Folio 16 by HFU Folio

MARIAN YEAR 1987

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R.W. STRINGER PRINTING 969-4111 Â©

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IDhe Folio is a belles-lettres publica tion of contemporary artistic expression. This little magazine encompasses in words and visual graphics the thoughts of the fac ulty and student body of Holy Family Col lege. Student-Faculty contributions from other institutions as well as creations fro1n area artists are welcome.

TENOR VOTIS I am bound to give of myself because I have received

Advisor, Editors, ond S1off wish 10 dedico1e Jo/io /6

Sister Mory Neomisio, CSFN, Founder and Firsr Presidenr Holy Family College

The sudden death of Marion Ahrens Von Rosenstiel on August 17, 1987 was a deep loss to all who knew and worked with her. Marion was visiting her grandchildren in Seattle, Washington, at the time of her death. With boundless energy, love, and generosity toward her fellowman, Marion was a positive role model for students at Holy Family College. The caliber of educational experience she provided to her students during her seventeen year tenure at the College underscored the insatiable curiosity she had about life and learning. She is fondly rem.embered by Folio's Advisor Dr. Thomas F. Lombardi and the entire staff.

CONTENTS PASTORJUSPARK ....................................... MichaelP. Toner THE HEART OF MOOREA.Thomas F. Lombardi., Ph.D. POT ROAST ........................................................ Laraine Hayden A SOUND CAME OUT OF THE DARKNESS ....................................... Stella Anastasia CHOICES....................................................... Christiane Odyniec DO YOU KNOW THEPOOR LITTLE BOY? ......................... Henry J. Tokarski ISLAND HEIGHTS ................................................ Robert Claus THE LEGEND ............................................................ Joan Moore THE GHOSTS OF CENTRAL CITY ...... Nancy Herrmann I HOLD MY LOVE WITHIN .....................Edward D. Ulrich IN SEARCH OF HEROES AT CHRJSTMAS TIME: SAINT PATRJCK'S CATHEDRAL AS THE INSTIGATOR .................................................. Denis Natoli DIARMAID'S PRAYER............................... MichaelP. Toner ESTHERPEABODYS WAKE .............................. John Smith I AIN'T A BAD PERSON ...................................Peggy Dolezal HOW DARE I BE SO BEAUTIFUL? ................... T.S. Joseph STAIRCASE .................................................... Thomas Cordivari SHATTER THE VEIL ....................................... Angela L. Gillis THE DEATH OF THE CHILD ..................... Kathy McFillin ARTISTS .............................................................Nancy Herrmann Elizabeth M. Gregory

PASTORIUS PARK (for Basil Burwell)

"Midsummer concerts, children fill this park; I gather woodfall for the winter here ...." Your sudden smile halts him: "Near that bower, an ebbing pond-the drought has left its mark." His threescore-ten declines our fleet pavane through rushes, ivy bed, unsated stream; snared by a place, a name-mind's perfidyhe, who knew Yeats by rote, contoured Hamlet. "AE ... Sligo ...Tintern ...Swansea ...John Clare ... " We once took students to the Hebrides . Your auburn hair a remnant of Millay -diviner of such wanton innocenceÂ dusk-bordered dreams hosting all youth betrayed: " ... initials carved at Coale; I've tarried there."

- Michael Toner

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"Your own special island." Lyrics from "Bali Hai," South Pacific

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In what seemed a pleasant winter dream I rowed across the surface of the Moon, A watery plain intersected by two reefs, And when I disembarked upon the distant shore I kissed the ground and breathed new life, A perfumed lei strung around my neck, And then I felt warm arms enfolding me, Soft lips pressed on my feverish cheeks. And lo -- betrayed! The sand was wood, The palm trees, the hills huge Broadway props, Lieutenant Cable's Bali Hai wet paint, And we were acting, memorizing lines, In song, in word, from South Pacific scripts, The Great White Way spread at our feet, Reviewed by NBC, The New York Times. Applause, applause, applause, dumb din, Bright light lazered the dark before those Unseen guests, then waves of deep applause, Like January rain that trade winds drive, Faded slow, to silence, Juliet entombed ... Until the gusts rose in crescendo to applause, Far roar of surf -- the island silhouetted, Solitary Monsieur Gauguin was hunched, Whose palette washed upon the shore in 1984. At dawn blue clouds appeared, A blindfold on Mt. Puta's windy eye. And in what seemed another winter dream I saw myself enthroned with anonymity, And I began to write upon the strand The name ma mere who had no name But who had saved me from the '50's hoax: Imagining that the South Pacific morn Breaks rose not only in Ameri<;:an rooms. And now I know contractual fortunes lie Encased somewhere, with signatories, Richard Rogers and Oscar Hammerstein - Thomas F. Lombardi, Ph.D. 9

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POT ROAST

If anyone were to ask my husband Larry what he associates with Aunt Millie and Uncle Carl, he would invariably reply, "pot roast." He would be thinking of the times when we used to visit them often for Sun day dinner. It was always a pleasant trip along the scenic Merritt Parkway. The most beautiful time of the year was autumn, when the leaves would start to turn. The Connecticut countryside was a colorful profusion of scarlet, lemon and golden orange, with a striking dark green backdrop of fir trees. But when I think of those days, the time I remember most vividly was our last visit. That day the weather was so crisp that you could actually smell the coldness in the air. Resplendent with color just a few short weeks earlier, the framework of the forest was now exposed. Bare limbs listlessly waved their glistening, frosty fingers up to the sky, intermittently relieved by the indomitable evergreens, which gave a sense of continuity to the season's change. The fir trees were prepared for the cold New England winter with their branches wrapped in the lush green of their fir coats, ready to be capped by the soon-to-fall snow. But even the dark winter sky and the ominous clouds could not deter us from that visit. We knew that the bleak mood of the outdoors would soon be dispelled. It was Pot Roast weather! The scenario was always the same. As Aunt Millie opened the front door, the welcoming fragrance of a deliciously cooked-with-love pot roast would envelop us, while Millie's arms encircled us with hugs. Next she kissed our icy-cold cheeks, and almost as a ritual, we all loudly sniffed the mouth-watering pot roast aroma. Larry always said, "Smells great, Millie! I was hoping you'd make pot roast today," and Aunt Millie's bright blue eyes would twinkle with pleasure. Then we followed her into the kitchen to take a peek at the pot roast. There we exchanged big knowing winks with Uncle Carl as he coaxed the well-nursed pot roast until it was just right-succulently well-done and tender, but not dried out. It was a well-known family secret that Aunt Millie never really made the pot roast. She was, in fact, a terrible cook! Aunt Millie was one of those people who enjoyed keeping her hands busy every moment, and she created most of the decorations and knick knacks in her home. Until her eyesight became poor, she would manufac ture all sorts of artistic and useful objects from things that most people discarded. When she was not making things for her house, she was mak ing them for others-relatives, friends, and charity. She was particularly fond of making "disguises" and coufd camou flage almost anything. Instead of buying canisters, she decorated various size cans in yellow and orange. The ugly kitchen sink pipes were hidden behind a colorful skirt, and she put a ventilated but artistic face on the 11

