Nobody understands kids, and my parents were the rule rather than the exception. They never even gave me a chance-all they ever thought about was '' our son the doctor or our son the lawyer'' or something else along that line. Well, I figured I'd

be a social worker or something like that. That doctor-lawyer scene wasn't for me. But Mom and Dadjust kept pushing-about that and everything else-so I figured it wasn't worth it. I wanted my inde足 pendence. I had to live my life my way, not theirs. That's why I left. They just wouldn't let me go, so I just left. Things were kind of rough at first. I found a job at the ''Qwik足 Kleen Car Wash." Lousy work, but it served its purpose; I made enough money to squeeze by on. At first I moved in with an old buddy. The perfect arrangement it wasn't, but that served its pur足 pose, too. When that finally fell through, I found my own ''fur足 nished'' apartment, or rather my very own ''hole.'' That is exactly what it was, a real dump. It was always cold and dusty and smelly. But at least I didn't need wallpaper. The pink plaster walls were so badly cracked that the cracks made their own crazy kind of design. Two splintered sticks, which I guess where chairs, a tiny table, and a lumpy, squeaky old bed were supposed to qualify the place as "furnished." As crummy as it was, somehow it wasn't all that bad. I was on my own, and there was no one to tell me what to do. Besides, I hardly ever spent much time at "home." I had a lot of friends who were always having parties, all day-all night parties, and I was always invited. So I came and went and did and wore as I pleased with nobody at all to bother me. There's one party I'll never forget. I met a girl, Margot. What a fox! She really turned me on, in more ways than one. "Hey, how about a drink?" I asked, starting to make; my move. ''Sure, sweetheart,'' she winked. She was already half out of her mind with booze. The haze of the smoke-filled room seemed to wrap the two of us into our own little world. We had to shout at each other, even though we were only inches apart, to be heard over the blaring wail of the stereo. But it didn't seem to matter what we said; the contact had been made, and it didn't need words to keep it going. We drank and drank until neither of us could stand up any longer. Somehow we ended up in her car-it was a fire engine red Porsche. I'll never

forget that car. "Let's get high, Steve," she teased drunkenly. '' Sure, baby, whatever you say,'' I said, eager to please this beautiful, high-class tramp. I had already fooled around with marijuana and hash, but she was talking about the big time stuff. That night in her hot red Porsche was the beginning of it all,or maybe it would be better to say it was the end of it all. Our relationship grew like a disease, but it sure was a pleasant disease. We really had a good thing going. I had found myself a rich chick who had all the connections I needed. She supplied me with all the junk any guy could ever want. And as time went on,I kept wanting more and more. Once she sunk her claws into me, I just couldn't tear myself away. We really lived high-she had more money than I'd ever seen in my entire life. A week after that first night in her Porsche,I moved out of my Second Avenue dump and into her posh Park Avenue apartment. What a life! We partied non-stop. I quit my job and started to hustle for her.All the while,we just kept on spending her money. I don't even know where it all came from. She could have been out robbing banks when I went to sleep,for all I knew. But what I did know was that I had come a long way from being stepped on by two stuffy, middle-aged parents. Oh, they hadn't forgotten me. Mom would call and cry to me to "come home," but those days were over, and I told her so.I'd never go back to that,not the way I was living then. One night Margot and I were driving home from a party in Brooklyn.Already stoned out of our minds,we decided to have one last hit, "for the road." Margot passed out five minutes after we had started,but I was so high that I didn't even care. I had the top down, and I was just cruising along; there wasn't much traffic at three in the morning. Everything was so clear-the sky, the stars, the lights of the bridge ...and that's where I can't remember any more.

