Folio 31 by HFU Folio

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On the Cover.... The chapel-like structure whose photograph graces Folio 31 's cover stands in Concord, Massachusetts, twenty miles west of Boston. It represents Bronson Alcott's School of Philosophy and reflects the flowering of the Transcendental movement, whose beginnings were 1815, fully emerging in 1836, with the publication of Nature by Ralph Waldo Emerson, the high priest of the movement. Transcendentalism incorporated elements of Puritanism, Deism, Unitarianism, nationalism, Platonism, and Romanticism. Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, the Alcotts, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Orestes Brownson, Ellery Channing, Margaret Fuller, and several others emerge as leading figures. Transcendentalism has been important in the development of American culture.

Contents

A Man Full of Trouble, Chris Szalwinski ........................................2 Winter Traps the Soul, Regina Frey ..............................................12 The Scarlet Saloon, Christopher Alwine ........................................13 Blind Date, Stephanie English ......................................................18 Migratory Patterns, Mark Scott ....................................................24 Headed Home, Daniel Picker ........................................................33 Night Drive, Robert Snyder ............................................................ 34 October Rain, Marie Burkitt ..........................................................41 White Hats, William Lange ............................................................42 Cathedral Streets Live On, Dennis Natoli ......................................49 As Earth Takes Hold, Jennie Rose Prochorenko ............................ 50 Bread of Life, Theodore Mueller .................................................. 51 Ginger, Carole, Marilyn & Joan, Beth Cieplechowicz .................. 54 Juror Number Eleven, Tarah Gillespie ..........................................67 Abandon All Hope, Beth Cieplechowicz ........................................74 Coloring, Tarah Gillespie ..............................................................77 South of the Pulse, Michelle Hanna ..............................................80 Looking for Cary Grant, Mary C. Canieron ..................................81 Alumni Corner

Until Then, Freda M. Terrell-Tait ..................................................89 December Someplace, WH. Smigiel ..............................................91 Solid Purple, WH. Smigiel ............................................................ 92 The Shelf Artist, Meredith Kahn .................... : ............................... 93 Mountain Serene, Frank Nicoletti ..................................................93 Popping the Question, Christopher Tait ................... Âˇ .-....................94 June 16th, Freda M. Terrell-Tait .................................................. 101 Royal Picture Show, AD 1192; Christopher Mote ........................ 102 Folio 31 The Folio is a belles-lettres publication of contemporary artistic expression. The Journal, though student generated, encompasses in words and graphics the combined talent of the Holy Family University Community. Submissions, however, are welcome from contributors beyond the University Community and forwarded to the following address: Folio, School of Arts and Sciences, Holy Family University, Grant and Frankford Avenues, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 19114. ÂŠ 2006 Holy Family University, Philadelphia, PA

A Man Full of Trouble John Goodwyne limped down Dock Street towards the cor ner of Spruce, his footfalls echoing loudly down the empty cobble stone streets. Large, heavy flakes of snow had begun to fall furious ly, producing a thin patina of early accumulation. The strange tracks John left in the snow would make even the most experienced hunters look twice: one solid footprint, a divot from a cane stabbing down hard, and a long sliding groove where his right foot dragged lazily behind him. He came to a stop outside of a small, shabby brick build ing. He could see only shadows sliding back and forth behind the filthy, yellowed windows. Murmured laughter and the smell of roast duck issued from inside the building, enticing John with visions of good food and a warm fire. He shot a final glance left and right and opened the old oak door. It shut loudly behind him, causing snow to crumble and fall from the dangling sign above the entrance. A Man Full of Trouble Tavern it read, a picture of a finely dressed man arm in-arm with his wife adorning the upper portion. John removed his tri-corner hat, slapping snow from its felt brim. The large mirror behind the bar revealed his twisted features. A long, cruel scar dug down from above his right ear, split his lips, and ended on his chin. His right eye was milky white and complete ly useless. His many-buckled overcoat was stained and tattered, a relic from a life long passed. He clapped his hands together, enjoying the warmth of the place, and scanned the room for the man he was supposed to meet. Merchants, politicians in their finest, dockhands in shabby attire, all enjoyed a mug of strong ale. They stood laughing, clapping one another roughly on their backs, some leering at the barmaids. Alone, at a small table in the shadows sat a man. He sat hunched over a steaming bowl of venison stew, shoveling the food into his mouth and washing it down with a large goblet of Madeira wine. John drew closer to the seated man, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for any sign of deception. "Mon Dieu, you walk like a horse!" exclaimed the seated