front of her steam radiator. Even on that gloomy winter day, Aunt Millie's kitchen looked sunny and cheerful. She had variations of a colorful yel low and orange flower motif eve1ywhere. She had made a new toaster cover, hemmed and stenciled new place mats, and she even stenciled the kitchen walls to match. Uncle Carl teased her and said that he was afraid to bend over because she would either paint or stencil his pants! Aunt Millie and I left the men in the kitchen to watch over the pot roast and went into the dining room to put the finishing touches on the table. There she combined her practical German nature with her artistic flair. To her it simply made good sense to cover the highly polished wooden surfaces of her dining room furniture with glass tops. "That wood takes a lot of waxing and rubbing," she advised me, "and it doesn't look half as pretty as the glass." Although Millie loved the shine and sparkle of her dining room, I am sure the real reason she covered the wood was to protect it from Uncle Carl. If you looked closely, you could see where Aunt Millie had tried to cover up his many cigar burns, reminders of past pot roast dinners. After we had placed the crystal glasses on the table, we both stood back to admire the effect. A large mirror hung behind the buffet, which reflected the chandelier, stemware, and glass table tops. The total look was brilliant. Glass and mirror echoed and reflected, making the whole room glow and twinkle. It had an ethereal, almost magical feeling. As I looked into the mirror, I was reminded of the many times I had played here as a little girl. I would imagine being a princess, with Aunt Millie's dining room transformed into a magical castle. Aunt Millie was my real godmother, but when I was about eight years old, she took me to see Cinderella, and after that I secretly wondered if she was a magical fairy godmother. Just like Cinderella's godmother, mine could do just about anything, and to my impressionable mind, her house seemed like a magical kingdom. But she was much more special than Cinderella's god mother because she didn't just show up and then disappear. She had al ways made me feel as if she had nothing in the whole world that she would rather do than spend time with me. "The ta hie looks great, Aunt Millie. Remember all of the things we used to make on it? And that time we made all the Bingo Cards and played ten cards each!" Aunt Millie's eyes sparkled as she reminisced. "That was the time it was raining all day, and we almost ran out of things to do. I believe we tried making a house out of the Bingo cards when we finished the game. This table sure has seen a lot of good times. Still looks great, though." ".I couldn't imagine you ever running out of things to do, Aunt Millie,''.J laughed. ''We really got mileage out of those Bingo cards. W11en the hom;e collapsed, we cut up the numbers and made up an arithme�ic game." 12

I remembered when we tired of games, she would tell me a story or hring out her crochet needles and teach me how to edge handkerchiefs in an array of colorful lacy needlework. She always wore one of those fancy hankies, scented with her favorite perfume and tucked into her bosom. Uncle Carl's booming voice finally pronounced that the pot roast had "set" the requisite fifteen minutes and was now ready to carve, so we all sat down to dinner and teased him as he went through his ritual of sharpening the carving knife. He was an expert at carving any type of roast and could vary the thickness of a slice from very thick to paper thin. With Aunt Millie and Uncle Carl, the humble pot roast was transformed into a festive holiday meal, topped off with Uncle Carl's baking powder biscuits, and, of course, his famous gravy. Aunt Millie would smile and serve the meal, but we were all grateful to Uncle Carl for cooking it. After dinner, we were too full for dessert, so Aunt Millie brought the coffee into the living room, while Uncle Carl generously laced it with Schnapps. I particularly remember that last visit because of the fun we had after dinner. Uncle Carl loved to show us tricks he had learned in his years as a sailor, and we all laughed as he tried to teach them to Larry. The two of them would outdo each other with his dexterity. The big trick that eve足 ning was the one where Carl extended his elbow out, with his hand palm up on his shoulder. He settled a coin onto the top surface of his elbow and quickly shot his arm down in such a way that he could catch the coin in the same hand as the coin sprung from his elbow. Once Lany mas足 tered the trick, Uncle Carl would add a new twist to it, and the more Schnapps thev had. the more difficult it was to do the trick Toward the end of the evening, we gathered around the piano while Millie and Carl played together. We harmonizeu to old sing-along songs, and we sang everything from lively German folk tunes to melan足 choly Irish love songs. It seemed like such a short while before it was time to go home. Carl went into the kitchen to make pot roast sandwiches and a thermos of coffee "for the road." Larry warmed up the car while Aunt Millie and I cleaned up the dining room. Ovef our protests Carl and Millie sent us on our way with enough food to feed an army, including the dessert that had remained untouched. Larry and I waited until we were exactly half way home before we pulled into a rest area on the Merritt Parkway. We left the motor running and the heater on and had a wonderful pot roast picnic at midnight. We nev足 er did have room for the dessert. -Laraine E. Hayden

!7J 0ouncl Ga.n2e

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C?J' I.he

:l>a.r.hness

A sound came out of the darkness 1--rom the lunatic silence of night Like a rolling drum with a familiar beat ÂˇBut obscure and hidden from sight. Our bodies are molded together In mesh with this rhythmic beat We shiver-it's cold when we are apart But together we can't bear the heat.

The stars keep watch in a candescent sky As the two of us play our part And the moon laughs low at our masquerade While you laugh at my broken heart. Your cutting words burn in my mind, Nature takes its toll, And your smile makes the jester ciy As I die in my comedy role. The gods in their heavens and I in my hell Keep the secrets of the streets And as you're running away I hope you hear My heart and its muted beat.

- Stella Anastasia

CHOICES

Maggie's dark eyes stared into Kate's blue eyes as the two women sat facing each other in Kate's old fashioned kitchen. It was 10:30 p.m., and Kate had just put her oldest children to bed. Outside, a cold Connecticut wind blew. "Your house is so cozy," said Maggie. "It sure is different from my high rise." Kate nodded in agreement as a screaming "Mom!" came bellowing from the upstairs. "What?" called Kate to the upstairs. "Bobby's teasing me again. He's calling me that name." "Robert, stop calling your sister names and go to sleep," called Kate in a stern voice. The two women exchanged smiles and remained quiet for a few sec onds, listening tentatively to the upstairs. When no other sounds were heard, they breathed mutual sighs of relief. Maggie and Kate had been friends for nearly thirty years. They had gone to grade school, high school and college together. Now Maggie was a reporter for a large Chicago newspaper, and Kate was a Connecticut house wife with four children. Maggie had flown out to Connecticut to spend Christmas, and the two preceding weeks, with Kate and her family. "I hope Connecticut won't bore you," Kate said as she rose and crossed the kitchen. She removed some foil-wrapped packages from the re frigerator and placed them on the kitchen counter. "Oh, no," said Maggie, "I won't be bored. I think I'll like Connecti cut." "I hope so," said Kate, as she closed the refrigerator door and went about unwrapping the packages of lunch meat. "But Connecticut isn't Chi cago. It's not glamorous or exciting. It's just Connecticut." She took a loaf of bread out of the bread box and began making the oldest children's lunches for the next day. "Chicago can be pretty dull sometimes, too," said Maggie, taking another sip of her tea. "Really?" asked Kate. "That's hard to believe." "Oh, it's true," Maggie stated, putting her tea cup back down on the kitchen table. "As a matter of fact, I envy you and your life here." Kate stopped in the middle of making Robert's lunch and stared at Maggie. All through grade school, Maggie had been the brightest pupil; in high school, she was the most popular girl; and in college, she was the most ambitious student. Kate had always been a close second, but, nonetheless, second. When they graduated from college, Maggie moved to Chicago and began a glamorous, exciting life. Kate married and moved to Connecticut to rear a family. Kate had always envied Maggie, and to discover that Maggie envied her boggled Kate's mind. "You look like I just told you 'the Martians have landed' " smiled Maggie. 15