The next thing I knew, there were noises, strange noises, all around me. But I felt thousands of miles away from them.Scarcely aware of anything but the bruised bulk of my own body, I suddenly realized that it was crying for air, gasping.My brain was so foggy that I couldn't even call on it for help. For a moment,just a moment, my mind began to function.Things were coming back in snatches./' m hurt. I'm in a hospital. Some abominable weight was pulling at my pelvis, wrenching it from the rest of my body. Traction. A searing pain shooting down my spine brought me to the realization of what had happened. Nausea swept over me again as I remembered.Oh my God ...the bridge ...we crashed on the bridge. Margot ...where's Margot? I'm so sick. It was all so vague-the sirens, the lights, the police . . . and the crumpled body. She's dead. I found out later that the police had notified my parents. How were they to know about the way things stood between us? In my confusion, I, too, knew nothing about the split with my parents; I remembered nothing about the past few months. In my state of hysterical delirium, I groped around my bedside for the phone, and somehow I dialed it.I wasn't even aware of the number I had called until I heard a strangely familiar voice at the other end. "Mom, come quick. I'm sick and I'm going to die." The receiver fell from my hand and dangled loosely onto the floor. She hadn't even answered me. From somewhere down the corridor, I heard a feeble old voice crying, "Mother, mother, mother," over and over again. It was a cracked, dry, faceless voice, much too old to want its mother. With that pitiful sound ringing in my ears, I dropped back into darkness. After what seemed like hours, I woke again. My body was trembling uncontrollably, sweat poured down me, and waves of nausea drowned me. My stomach heaved and strained; I had to vomit, but there was nothing inside me to come up.My mind was a jumbled mess; I thought I was going crazy.I screamed out in pain, and I cried out for help.Finding the phone again and fumbling with

the dial, I cried hoarsely, 'Tm so sick, Mom. Please come. Please. Why aren't you here?" This time, while she had the chance, she told me everything would be all right. I didn't believe her. A nurse finally came to me. I screamed at her to get me a doctor, any doctor. She tried to calm me down.I persisted, though, screamÂ ing like a madman. Then I faded back into unconsciousness. When I awoke this time, there were nurses all around me. Lots of nurses, all doing different things to me.And there was a doctor, Chinese or Japanese or Korean, maybe.He poked at my stomach, always asking, "You have pain here?" with each new poke. "No, no. I'm sick all over.Help me," I answered weakly.My eyes closed and I was unable to move. They were all whispering something. "What did he take?" I heard. Suddenly it dawned on me; all the pieces seemed to come together that were floating around in my weary mind. That last hit ...it was too much. I OD' d. I passed out. And then we crashed. "Overdose" kept pounding at my brain. The doctor was shaking me, yelling at me, slapping me. "I give you needle, now make you better," he said. "No, no.I've taken enough drugs already. Please don't give me anything else,'' I pleaded hysterically.But it was too late.I felt the pinch and nodded back into nothingness. The next time I woke, everything was still unclear, but the horrible nausea had subsided. Everything was moving so slowly; my eyes strained to focus, and my mouth was so dry that I could barely utter a few broken syllables. So I continued for two days, sleeping most of the time, walking for only a few minutes at a time.The only thing I knew for sure was that I was scared.Eventually, things began to become clearer.I finally recognized my parents, who had been with me since my second call. Relief spread through me. I felt a hand on mine, and I knew the nightmare was over. That was over two years ago. I went home with my parents. I was surprised that they'd even have me.Everything was so different

this time. They tried so hard, and, God, how I tried to make things work out this time around. It was pretty rough at times, believe me. Tempers would rage and we'd fight sometimes, and there were times when I wanted to walk out again. But I never did. I'm still not a doctor or a lawyer, and I still wear jeans, but there is one major change: this time my head's on straight.

Janice Wilson

Conscience

What does he want, this vagrant soul; Why does he stare, so vague and wan? His hands reach out, coarse and worn, His eyes so sad, too sad for tears. Let me go my way old manYou, too, be on your way. You are lonely, filled with fear; Your spirit is despaired. But take with you my silent prayer, A smile from my eyes. For I, too, share your burdened heart And know your trials well. Old man, there is no one within the world That has not shared your grief.

Geraldine C. Daniels

Ague

Twisting knots of anxiety bind the stomach. Steel columns block the head. Frustration whelms within and ripens to red anger Heat ...suffocation heat. The world is too close. Words ...meaningless words the memory explodes.

Dennis Natoli

Invisible They

In slight of hand moments They meet each other with alien smiles, An incognito transition orally defined as strange As a mannequin worthless in size. Who are the ones standing attached to bus stops Recollecting their birthplaces in a time of departure? ... But who are ... Besides the acidity in their humor This crowd palms the thoughts in society Just to remind the ones with the title I That the group is controlled by the catchphrase manipulators Hiding in the corners of the aboriginal smile. The reality heroes stretch in this humanity And remain to nocturnally wander As the unknown factor entitle themselves: They.

Editor

Edward D. Ulrich

Staff

William Derbyshire Kathe Fosbenner Marianne Heretyk Kathy Rossman Christine M-. Woods

Moderator

Thomas F. Lombardi, Ph.D.

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