man without looking up from his meal. The man's French accent tinged the words and made John cringe. He hated that voice and hated the man it belonged to even more. "Sit down before you fall down." John froze for a moment, taken aback by the outburst. He lowered himself stiffly into the chair opposite the man and looked hungrily at the steaming stew. "Ah, my dear Captain Goodwyne," the Frenchman began, "I see thai: you have not lost your particular sense of style. I cannot understand what you see in that moldy old coat of yours." The Frenchman cupped his hand over his right eye. "Perhaps I must see as you do, eh?" He chuckled sinisterly. John did not reply. "Is it done?" the Frenchman asked, his tone serious again. John nodded, his eyes not leaving the spread of food. "Yes," John growled, "last night." The Frenchman smiled behind his wine glass. "This is good. Very good. How did it happen? Were you seen?" "Outside of his house. And no," replied John shaking his head. "No one saw it happen." "Really?" said the Frenchman silkily. "How odd it is then that a description fitting your, shall we say, unique characteristics was filed this morning? It seems that our friend Renfroe had a son, a son who enjoys stargazing. He saw it all." John repositioned himself in his seat. "And?" he asked blandly. "And, my ass of a friend, it won't take long for them to find you. And when they find you, I'm sure you will have no compuncÂ tions about smTendering me." The Frenchman stabbed into his veniÂ son, hacking off a large chunk and thrusting it into his mouth. "So what do we do?" asked John. The Frenchman smirked at him. "We will do nothing," he said. "You will find the whelp, kill him, and dump his body into the river where, with any luck, he will sink straight to the bottom and never be seen again." John couldn't mask his disgust. "And if I refuse?" he asked 3

quietly, already knowing the answer. "Well, let's just say that you'll have much less holiday shop ping to do. How is Mary, by the way? Still enjoying the comforts of the boarding house?" Despite his lame leg, John leaped from his chair and reached across the table for the Frenchman. "You steaming piece of crap!" he spat. "Ah, ah, ah," admonished the Frenchman. "We wouldn't want to make a scene, would we? After all, the police are already searching for you." John regained control and slowly sat down in his seat again, his thoughts now on his wife and her safety. After the war, his injuries had made him unemployable. He and Mary were forced to live in the squalid confines of a local boarding house, alongside drunks, prostitutes, and the insane. He would give anything to get her out of that place, which was exactly why he had started working for the Frenchman. "I'm glad to see that you are not completely removed from your senses," the Frenchman said as he straightened his shirt and tie. "I'm prepared to offer you a deal, Captain Goodwyne." John flinched at the mention of his old rank. His service dur ing the Revolution was still a sensitive subject for him to discuss. "Go on," he replied. "If you do this," the Frenchman began slowly, "if you kill this boy, the authorities will still be looking for you, and, subsequently, me. Therefore, I am prepared to pay for safe passage for you and your wife to New York, where a charming home sits empty, awaiting your arrival." John's jaw dropped, and he fell silent. "Oh, don't tell me you're deaf and dumb as well as blind!" laughed the Frenchman. "Why?" stammered John in disbelief. "Do you mean: 'Why don't I kill you and leave no loose threads?' Believe me, it was the first idea that came to me. However, I realized that if I were to end your miserable life I would eventual ly have to kill Mary as well. She has powerful connections, your 4

wife. If I were to kill Mary, then her uncle would demand vengeance. And, as you are so painfully aware, Mary's uncle is Port Master for all of Philadelphia. He could make my life extremely uncomfortable, if he began to inspect all of my shipments more thoroughly. By the way, why is it that you have never gone to him for aid in your hard ships? Is it pride, or just stubbornness?" John grimaced. He knew that Mary's uncle had offered assis tance countless times, always on the condition that Mary would leave him and he would never come back for her. "Worthless vagabond," her uncle always called him. Mary had answered that she could no more part with John than she could cut off an arm. They were joined together forever. "My reasons are my own," John growled at last. "Ah, then I am left to wonder," said the Frenchman. "I sup pose that it must be some foolish notion of dignity. Well, how digni fied are you now, I wonder? A blind, lame killer for hire, and poor to boot!" He slapped his knee and barked out a laugh. "Yet, I would rather light a candle than curse your darkness," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Take my offer. Kill the boy and be rid of that hovel, this city, and me forever." John rubbed the scruff on his chin with a leathery hand, con sidering the proposal. "Agreed," he rumbled after several long moments. An oily grin split the face of the Frenchman. "My f1iend," he said, raising his glass of Madeira, "a toast to the Season. May God save you, if it be His Will." He drained the glass and let out a satisfied sigh. "Oh, Captain, I apologize!" the Frenchman exclaimed. "Let me get you something to eat. I can't recommend the venison stew. Quite stringy. Perhaps your usual then?" He snapped his fingers loudly in the air. "Barmaid!" he shouted over the din of noise. "Bread and water for the good Captain!" An hour later, John had returned to the grim stone edifice of the Saint Augustine House. His gaze locked hard onto the grimy walls and cracked windowpanes. A single light flickered in an upper 5