"You might as well have said that," said Kate, returning to Robert's lunch. "You envy me?" "Yeah." "Why?" "Because you have so much," said Maggie. Her eyes travelled to the childish drawings of Santa and his reindeer which hung on the refrigerator door, and to the lone red crayon under the china closet. She saw the baby doll sitting at the dining room table and a GI Joe lying next to the sleeping cat. Her gaze weaved its way through the doorway and into the living room to where Kate's wedding pich1re hung on the wall next to the decorated Christmas tree. "But what about you?" Kate queried as she put the last sandwich into its little brown bag. "You have an exciting job with plenty of room for ad vancement and a beautiful penthouse apartment. You've got glamorous friends and you go to fancy parties. God! It's the sh1ff I dream about. I envy you." "Really?" Maggie asked. "Really," was Kate's answer. Kate took a red pen from the drawer and printed each child's name on his bag in big clear letters. She replaced the pen in the drawer and the bread in the bread box. As she put the lunch bags and packages of lunch meat in the refrigerator, a question suddenly came to her mind. She turned to Maggie and asked, "Would you do anything different if you could go back and live your life again?" Maggie stared silently into her tea cup as Kate sat down across from her. "Well? What would you do different?" repeated Kate. Maggie pondered the question a few moments longer and finally said, "I probably would've fallen in love. But that would've changed every thing else T ever cticl." "It probably would've," agreed katie. ··what woulJ you have Jone J1Llerent?" "Well," began Kate, "I think I still would've married Chris when I did, though I might not have had Robert right away." "But that would've changed everything you ever did," said Maggie. "You're right," said Kate. "It probably would've." Kate sighed and shook her head. Maggie smiled wearily as she picked up her tea cup and took it over to the sink. 'Tm going to turn in," said Maggie when she finished washing out her tea cup. "I have a feeling that I'll need all my strength with four kids around." "You will," Kate said as Maggie kissed her on the cheek. "See you in the morning." "Good night." After Maggie had gone upstairs, Kate reflected on their conversation. "Be honest," she thought to herself. "Did I really change when I had Robert?" Kate bit her lip thoughtfully. "Or would I have changed even 17

more?" she wondered, as she tried to envision how her life might have turned out under different circumstances. Upstairs, Maggie lay staring up at the ceiling. "Would I really fall in love ifl went back and did it all again?" she thought to herself, as visions of the road not taken danced in her mind. The next evening the women once again sat alone drinking their tea. "You know," said Maggie, "I thought a lot about what we said last night." "So did I," said Kate. The two women stared at each other for a moment, not sure of what to say. The only sound that was heard was the cold Connecticut wind blowÂ ing outside. Kate was about to say something when a familiar "Mom!" came reverberating down the steps. But this time it was not one of the older chilÂ dren-it was Judith, the youngest. This time the call was also accompanied by a request, but a different one from the night before. "Can you come up and read me a story, Mom'' Please?" Kate smiled broadly and called up, ''I'll be there in a second, Hon." She turned to Maggie, shrugged her shoulders, and headed upstairs. When Maggie saw Kate leave the room, something clicked inside her brain. She had reached a decision. "I wouldn't have fallen in love if I could do it over again," she thought to herself. "I wouldn't change a thing." She reÂ clined back in her chair and occupied her mind with wondering where the red crayon under the china closet had gone. Upon reaching the top of the steps, Kate paused for a second before entering Judith's room. Judith was sitting up in bed smiling at her mother. When Kate sat down on Judith's bed, she realized that there was not one thing in her life that she would change. She smiled at her youngest daughter and asked what story she would like to hear. Judith answered, "A Christmas Carol, the part about the ghost of Christmas Past." - Christiane Odyniec

Do you know the poor little boy, The one who gets A's and trades them for love? Poor little boy! the one who buys candy And trades it for friendship. They say my son's a gift from above, My friend is really hip. Do you know the sad, lonely dude, The one who buys to get girls? Do you know the sad lonely dude, The one who bought the table just to have A party for pool? They say he's cute, look at my pearl! My friend is really cool. Did you know that dead man, The one who gave the party for his wife? Did you know that dead man, The one who killed himself, just to provide The thrill? They say he was no good, caused one nothing But strife. My friend named me heir to his will. - Henri J. Tokarski

ISLAND HEIGHTS Go Away. We don't want you here. Leave us be. Go away! I bolted up in bed. The words were still echoing in my head, and my eyes were cloudy and swimming. Slowly the room came into focus. It was a cramped, triangular attic under the peak of our tiny seashore bungalow. It smelled musty. The floorboards and the rafters were painted with a smooth, glossy brown paint. There was nothing in the room except the big double bed with the massive mahogany headboard in which I slept and a small cot on which my sister was sprawled. The cot was up against the window in the front wall, and my sister's head was pressed into a pil足 low against the pane. I heard a curious, uneven tapping noise and saw something move around the pillow. My sister's hair. No, I couldn't see; that first morning light hurt my eyes. It moved again. It was outside. Just then a squirrel popped his head over the edge of the pillow and peered in through the glass. I saw him and he saw me. We eyed each other suspiciously. Then he ducked behind the pillow and reappeared all jittery. I jumped down off the high, overstuffed mattress and hurried to the window. The squirrel scampered across the roof of the porch and stood poised among the dried, crackling leaves in the rain gutter, his tail rippling, a bundle of nerves. Then he jumped up on his hind legs, stood still as stone, and stared me down. Go away. We don't want you here. Leave us be. Go away! I drummed heavily on the window and stuck out my tongue. The little creature darted over the gutter and down the porch trellis, his tail curling over the edge-the last I saw of him. "What are you doing?" my sister said, rather annoyed. 'Tm trying to sleep." She was at a difficult age-fifteen. I wasn't much younger. "Oh, shut up," I teased, knowing she didn't have enough energy that early in the morning to get out of bed and claw me. And besides, I couldn't waste time with her; there were important things to do. Seeing the squirrel reminded me that I had to explore the park today. It was a rit足 ual of mine. Every year at the beginning of our vacation, I renewed my in足 terrupted friendship with the park. And on that first day I tried to find more acorns than I had the year before. It would be tough to reach this summer's goal. I dressed quickly and bounded downstairs. "Hey, Buddy, where are you going?" called my Mom from the kit足 chen. "Across the road to the park. That's all." Out on the porch I collected my sneaks, which I had kicked off the night before when we arrived. I sat down on one of the rockers. It not only rocked back and forth but also wiggled from side-to-side. It squeaked with every tug on my shoelaces.

I stood at the door for a moment. A hole in the screen had been re paired with a patch of different gauge mesh and black thread-a wise precaution, for this place was mosquito haven. The paint on the moldings was cracked and chipping. Piles of the flakes were swept into the corner. I pushed the door open, hopped to the back of our station wagon, grabbed a beach bucket for the acorns-and any other treasures I might find-and dashed across the gravel road that marked the boundary of the park. I always noticed a strange feeling about that shaded acre. I felt it especially in the morning when the sun was hazy and its rays streaked the air. Tall, ancient, crusty-barked oaks captured a stillness, a silence, be neath their limbs. The humidity was heavy, even burdensome, and al though I had just gotten up, I felt very lazy. Dim dapples of light speckled the ground. The ground itself was that gritty mixture of sand and coarse soil, the light orange colored dirt found everywhere at the shore. Sparse patches of tough, thick-bladed grass grew in places where the sun re mained all day. At this time of the morning, the park was peaceful-and old. I turned around slowly and looked at the houses that ringed the park. On three sides stood a number of modest homes, the ones you usu ally find in old seashore towns. But they were not colored red and white or blue and white or green and white as most vacation homes are painted. These were all gray. Old-fashioned places they were-weather-beaten, clapboard firetraps with gingerbread appliqul, which did little to hide the damage caused by the moist salty air and the seething summer sun. They belonged to a different, quieter age-a slower time, a more restful time. And they clung to that age resolutely. Along the fourth side of the park was the row of bungalows, not one of them more than six feet apart. They were a startling contrast to the more substantial homes, but they were equally old and equally weather-beaten. All of the dwellings begged to he left alone. They were tired' Straight across the park ran a coarse cement pavement, it was too well weathered by the seashore an. lt was cracked everywhere, chipped away in some places, completely gone or overgrown with grass in others. At the far end was a pavilion, which probably hadn't been used in decades. But who cares-the hunt was on! I began collecting only those acorns with caps but then discovered that many more had lost their tops, so I gathered both kinds. My scavenging took me everywhere. I circled each tree and inspected the crevices between their exposed roots. I combed the patches of grass and shattered the serenity of the pavilion. I kept up this breathless pace until my bucket was full. I wandered aimlessly now, adding a few nuts here and there to my hoard. Suddenly I was distracted by noises in the trees. I looked up and at first saw nothing. But then I spotted a squirrel watching me, and another in another tree kept a watchful eye. Safely out of range of any threat I 21

might pose, they were calm and playful. But one small creature hanging tightly against a tree trunk-all fours clinging to the bark-was particu larly wary of my every move. As I sidestepped around the tree, he deftly remained out of sight. He anticipated every change of direction I made. Finally, tired of my tantalizing, he scurried up the oak to safety. But the other squirrels-and I could now see many more around me-seemed ready for some special event. A mosquito buzzed my ear, and I swatted at it. Another bit my arm and more attacked my face. And it felt like they were in my shirt. I wig gled and squirmed and flailed my free arm. I danced wildly, kicking and swinging at my invisible attackers. Then I ran but tripped over an edge of raised cement. As I stumbled to the ground, I unwillingly released the bucket. It hit the pavement, and I kicked it out in front of me, scattering the acorns all over. I threw out my hands to break my fall. The minuscule pebbles pitted the heels of my palms. My arms collapsed and I fell for ward scraping one knee on the coarse surface; I could feel it bleed imme diately. My elbow hit a stone and my funny bone sent an electric ripple up my arm. My nose crashed into the ground, and I licked the bitter dirt. I came to rest with several acorns pressed into my ribs. I got up quickly, crying and holding my bruised body. I spit and spit but still the sand gritted between my teeth. I took off for the bungalow and the safety of its screened-in porch. The door slammed behind me. Over in the park, hundreds of squirrels-or, so it seemed- con verged on the scattered acorns. Many sat up on their hind legs, grasped an acorn in their paws, and looked after me. They were delighted! Go away. We don't want you here. Leave us be. Go away!

Of course. I understood now. The mosquitoes were in cahoots with the squirrels. "You can have your old acorns," I shouted shaking my fist. "I didn't want them, anyway. Keep them- all of them. Do you hear me?" - Robert Claus

:J.he Begend

When the last lion roamed over the last golden hillside. When the last eagle soared high in the last sunlit sky, When the last white-tail pranced throughout the last windswept forest, He stood shimmering on a precipice and watched his kingdom die. When the last mantis prayed within the last grassy meadow, When the last white dove mourned up in the last branched tree, When the last stallion raced over the last scorching dessert, He rose up and faced the tempest, there he set his magic free. Black clouds did part above him, The grey mist disappeared; A new sun shone upon his face, The streams ran sparkling clear. A single sunbeam danced upon his glowing, spiraled horn As morning dawned to greet its saviour Mystic Unicorn! He shook his mane in triumph, And gently pawed the earth; He heard a new wind whisper of his kingdom's bright rebirth. The birds sang sweetly to him from high atop the trees, And the glory of his victory was carried by the breeze. And then he finally turned away, And roamed into the woods, And as he walked away the flowers bloomed where he had stood. The sun sank in a flood of hues behind a dusky rise, As Pale Faced Moon began her trek across the inky skies. And so the lion roamed once more, Again the white dove mourned. As nighttime fell to greet its saviour Mystic Unicom! - Joan Moore 23