window, and John was sure that he saw the ragged curtains pull back for a moment. A small handmade flowerbox, John's present to Mary on their last anniversary, clutched the windowsill. It looked almost comical: a small, beautiful thing hanging on to such a wreck of a place. The weight of the snow had bowed it away from the wall slightly, and John reminded himself to repair it before it broke free. He smiled inwardly at the thought. "Perhaps I'll just leave it be," he mused. "After all, soon she can have as many flowerboxes as she pleases." He made his way inside, down the narrow hallway full of mur muring voices and up the twisting stairs to their small room. Mary greeted him as he opened the door. "Hello, dear husband!" she said musically. She rose to greet him, placing her knitting down on her small chair by the window. "I saw you coming. Why did you tarry on the front step for so long?" John shrugged off his old coat and hung it on a bent iron hook on the wall. "It was nothing, darling," he lied. "Just a long day." Mary smiled and helped him to his seat. John sank down slowly, and Mary placed a small stool under his bad foot. John tilted his head back and let out a long sigh. "What ever is the matter, John?" Mary asked, her brows fur rowed in concern. "You have been troubled by something since yes terday." John met her eyes, and he struggled to decide exactly what to tell her. "I may have found some work," he said at last. Mary beamed at him. "Oh, John that's wonderful!" i�he threw her thin arms around his neck. "I knew you would! What will you be doing? Who will you be working for? It's that French friend of yours, isn't it? The one with the fine clothes." John gave a lopsided smile but inwardly cringed at Mary calling the Frenchman his "friend." "One question at a time, my dear," he said. "Yes, I spoke to the Frenchman today. He needs me to take care of some of his per sonal affairs. He said that we would speak again very soon, and that

window, and John was sure that he saw the ragged curtains pull back for a moment. A small handmade flowerbox, John's present to Mary on their last anniversary, clutched the windowsill. It looked almost comical: a small, beautiful thing hanging on to such a wreck of a place. The weight of the snow had bowed it away from the wall slightly, and John reminded himself to repair it before it broke free. He smiled inwardly at the thought. "Perhaps I'll just leave it be," he mui;ed. "After all, soon she can have as many flowerboxes as she pleases." He made his way inside, down the nan-ow hallway full of mur muring voices and up the twisting stairs to their small room. Mary greeted him as he opened the door. "Hello, dear husband!" she said musically. She rose to greet him, placing her knitting down on her small chair by the window. "l saw you coming. Why did you tarry on the front step for so long?" John shrugged off his old coat and hung it on a bent iron hook on the wall. "It was nothing, darling," he lied. "Just a long day." Mary smiled and helped him to his seat. John sank down slowly, and Mary placed a small stool under his bad foot. John tilted his head back and let out a long sigh. "What ever is the matter, John?" Mary asked, her brows fur rowed in concern. "You have been troubled by something since yes terday." John met her eyes, and he struggled to decide exactly what to tell her. "I may have found some work," he said at last. Mary beamed at him. "Oh, John that's wonderful!" :·�he threw her thin arms around his neck. "I knew you would! What will you be doing? Who will you be working for? It's that French friend of yours, isn't it? The one with the fine clothes." John gave a lopsided smile but inwardly cringed at Mary calling the Frenchman his "friend." "One question at a time, my dear," he said. "Yes, I spoke to the Frenchman today. He needs me to take care of some of his per sonal affairs. He said that we would speak again very soon, and that

if all went well, we might stand to gain a great deal." "Oh, praise the Heaven!" Mary exclaimed, clasping her hands together and looking towards the ceiling. "I suppose it will be some sort of dock work. Do you think that your leg is strong enough for it?" "The leg won't be a problem," John answered. "Now, let me see what you're working on there." He motioned to her knitting. Mary went to the chair and picked up a pair of wool socks. She held one in each hand and held them up on either side of her grinning face. "I can sell these at market for tuppence a pair," Mary said cheerfully. "Just enough to buy more wool," John teased. "You are truly a savvy businesswoman." Mary laughed. She returned to her chair and her knitting. She sat there, knitting her socks and telling John her grand plans for the money that they did not yet have. Snow began to fall again, and the sun had set. John watched Mary as she worked and dreamed, thinkÂ ing he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. The next day broke clear and bitterly cold. John rose early and went off to see the Frenchman. He limped down to the docks, where the Frenchman had indicated that they would meet. "Slip number 7, Captain," the Frenchman had told him. "9 in the morning. Do try to be on time. I detest waiting." John's hands curled into fists at the thought of that voice. "God, how I would love to punch that pompous ass in his long beak of a nose," John thought. "Just one good shot. .. " "Ah, Captain!" the snooty, familiar voice woke him from his perfect daydream. "A good morning to you, sir!" He shot a jaunty salute towards John, a greasy grin plastered on his face. "You're cheerful, for someone who could be in jail tomorÂ row," John grumbled. The Frenchman clapped him on the back. "My dear Captain, I have the utmost confidence in you. I'm certain that we both will avoid any such unpleasantness as the stocks or gallows. After all," he straightened himself and placed his hand over his chest like an ora7

tor, "give me liberty, or give me death!" The Frenchman looked back at John. "Or, in your case, 'debt!' Ha!" John did not return the smile. The Frenchman returned to business. "Here is where the boy is staying. I want it done tonight, Captain. You can be on your way to New York by tomonow." John looked at the address. "The 01phanage?" he said, dis believingly. "You want me to kill a child in an orphanage?" "Is this a problem?" asked the Fr�nchman smoothly. "Well, I thought that the boy was a good deal older," John said. "I mean. . . " The Frenchman smiled and gestured towards the ground. "Have I shown you my new shoes, Captain? All the rage in Paris. It took me three months to get a pair shipped here. And the price, Mon Dieu, I won't even embanass myself by telling." He clapped John on the back of the neck and whispered in his ear. "If you fail me, I will jam this beautiful shoe of mine up your rotting bowels," he hissed, "and that will be a pity, because I do love these shoes." He released John and the smile returned to his face. "Do we understand each other?" he asked happily. John nodded. "Wonderful! Then I suggest that you get y,;mrself ready. "Adieu, mez amie! Bonne chance!" He waved him off, and walked back towards the docks. John returned home, his heart heavy. He had killed before, of course. But the victims had always as been grown men, capable of defending themselves. To go into an orphanage ... He couldn't see how he would be able to do it. Yet, as he looked again on the dilapi dated boarding house, the desire to give Mary a better life burned even stronger. He steeled his resolve and went into the small closet in the corner of their room. He removed a splintering wooden box and removed a pair of old Kentucky flintlock pistols, the words "Love" and "Hate" emblazoned on either banel. He concealed them into the voluminous folds of his greatcoat, where they sat in small side pockets for quick access. He slid a tiny but razor sharp dagger in his boot, picked up his old cane, and made his way towards the

door.

Mary stood in the doorway. "And just where do you think that your off to at this hour?" she asked. John smiled at her. "The Frenchman wants me to supervise the unloading at the docks tonight," he lied. ''I'll be late, so don't bother waiting up for me." "Of course I will," she answered. She leaned forward and kissed him on his scatTed cheek. "I am very proud of you," she whis pered sweetly. At that moment, John wanted to do nothing but stay in her arms, damning all else. At last, he kissed her on her forehead, grabbed his tri-cornered hat, and was gone. It took John the better part of an hour to reach the orphanage. The Frenchman had told him to avoid the main roads and stay clear of the watching eyes of the townspeople. All the while, John was tor mented by the thought of what he was about to do. He tried to imag ine the moment: the boy turning towards him, a look of stunned dis belief on his face, and then he would squeeze the trigger ... John shook off the thought and shivered. "Damned cold tonight," he tried to convince himself. At last, as dusk had just begun to cast its purplish glow on the once blue sky, John atTived. The orphanage, if possible, looked to be in worse condition than the boarding house. The structure was a uniform ash gray, bleak and broken down. No lights shone in the tiny windows. Most of the shingles were missing from the roof, which rose from sharp angles to form an intimidating peak. The entire structure curved to the right, as if it was trying to copy the crescent moon rising above. A rusting wrought iron fence encircled the building, the only access being a high double door gate with the words Saint Vincent Orphanage worked in the same rusting metal. A single stone statue stood on the grounds. John thought it an odd choice of subject--an unremarkable man in a high top hat. The statue looked towards the orphanage, head bowed to its chest. As the snow crunched under John's boots, the bowed head snapped around, revealing the grizzled face of a man. John actually jumped back and reached for his pistols, drop ping his cane and hopping on one foot as he did so. The man gave John a look of pure loathing. "You're him,