The Ghosts of Central City The town of Central C'itv died ten vears ap:o when the mine fire burning beneath it went out of control. Residents fled their homes as toxic lumes seepeJ through Lhe lounJauons. 1 he liovernmenl ottered ail ol the townspeople the opportunity to relocate: some people moved, others did not. Eventually those few stubborn townspeople abandoned their homes. The stretch of Route #72 winding through Central City was closed for years, but now it has been officially declared safe to travel through the town. I rolled the window down as I made the turn off Route #60 on to Route #72. The air was heavy; and the scent of an approaching thunder storm reached my nostrils. The blue-green mountains wore a cloak of gray mist; and I heard the distant rumbling of thunder. Dirt rolled down the highway in waves, nudged along by the dry summer wind. As I en tered Central City, I slowed my car to a crawl. With one hand running nervously through my hair, I studied each decaying house. In the dis tance, I heard the steady banging of an unlatched gate. As I progressed to the center of town, the eerie feeling of eyes observing my car made me shiver. As I turned down Main Street, I was shocked to see plastic letters spelling out Rebel Without A Cause starring James Dean on the movie theatre marquee. The entire theatre appeared thirty years younger; the art deco trim looked polished and well-preserved in spite of the harshness of the open country. No trash littered in the sidewalk, and the windows of the ticket booth were sparkling in the mid-day sun. f I stopped my car and gazed at the theatre; it was a movie buf s fantasy- a preserved treasure in this time when ten movie screens are crammed into one building. The wind picked up suddenly, whipping in my open window and tousling my hair. Ahead of my car, a huge dust cloud began to form, blocking my path out of town. I watched in half panic as the brown mists swirled and churned. The wind ceased howling; and the dust cloud vanished leaving only a lone car in the middle of Main Street. It was a vintage Chevrolet from the early l950's, and its grill was a mocking grin of metal teeth. I wanted to put my car in reverse and take the longer route-take any route-just to get away. However, when I turned the key, smoke billowed from under the hood. The Chevrolet blocking my path crept toward me as thoughts of a Stephen King novel I had read long ago popped into my mind. As the car crept nearer, I real ized someone was behind the wheel. The red Chevrolet pulled along side of my car; and I studied its white racing stripes, white-wall tires, and polished chrome fixtures. I kept staring ahead, the steering wheel clutched fiercely in my hands. "Lady?" 24

REBEL \,JI lH{)J A CNJSE

white.

I continued to grip the steering wheel; my knuckles turned ghostly

"Can I help ya with your car, miss?" I turned my head, shaking off my fear. He was about eighteen years old with a pleasingly boyish face that seemed out of place by today's standards.His face was framed with thick, swept back black hair; and a wayward curl hung down on his forehead.His nose was slightly upturned and his eyes a dazzling combination of blue and green.As he stepped out of his car,I observed the way he was dressed-a loose-fitting leather jack et, white-t-shirt, faded blue denims, and worn penny loafers. "Are ya alright, ma'am? Ya look kind of dazed." I gulped as I gazed into the young man's eyes; he was truly a vision from the past. "Ah-yes, I'm fine.My car ...my car is the one with the problem. Who-Who are you? I thought this entire town was deserted." "Oh, sorry. I'm Jim Bateman. I know the place looks deserted,but that's just because everyone's at the annual town picnic.It's usually loads of fun, but I just got bored and decided to take a spin. Heck, I can even drag race this beauty down here and not have to worry.Sheriff Buford's at the picnic downin' his tenth burger." "So ...," I began as I tugged the keys out of the ignition and nerv ously tossed them back and forth. "Um, look is there any place where I could make a phone call? Some relatives are expecting me, and I know they'll worry if I don't call." "Sure.Why didn't ya say so in the first place! Follow me." He mo tioned to the theatre, the Comet. "My girlfriend, Patty, works here durin' the summer. She's on duty today even though everyone but me is at the picnic. Don't ask me,but ol' man Lubetsky thinks he'll have an audience for today's matinee." Jim Bateman laughed softly as I assured myself that this encounter was all a crazy dream. I tugged the Comet's door open, expecting a rusty screech,but re ceiving only silence. As I walked into the lobby, I was awestruck by the beauty of the Comet's decor. Rich red carpet was under my Reebok-clad feet, and the walls were spotless. In glittering goldtone frames, posters from movies-Casablanca, King Kong, It's A Wonderful Life, Gone With The Wind-graced the white walls. Circular light fixtures cast spirals which leapt across the glass frames.Behind the chrome and glass refresh ment counter,a young woman with a pretty face and blond hair carefully arranged the rows of candy boxes. Her ponytail bobbed up and down with each movement.Fresh popcorn sat in the bin beside her; the pleas ant, buttery smell floated throughout the lobby. "Hey, Patty!"

She looked up from her work and smiled, obviously surprised to hear Jim Bateman's voice."Hiya, Jim. What'cha doin' here?I thought ya went to the picnic with your folks. Who's your friend?" she asked, nodding in my direction. Jim popped a wad of bubblegum into his mouth. "Oh, her car broke down outside ...wants to use the phone." "Sure.It's right over there, ma'am," Patty said as she pointed to the far wall of the lobby. I walked over to the phone; it was an antique (at least by today's hightech standards) with a rotary dial. It had been a number of years since I had seen a pay phone which cost only a dime-no less a nickel! I deposited the nickel, dialed my relative's number, and listened to the ring. After one ring, the operator-a real person, not a recording-came on the line. "I'm sorry but 555-3121 is not in service in the 717 area code," she said in a nasal voice. I quickly hung up the receiver and stared blankly at the phone.I knew the number was correct and wondered who Jim Bateman and Patty really were.Why were they here in this abandoned town?The realization dawned on me as I remembered a ghost story told by my father many years ago.His story was not merely a tale told to frighten two young chilÂ dren; perhaps my father's tale was real. "Amen." I spun around abruptly, startled by Patty's voice. "You okay?" I nodded,wiping sweat from my brow. My stomach flip-flopped; after all, a person does not meet a ghost-much less two-every day. "Where are ya from?" Patty asked curiously.I glanced down at my attire-black Reeboks, paisley jeans, green shirt, and long coat-and asÂ sumed Patty meant which planet I was from or if I worked in Hollywood. "Philadelphia," I curtly replied,not wishing to go into details. Patty's eyes sparkled at the mention of Philadelphia. 'Wow, the city! I've always wanted to go there ... but I never got the chance." She gulped,glanced nervously at Jim, and bit her lower lip."Jim and I never got the chance to go anywhere." "Er-I guess I'll go give my car another try." As I turned to leave the theatre,Jim Bateman grabbed my arm; his fingers were like ice cubes."Wait ...I'm pretty good with cars.The way that baby was smokin' ya might hurt yourself. Let me try." He paused and coughed."Why, I installed brakes in my car and saved a bundle." I shrugged."Sure, why not." Jim popped open the hood, and,after a second of apprehension, began to tinker with the engine.Thick smoke belched in his face, but he seemed oblivious to the scalding steam. After several minutes, Jim