then?" the small man said, his breath stinking of gm. "The Frenchman said you'd be coming tonight." The man turned towards John and raised a small lantern. He looked haggard and drunk, his eyes puffy from tears. Spindly, unkempt gray hair poked out from underneath his top hat. He took a long pull from a half empty bottle, and tossed it into the snow. The man sniffed loudly and wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve. "Come along, then. I'll bring him down for you." The man began to walk towards the building, not looking back to see if John was following. "How are you going to get him out?" asked John. The man froze in his tracks. "I am the Director here, sir," he said, not looking back. "All of my boys will do as I say." The man stifled a sob and shook his head. He walked on, and John followed to the front door. The director indicated that John should wait there, and he went inside. Several tense moments passed, and John felt his pockets, assuring himself that his pistols were readily available. He wanted it to be as quick as possible for the boy's sake. At last, the door cracked open. A sliver of the director was all John could see. "He is on his way down," he said grimly. He handed a small pillow to John through the naiTow gap. "In the Name of God, do it quickly and quietly." The door closed in his face, leaving John alone again. Behind the door, he could hear the footsteps of the boy comÂ ing down the stairs. He could make out the director's voice saying something to the boy. The door opened again, slowly. The face of a boy no more than twelve peered up at John. "George Renfroe?" asked John, his voice more gravelly than usual. "Yes, sir," answered the boy. John moved in a flash, pinning the boy to a wall, jamming the pillow between the barrel of his pistol and the boy's chest. His leathÂ ery hand covered the boy's mouth, muffling the scream. The boy's eyes were wide with terror, recognizing his assailant at last. 10

John's finger twitched over the trigger. His hand trembled. Tears were now streaming down the boy's face. Images of Mary, happily planting in their new garden, danced in his head. "Now was the moment," he thought. "NOW! Just do it!" His hand still over the boy's mouth, he spoke. "You know me, boy?" The boy nodded his head. "You know I killed your father. You know that I am here to kill you tonight. I have been offered a new life for this. I am almost finished murdering. There is only one more life that I must take. I pray that you will forgive me for what I have done." John lowered the pistol. "If you speak of this to anyone, I will find you." John spun around and left the boy there, blinking like an owl in the darkness. An hour later, John had returned to A Man Full of Trouble. He found the Frenchman alone in a secluded back room. A small stack of money, a mug of ale, and a set of house keys sat in front of a vacant seat at the table. "Captain Goodwyne!" bellowed the Frenchman. "I trust everything went according to plan? I hope that you found old Director Candlewick helpful." John said nothing and took the empty seat at the table. "My good Captain, you seem to be in poor spirits! You are normally such a jovial person. It pains me to see you like this." T he Frenchman grinned at him, and pushed the stack of money towards John. "A small Christmas bonus for a job well done," the Frenchman said. "Oh, and I'm sure you'll be glad to have these as well." He motioned towards the keys. "You'll be leaving by coach tomorrow at 8. Pack lightly! Although, I suppose you have no choice." John gave no response, glaring menacingly at the Frenchman. "Mon Dieu, Mon Capitan, have I offended you in some way? I usually enjoy your company so very much. Tonight, it seems that you have other things on your mind. Murdering a child often has that effect on men."

In a blur of motion, John slid the small knife from his boot and slashed the Frenchman's throat. He jerked the top of his cane off its body, revealing a cruelly sharp dagger. John plunged it into the Frenchman's' chest and through the back of his chair, pinning him to his seat. The Frenchman gurgled and spat, unable to form words through his slit throat. John leisurely gathered the money and the keys, raised the mug of ale in a mock toast to the Frenchman, and drained the tankard with a satisfied smack of his lips. "The very merriest of Christmases to you! May God Save you, if it be His Will." John paused on his way out of the door. "By the way, you seem to have gotten some blood on your new shoes. Pity." With a swirl of his old tattered overcoat, he left the room. He closed the door and told the barmaid that the Frenchman was not to be disÂ turbed for at least an hour or two. John tipped her some of the Frenchman's money and started the long walk home. As he passed a group of carolers, his spirits rose. Mary was waiting for him and a new life lay ahead. Mary greeted him, hugging him tightly and helping him to his chair by the fire. "I'm afraid we have to leave this city, my darling," he said. "Have you ever been to New York?" - Chris Szalwinski

winter traps the soul winter traps the soul and claims it as a prisoner to the cold and all that is deadÂ numbed by darkness aching for the fleeting light of the sun 12

that refuses to share its warmth the chill and the silence pierces the inner reaches of the heart dulls the deepest confines of the mind shudders the very marrow of the bones足 winter traps the soul and disguises the promise of new beginnings... - Regina Frey

The Scarlet Saloon The outer rim of the globe, fully visible through the lower portion of the atmosphere, could be clearly seen from any place upon the cold windy ground. The full glow of the moon cast its brilliant reflective glory down and around, illuminating the stage completely. The stage on that particular night was one of a multitude of estab足 lishments erected to profess the glory of that most ancient vice. Bacchus himself would have frequented the place, but in this age of super-boredom, gods had no place among men. An easily forgettable man walked past rows of dormant houses as a chill wind left him benumbed. At one instant he noticed a rock casually resting in his path and began propelling it along. This minor distraction amused him only briefly before his slight miscal足 culation took it too far out of the way. No matter, more important things lay ahead, and he was good at forgetting the past. Between dusk and dawn, our weary traveler emerged upon the stage. As he approached the Scarlet Saloon, he took notice of each familiar whitewashed brick, the elaborate paneling of the dark oaken door, and the initials carved into the shutters that stood as suf足 ficient testament to the genuine nature of some ancient love affair. The decadent nature of the players who performed there was not apparent on the surface of the place. Their rosy cheeks and warm 13

smiles were hidden by the gray, soulless surface of this house of ill repute. To outsiders, this den of iniquity was nothing special. Some might say that it was designed to go unnoticed, and indeed to most people it was unnoticeable. But to those few, who were privy to its secret shame, it was a necessary stop on the road to perdition. The man stopped before the great door and removed his walÂ let from his left breast pocket to assess quickly how much he was willing to spend that night. He straightened his tie before he swung a heavy wooden door open and entered the dark room. He peered through the smoky atmosphere that clouded the air. His favorite seat at the end of the bar was still vacant, so he strode with an air of conÂ fidence toward the faux leather stool chair. As he crossed the space, each head turned to follow his movement. Some things he had had before, but there still remained a few that were foreign to him. They all knew his identity. Some would call him "the whale." Not due to his girth, though the description would certainly have been apt. No, in this case his physical appearance meant little; his moniker was a result of reputation. His generosity, never recognized, writhed unproductively. He spent most of his time alone. Of all the darkened comers that lined the walls, there existed one that held a dim light. This dwelling of secretive shadows hid the face and form of a hidden specter. She would be completely hidden if not for a single point of light hanging in the air. In an instant the speck became something more pronounced, growing stronger as the tainted mistress drew in a smoke-filled breath. After extinguishing the light, she stood up, finally ready for action. Like a deceptive shadow, she slithered across the room, unnoticed until it was time to strike. She approached her prey with a seductive smile that belied her ill intent. She was the secret snake. Her poison tongue spoke sweetly the words that would discretely introduce her to this foredoomed man. She positioned herself next to him at the bar, and, though not outwardly indicated, her focus was firmly affixed on him. She did not yet allow her eyes to meet his, but she took great delight in the way his eyes furtively explored her. His obvious eyes roved from her 14

too-small black strap-on's up past her nylon covered calves, pausing to take account of the way her muscles were well-defined while still maintaining a hint of softness, that feminine delicacy that in time reduces each man to a state of foolish desire. His eyes resumed their trek, traveling over her thighs and further upward. Her fiery red hair hung down over her eyes before curving outward to be tucked behind each ear. She wore a tight black choker around her neck. Darkened deeply, the item contrasted powerfully with her pallid skin. Light grey straps grasped her shoulders, not at all supporting the weight of a miniature dress as it clung emphatically to her form. At this time she leaned forward, a little too far perhaps, and gestured for the bartender to bring another drink. She specified exactly what she wanted, a true Martini: gin and a single olive. She thanked the attendant. The lady took out a cigarette and then began foraging in her purse for a lighter. The routine, having been practiced to perfection, resulted in an expert performance. The man could hardly contain his enthusiasm when he saw his chance to speak. The 15