Bateman hopped into the front seat,turned the ignition key, and the en gine roared to life. "There ya go! That should get ya to where you're gain'," he yelled triumphantly. "Thanks for all your help,Jim.I really appreciate it.I hope ifl ever need help again you two are here." Patty grinned. "Don't worry ... we'll be here." "Yeah,forever," Jim added. Goosebumps travelled up and down my arms as Jim placed his arm protectively around Patty's waist. "Stay cool," Jim shouted over the roar of my car's engine. "Stop and say hello whenever ya pass through here ... movie theatre's always open." "And we never forget a face," Patty added. "Tell your father I re memher him ...ya look just like 'em!" What an odd comment, I thought, and then I remembered my fath er's encuunler wnh Pally 111 Lh� early l ':i(xl's. l wave<l goo<lbye wilh a smile and watched them disappear into the Comet as I drove down Main Street. I could swear I heard the faraway sounds of laughter and cars revving; but it was probably just my imagination. On the way back from my visit, I travelled through Central City once again. The sun was shining,and a rich amber light bathed the des erted town.The wind was calm,a mere whisper,and birds flapped about the baby blue sky. However, the Comet was not open for the afternoon matinee. Trash littered the sidewalk, boards covered its doors and win dows,and the marquee held only the faded memory of plastic letters. In a daze, I stopped my car and walked toward the theatre.Several birds chirped from the Comet's rooftop as the breeze blew age-stained newspapers across my path.One page brushed my leg,and I stopped to pick it up. My eyes were immediately drawn to the faded headline; my mouth grew dry as I read the article. August 18, 1954 PICNIC ENDS IN TRAGEDY James Bateman, son of Daniel and Marjorie Bateman, died yesterday in an automobile accident. Bateman was travelling north on Main Street when he apparently lost control of his vehicle. Bateman's automobile crashed through the front doors of the Comet Movie Theatre, located at the corner of Main Street and Elm Avenue.The car crashed through the lobby, striking the refreshment stand,and killing Patricia Ann Slatery. Bateman, 18, and Slatery 17, were pronounced dead at the scene of the accident.Sheriff Arlen S.Buford said the cause of the accident was the failure of Bat�man's brakes.

Funeral services will be held Monday, August 21, at the McKilney Funeral Home. Bateman and Slatery were to be married in late December. As a shiver rattled my spine, I realized that the ghost story told to me so long ago was true. In this town where nobody lives, Jim Bateman is drag racing down Main Street. To his ears, the sounds of the town picnic are not dead; and James Dean is still very much alive. I also know that Patty Slatery still prepares the popcorn that no one is going to eat and straightens the boxes of candy which no one will buy. However, Jim Bateman and Patty Slatery are happy; the beginning days of rock and roll are still alive for them. They are trapped in the middle of this century, but they belong there. -Nancy E. Herrmann

I Hold My Love Within My eyes belie those feelings deep within, Between the refuge of my trembling hands. No place to hide one's passion-glancing sins Diverting eyes could use a fashioned fan. Apart we sit, no lover's tete-a-tete, Discoursing life without sell-evidence. Of 1:his I know my heart has its regrets, To life within-without is time ill spent. My blushing cheeks may play me for a fool Our lives be woven from a single thread; Prnv Lachesis has spun a lengthy spool. Awake dreams! Our tapestry is fed. Khepera's tears did make the human race; Within his light we'll find our love embrace. ÂŽ19ďż˝6 - Edward D. Ulrich

In Search of Heroes at Christmas Time: Saint Patrick's Cathedral as the Instigator For some reason, The yuletide season reminds me That the blinding new Just isn't enough ... In conversations with a grand architecture I understand the plight of the lapidarians, Who had all their proposals go to the wayside Replaced by a cinemascopic landscape Carving new statements in this multi-media dream We know as contemporary. Saint Patrick's stands like an unmelting ice sculpture Within this illusive holiday environment The majestical ornament Performing forthright In the frozen staged world Of stained-glass heroes. I can only kneel within the hallowed stances intimidating pleasÂ ures Expelling my wonders Like cerebral balloons running amok Without reason, but in need ... Though, in the course of this drama, The bells of December play in full regalia And Unobtrusively a song can be heard By the choir of candles Celebrating the rediscovery Of no ordinary hero. Hail to those artisans That have remembered What we are Here for. - Denis Natoli 30

DIARMAID'S PRAYER If I could cradle your head in my arms, kiss your fevered brow, conjure your lingering illness into my marrowyour grief might be at ebb now. We two would carol boldly heedless, improvise- Blazes Boylan to your Molly BloomÂ summer unending, rebels gallowed by our own blindness. Hope causes this reticence. Dovesong greets your waking sigh, (you are not alone, my love) fever broke, we both reviveÂ children laugh; your voice echoes. - Michael Toner 32

ESTHER PEABODY'S WAKE The air was cold and dank as we drove all through the night in or der to reach Sylvester's Comers by morning. Our sojourn was taking us to the wake of Esther Peabody, one of Sylvester's Corners most prominent and beloved neighbors. As the miles rolled by, I reflected on the fact that I had known Esther Peabody all my life, and the news of her death a week before left a sick feeling in my spirit. I felt the loss had to be rectified; thus, I made the decision to return to my childhood home to attend her funeral with my family. All the neighbors would be there comforting the Peabody family, Families who had moved away as our family had, would all be there. After living in Sylvester's Corners for eighteen years, I real ized that relationships in that small town were very close knit. These memories were still running through my mind, as the car came to an abrupt stop, jolting me from these reflections into the present. My Dad informed us that we had reached the edge of the town. I wiped the condensation from the side window and gazed out into the surround ing countryside just waking to a new day. Beyond Buckland's Bend lay the sleeping little town. My eyes searched for the 19th century homes and the white church steeple, rising above the towering trees. My attentiveness mounted as we entered Main Street by way of Quaker's Bridge. After parking the car, I stepped forth into the cold damp air and breathed a sigh of relief. Around me. all the landmarks on Main Street seemed to be frozen in time, looking the way they did when I had left. The winter had come to Sylvester's Comers, and the brilliantly col ored foliage that lined the street only two months before had fallen and returned to mother earth. My family and I slowly proceeded toward the eight gabled Victori an house that stood on the corner of Main and Elm Streets. A line of darkly clad people stood murmuring and solemn on the pathway leading to the wide porch, nodding a "Hello" to the newcomers. Some of the women in the line were silently crying, as their male escorts stood silently stalwart, looking emotionally drained. The maudlin atmosphere sent a sick feeling into the pit of my stomach. My heart was pounding as though it were in my throat with each step I took, as I moved closer to the en trance. Never having been to a funeral, a feeling akin to terror was slowly moving up from my knees to my back and shoulders. Demon anxiety was evident in the beads of perspiration rolling down my back, as I thought of this person of whom I was so fond, lying just a few steps away in a casket. I entered the Peabody home, and my family and I were received by Ed Peabody and the Reverend Hicks, in the front hall. They guided us into the side parlor, where I had been many times as a child. The parlor was usually the brightest and loveliest room in the whole house. As a child, I had spent many of my afternoons practicing my music lessons on their piano by the large bay window. Now, the brocade draperies were drawn over the beautiful windows. The sickening sweet perfume of flow ers pervaded the room, which once carried the aroma of baking bread. 33

The mahogany coffin, with the light blue bunting, captured the center of my attention, standing, as if on an island, on the far side of the familiar room, encircled by wreaths and bouquets of flowers. Two golden candela bras stood on either side illuminating the room in a haunting glow. I ap proached the casket carefully, and as I stood before the coffin, I gazed at the lifeless body of Esther Peabody, lying in state. Her hands were folded across her awkward blue clad body. as if she were in prayer. Her face held· a waxen hue, not like the Esther Peabody I had known. A brief feeling of denial came upon me as I stood there before this lifeless creature. I said to myself that this woman could not possibly be Esther. She seemed so out of place in this maudlin spectacle. The Esther I remember was always outgoing and happy, making everyone else in her presence feel the same. I can remember from the earliest days of my childhood Esther's kind and gentle face. Her smile always seemed to per meate the grayest gloom on a piny day. She was always at the forefront of community activity and always carried it out with devotion, whether it was teaching the kindergarten children to sing "Jesus Loves Me" in Sun day School or checking voter registration on Election Day at the old firehouse. More memories came flooding into my mind. There was Esther, working in her family's store with its hardwood floors, wooden shelves and an antique clock, which tick-tocked over the supply room doorway. In the summer, she was constantly standing behind the soda fountain, scooping ice cream into cones for just about everyone in town. Upon my entering the store, she would always greet me with, "How are you, Master John, and what will it be today?" Among my earliest memories is the sight of the "Children of Lear" pendant that hung from around her neck constantly. She once told my Sunday School class that she had purchased it in Northern Ireland, while visiting a cousin. She told us the myth of the children of Lear, who, in pa gan times, were changed by a fairy into swans to flee their evil captors and wander the earth freely for eternity. Esther went on to tell us that one day we would all be free from the problems of this world as we go from this life into eternity. Esther was saved at a tent revival meeting at the age of fifteen and was a strong believer in a God-like eternity. "Eternity," I repeated to myself. It seemed as though I had known Esther for an eternity. As I started to rise, taking one last look, a glittering caught my eye. Around her cold gray neck was clasped the ever-present "Children of Lear" pendant. Nodding a farewell to the other mourners in the house, my family and I walked out into the cold damp air, with a complete numbness of spirit. As we started for our car, I half turned to take a last look back. A movement drew my attention to the roof of the old house. A white dove was just descending to one of the gables. The bird preened itself for a sec ond and then lifted lightly into the air. circling around the gables just one time, then soared skyward to the heavens. My spirit lifted with the bird; I knew that Esther was now a part of eternity. - John F. Smith 34

I Ain't a Bad Person Betty struggled into wakefulness, wondering what had awakened her.Then she knew.The urgent pounding on her bathroom wall bolted her upright and out of bed. During the year and a half Betty had lived in her apartment, she had caught only one or two quick glimpses of her qui足 et nextdoor neighbor, a pleasant-looking woman about 55 years of age who lived alone.Quickly putting on a robe and slippers, Betty sped along the hallway, afraid of what she might find. She rang her neighbor's doorbell. "Helen," she called. After a few moments, the door swung open, revealing a distraught, disheveled woman, clutching a bathrobe around her shaking body. "Do you need help?" asked Betty. "Yes ...I know you're a nurse ..." Helen mumbled. 'Tm not a nurse, but can I help you?" continued Betty.Hesitantly, Betty stepped across the threshold and into the beautifully-furnished apartment. Incoherent, confusing half-sentences poured out of Helen's mouth: "I ain't a bad person ...I was in A.A for 11 years ...never had a drink in 11 years ... I was so proud ... lived here for 6 years and never knew a neighbor ... it was different in Kensington.My mother died when I was two months old, and my father gave me away. Imagine giving a two足 month old baby away!" Alam1ed, and sensing a potential breakdown, Betty inquired, "Is there a relative I can call?" Helen ignored the question, jumped up from the sofa and began pacing up and down the living room. "I was sober for 11 years ...I was so proud of myself. Then a year ago I took that first gaddamned drink. I don't know why it happened ...I used to have liquor in the house all the time and never touched it ... I ain't a bad person.It's an old Polish custom to invite people in on Christ足 mas Eve for a drink ...but I was sober for 11 years ...never touched the stuff. Did I tell you I was in Alcoholics Anonymous for 11 years? I was so proud!" Tears streamed unchecked down Helen's face, streaking her cheeks with mascara. She lit a cigarette, then took a long gulp of the drink that was sitting on her coffee table next to the gold cigarette box. Helen jerkily sat down on the sofa again, next to Betty.Betty impulsively put her arm around Helen's shoulders and took her hand. Helen squeezed the hand so hard that Betty grimaced in pain.Looking straight into Helen's tormented eyes, Betty said, "Of course you're not a bad person. Alcohol足 ism is a disease. If you had cancer or diabetes, you wouldn't think you were a bad person, would you?" Still trying to get the name and telephone number of a person to contact in the event of a crisis, Betty asked, "Do you have a friend in A.A. who you can call?" 35

Helen leaned forward and ground out her cigarette in the ashtray next to her drink on the table. "Yes, I can call Dot," Helen murmured, but did not elaborate. Growing more agitated, Helen continued her ramÂ blings, "But you don't understand-my brother Tom was my whole world-he was my 1ight arm. But he died on me." Helen, overcome with emotion, leaned her head on the back of the sofa and was silent for a few moments. She turned to Betty and plaintively asked, "Why did he die on me, Betty? I just want someone to love me. I called my husband, but he doesn't want to make a life with me." Helen made a sweeping arc of disÂ missal with her arm. She lit another cigarette, jumped up again and resuÂ med pacing: the floor. She ran her hand frantically through her hair. "I had a boyfriend-a lover-but all he wanted was a quick job!" Helen made another wide arc with her arm, as if to indicate one more failure in her life. "I ain't a bad person. Why can't I hold down a job, like you? You bein' a nurse and all. When Tom died I ran the restaurant for 36

six months, and I did a good job of it. Then Stella took over ... said I didn't know how to run the business. They called me Mrs. Rich Bitch. I got a mink coat ... do you want to see it?" "I believe you if you say so, Helen," answered Betty. Helen jumped up and took Betty's hand, dragging her toward the bedroom, where she threw open the closet door. She took out a luxurious mink coat, and held it up for inspection.An inch-long white ash dropped from the forgotten cigarette in Helen's hand onto the dark fur. Absentmindedly, Helen brushed it away.She reached over to the night taÂ ble next to the bed and ground out the cigarette in a small white ashtray decorated with pink rosebuds. "Sure, I got a mink coat," she continued, "but I ask you, Betty, where's a mink coat going to take me? I ask you! Money don't mean nothin'. I've got a lot of love to give. When I was in Livengrin before, I helped college kids coming off drugs. I held their hands and told them they were good people and that I loved them. I ain't a bad person. I can do that again.I can go back into Livengrin and start over!" For the first time, Helen's eyes showed a gleam of hope. "That's a great idea, Helen," said Betty.I hear they do great work!" Betty wondered if Helen would really take this step, or if it were merely drunken ramblings. Looking at the clock on top of the TV set, where David Letterman was holding forth, Betty sought some way to end the conversation. She said, "Helen, promise me, if I leave you now, you'll call Livengrin first thing in the morning." "Oh, I promise. I'm a good person.I just want someone to love me, is all. I knew you'd help me ... you bein' a nurse and all," replied Helen. 'Tm not a ...," started Betty, but instead, put her arms around HelÂ en, and gave her a kiss and a hug. "I love you and care what happens to you," she said. Betty stood up, walked toward the door and turned the doorknob. Opening the door, she stepped quickly out into the hallway. Drained emotionally and exhausted physically, she headed back to her own apartment. Suddenly, she remembered that she had promised her boss that she would go into work an hour earlier than usual to finish the budget reports that were due on the desk of the Financial Director at 9:00 a.m. sharp. With a yawn, she re-set the alarm back an hour earlier, slipped out of her robe and slippers, and crawled into bed. - Peggy Dolezal ' .; Âˇ .