opportunity lay in the offering; the gift was timely flame. He said simply, "Here," as he produced the object from his pocket. He allowed it to remain in the space between them, hoping to coax her just that tiny bit closer. She, knowing fully the circumstances at hand, allowed him this opportunity. She took the slim cylinder into her mouth, leaned over, and, by gently grasping his hand, pulled the flame closer to lick the end of her waiting cigarette. She thanked him with her clover-green eyes. The pair exchanged glances as they exchanged information: names, jobs, and the endless minutia of everyday things. Eventually they progressed to a comfortable state of nothing. They, equally complacent in the cause, continued in this manner until enough had been said. Minutes more passed until the levels of thought-inhibiting chemicals were sufficient to provide a dull sense of comfort to the newborn dyad. Together they emerged from the intoxicating atmosphere of the bar onto the city's cobblestone streets. They walked toward a future something, hoping for what would never come. As they passed each lonely universe of streetlight, they became entwined. As a single entity they made their way towards the end of the night. Stumbling and shifting from their mutual inebriation, they somehow located her apartment. Three flights ascended before them. Three flights were scaled in a blacked-out second. They found themÂ selves in her kitchen. "A drink?" she asked. He allowed it to be done. She poured not one but two. Together they moved toward the bedroom but had first to make a customary stop in her parlor. They stood gazing out a bay window. Before their eyes a young boy strolled along the sideÂ walk, his hand clasping that of his lover. Though distance silenced their speech, they somehow heard each other clearly. They would soon an-ive at their destination. Once there, they would articulate affection for the other. Their mutual anticipation for this moment was what both lived for. They would die without it or merely become hollow shapes moving in solitary wretchedness through the void of existence. However, on this night they moved together, making their 16

way toward a realized dream. As they watched the enchanted scene through the parlor window, the weight of their own wretchedness fell fully upon them. Had they been in the shelter of privacy, their wretchedness would have provoked a flood of emotion to spring forth from each of their eyes. Had that occurred, they would have been saved from the sight of this blessed pair of youthful dreamers. Sadly, no such salva足 tion could find them on this dreary night. Had anyone appeared in the room at this time, they would have remarked on how the pair were so oddly matched. They had nothing in common, nothing to share with each other except that neither desired anything. The most obvious difference between them was the one thing they had to exchange. The sensual aroma of the "the other" would lift them into a state of stolen ecstasy not attainable in their lonely imaginations. After ten minutes of pointless chatter had been exchanged, they felt comfortable with their next move. Somehow their bodies floated in the direction of the bedroom. They were so engaged in their mutual transaction of limbs and fingers; they could hardly tell where they were going, much less how they were getting there. Their bodies arrived on linen sheets in prone positions. The exchange was memorable, but memory escaped their uninhibited minds. The ungainly action lasted briefly even though it seemed longer to the actors in motion. Night soon fell upon the walls of sight; sleep could finally cover their weary transgression. The moon足 light invading through the window blinds settled itself on an other足 wise invisible floor. As time passed, it slowly glided along, illumi足 nating new vistas of ground before it attached itself to purple sheets, which hung lazily about the queen-size bed. The light finally settled across our shallow wanderer. His eyes, having been disturbed by this invasion, were incited to awaken, and with them he did as well. As his vision settled itself, he began to remember where he was. He saw how his hands were still placed around some anonymous figure. Her skin seemed clammy, even vulgar. His comfort in this state, entirely predicated by his lack of consciousness, was immediately revoked upon being visited by this sickening revelation. He would have liked to flee at once, to spring forth from the constricting sheets, which 17

held him to the bed and to this viperine temptress, but only stealth would save him. By slowly removing his already weakened grasp from the skin of his bedmate, he was able to separate himself from her side. He slithered out of bed, then slid into his clothing. As the forgotten man stood in the pale light of the moon, he watched his midnight companion's torso swell with breath; he stared on as she reversed this inhalation and marveled at how truly beauti足 ful she was, how her fiery hair lay across her pale naked skin. In youth he had spent similar nights dreaming of what such a moment would mean to him. A mirror on the wall captured the scene with no remorse. The man turned to leave but caught sight of what the pol足 ished glass had captured. A weaker man would have fled from the figure he cut, miserable waste of humanity that it was, but his many travels had hardened and prepared him for what was now being foist足 ed upon his eyes. With an empty smile, he made his exit, not even pausing as he placed ten filthy bills on the dresser. -Christopher Alwine

Blind Date He walked in from the rain and smiled politely at the hostess, exposing his glistening white teeth. He walked up the steps and sat down on one of the bar stools. He reached into the breast pocket of his long black pea coat and pulled out a cellular phone. He glanced at it briefly, and, noticing there were no missed calls, he quickly put it back into his pocket. I saw him immediately, as I'm sure every other woman in the bar had as soon as he walked in. However, it was only I who had the excuse to talk to him. "Hello, sir," I said, "I'll take a guess and say that it's still rain足 ing?" He looked up and smiled, again putting his perfect teeth on display, causing each woman at the bar to have her heart skip a beat. It looked as though he hadn't shaved in a day or two, but somehow instead of making him look unkempt, it added a rugged edge to his urbanized style. "Good call," he answered with a sly smile. "It's insane out there. Raining cats and dogs is an understatement." 18