how dare i be so beautiful How dare l be so beautiful as to spit into the wind and repel the atÂ mosphere where the ozone level is disintegrating at a rapid pace. Life on earth is as cyclical as it ever was, or was it otherwise? The night is full of light if you look into the eyes of children, in their frightened looks and insecure feelings. You can bet your life they'll walk beside, with god in mind, two in line and a spoonful of miracles. But there's a man over there, the one with the plastic hair, leaning on his freshly waxed volkswagen, leaning with care. Thinking of his girl, he glides down the side, looking for defect, looking at his reflection. The earth is bent so we can walk in circles. Are we really walking or is the earth moving under our feet? The leaves of grass have fallen in the autumn of our existence. America is the great promise, god shed his grace on thee. How dare I be so beautiful as to look into your eyes, which reveal all of your lies. To thrust your eye into the setting sun and melt your skin and burn your sight. Blind, uncaring, there's no emotion left sharing. Can you see the forest from the trees? With pattern and rhythm the butterfly sails, flower to flower, floating on air. Wait until the winter's chill and fallÂ ing snow shall bury the decaying innocence. Are you afraid to look into the setting sun and realize the faults you've done? The sun's heat may burn your soul. A volcano erupts inside your head, you sweat and moisture runs down the cracks of your face. A beautiful face it once was, but now in the winter of your existence you wither and darken as the setting sun in December's chill. How dare I be so beautiful to touch the stars at midnight's calling? To hold them for myself and enjoy them. Forever to be buried in mother earth is pleasing to the senses, to feel the snow, hear harsh winds blow and have the rain wash my face and rot my skin. But do we need our skin or human forms as our existence ceases? How dare you call me beautiful? Tempus Fugit - I. s. joseph 39

STAIRCASE He was standing there, an old withered warrior, Laughing, oh, yes, he was laughing, almost as if it were a cough-choking, gurgling noise vomiting from his throat. Everything around him seemed archaic, dream like, mysterious. The sky was a dark whirling dome. His mind was one huge rotating system. Thoughts of family, love, pride and country were dancing and performing in his imagination. The idea of holding all these things together was flashing in and out of the picture. "The whole. Ah!, Yes!" he cleared his throat with these words. He escaped his dream-like trance and began to speak to the air: "The land is everything: it is our home, our survival." "But," replied a young man, "isn't life more than just soil or dirt? Isn't life human beings, human smiles?" The old man was somewhat startled. He looked around and placed his hand on his gun, saying, "What? What was that? Life a smile? Ha! Ha! Life is a struggle. Life is competition, letting your fingers scrape the dirt, having your skin bleed, your hands grasping onto the earth." The young man came out of the shadows. He was in tattered uni form, face bleeding, skin scratched, and a huge gash in his right leg. Make-shift bandages were half-on and half-off. His dry lips were bent into a smile. Each crack of the lips was seen as a deep bloody cavern. The old man reached into his shirt pocket for a package of ciga rettes and offered one to the young man. He declined with a shake of the hand. The old man moved his fingers blindly into the pack, while he kept an eye on the young man. He lifted the cigarette to his lips and reached for his matches. He bent down on the ground and took the match from its case and struck it on a nearby rock. He then cupped the lit match in his hand and lit the cigarette. The first puff of smoke came out of his mouth and put out the match before he had a chance to fling it. He then decided to keep it in his hand. All the while he kept an eye on the young man. The smoke curled in spirals. It almost leaped high speed in the sky. "See that smoke boy?" asked the old man, breaking a death-like silence. "That smoke is escaping. It's running. This smoke is nothing but waste that we get rid of, blow into the wind. I like watching it run." The young man, still smiling, lifted a black piece of metal to his head, released the trigger, and let the smoke fly like a spiral staircase. The old man finished his cigarette and field stripped the remain ing butt. He then took the leftover match and placed it inside the remain ing cigarette paper and placed both in his pocket. The old man then cleared his throat as if to say nothing. - Thomas Cordivari

SHATTER THE VEIL Dancing,

Spinning, Floating -

Feet never touch the ground Trapped in a past Without an open door. Eyes shining with tears, Watching, but never really seeing The love kept locked without Hiding Behind a veil Of frosted glass In times of desperation, Nothing was real, Makebelieve was the safe way, the only way, The lonely way Shadows passing Beyond the frost, Always Just out of reach Frustrations and fear and Shatter the veil ...

Well into anger

Stretching,

Reaching, Grasping Hands mesh in the timeless Ballet of skin. Brown eye

meets

blue

And for the first time

In a lifetime Things are clear again. 42

- Angela L. Gillis

THE DEATH OF THE CHILD living a life of sadness an inexplicable sadness almost like a sickness but no doctor and no medicine can heal the deep scars that we've gotten in our fight with life. Tirne does not heal all our wounds. The deep ones always bleed. Draining us. Separating us from what once was us, happy and carefree - genuinely in love with life itself now it's just a charade, a rnask loneliness is our shadow friends are just a diversion i fear living this life of sadness but i see no other option for in my fight with life, i have suffered the worst blows Purity, Trust, Love. these words are just a forgotten memory Too difficult to define, because they exist only in a child's mind. unfortunately the blows have beaten the child And I mourn the death of 1ne. 43

- Kathy McFillin

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Mr. and Mrs. Robert Dolezal Mr. Michael Golden Mrs. Helen Golden Ms. Patricia Kish Mr. and Mrs. Richard Rogers Mr. and Mrs. David Kasza Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Hayden

Editors Peggy Dolezal Laraine Hayden Assistant Editors Nancy Herrman Carol Lecklikner Christiane Odyniec Jacqueline Zuerlein Staff

Thomas Cordivari Deborah McVeigh Dorothy O'Brein Barbara Padgett Joseph Sslvatore John F. Smith

Art Editor Nancy Herrmann Contributing Artist Elizabeth Gregory Special thanks to Gregory Severino, Mae Shotwell, and Diana Visco. Thanks also to Mrs. Victoria P. Lombardi and Dr. Thomas J. McCormick for their expert proofreading. Especially a thank you to Robert and Bernadette Stringer who have graciously defrayed the cost of the cover design. Advisor: Thomas F. Lombardi, Ph.D.

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