"It's nights like these that I don't mind being in work. I get to laugh at everyone who comes in soaking wet," I said, half joking. "Wow, a little sadistic, eh?" he said, and as he smiled, I couldn't help stare at the dimples that formed on his cheeks. "Well, I was one of those unfortunate folks who lacked the foresight to keep an umbrella on hand at all times. Did you laugh at me?" "Of course. My sadism excludes no one. I like to think that my cruel sense of humor is equal opportunity," I replied. "I admire your honesty," he said with a nod of his head. He glanced at his watch. "I'm early." "Can I get you something to drink while you're waiting for your party to arrive?" I asked. "Well, after braving the fierce elements, I think I deserve ...I mean, I think I need a drink. I'll have a Rum and Coke." "Sure. I'm sorry, but can I see your ID?" I asked, knowing perÂ fectly well that he was over the legal drinking age. My curiosity urged me to find out the name of this man. He smiled and shook his head as he grabbed his wallet and momentarily flipped though the plethora of credit cards. He finally handed me his driver's license. "Thank you, Mr. Richards," I said and quickly fetched the tall, dark, and handsome man's adult beverage. "Here you are, sir." "Thank you very much," he said. I smiled and nodded. Unfortunately, I had to pry myself away from Mr. Richards and tend to the needs of the other bar guests. As I poured a draft beer for one of my regulars, I noticed a stunning blonde woman sit down at the bar. She was dressed immaculately, but she wore a seemingly out of place large yellow flower in her hair. I watched as the handsome Mr. Richards stood up and walked over to her. As he walked over, he fumbled with his hands, as if he were nervous. The bar was small and not particularly crowded. My curiosity got the best of me, and I strategically moved my position so I could hear better; or if I am being completely honest, so I could better eavesdrop on their conversation. "Excuse me. Ma'am?" Mr. Richards said with the charm that had stolen my heart only five minutes earlier. "Are you here to meet someone? On a ...well, a blind date?" he almost whispered the last 19

two words. "Yes. I'm Marie. Are you Matthe ... " "Matthew," he interjected, "Yes, I am. I figured it was you. You'd be wearing a yellow flower in your hair." "Yep. You've got to love the blind date signals, right?" Marie said with a quick, forced laugh. "Oh, of course," he, answered, "and you've got to love the blind date awkwardness. We should start over. Pretend it's not a blind date. It will take the pressure off." "Okay, good idea," she said, looking slightly relieved, "I can already feel the tension just fading away." "Do you know how much a polar bear weighs?" he asked with a sly smile. "No, I can't say that I do." "Enough to break the ice. Hi, my name is Matthew. Can I buy you a drink?" They both laughed, and their conversation took off from there. As soon as he sat down with Marie, I could sense the collective break ing of hearts amongst all the women at the bar. I noticed two women, in particular, who took turns shooting dirty looks at Marie while flaunting their most appealing smiles at Mr. Richards. Marie, however, was oblivious to the intimidation tactics employed by the other women. "Excuse me, miss?" Mr. Richards called. "This is the one I was waiting for. The lady would like a Cosmopolitan, and I'll have another Rum and Coke." "Of course, Mr. Richards," I said slyly, still confused by what I had witnessed. I retrieved their drinks as quickly as possible. I was intrigued now. I couldn't miss a word of their conversation. "It's hard work, but I enjoy it," I overheard him say. "My father was an emergency room doctor, as was my grandfather. I guess I never really had a choice. It's a good thing that medicine is some thing that interests me, especially the emergency room. There's never a dull moment, you know. I'm always working on call. It doesn't leave much time for relationships, but I'm working on that. I'm trying to cut down. There's more to life than work. There real ly is." 21

Marie's face said it all. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five or twenty-six years old, and it was obvious-she was pleasantly surprised with her blind date. "I agree. When I graduated college, I was just focused on my career, but now, I'm dating more, traveling more. Life is too short to spend three-fourths of it in the office," Marie said, basically summaÂ rizing exactly the life lesson that he had just proclaimed. "These two were meant to be," I muttered under my breath, letÂ ting some of my bitterness escape. "Beautiful, successful, smart, and wise," he proclaimed as he tossed his hands in the air. "What more could I ask for?" "You could say that into the mirror, Matthew," Marie responded with a giggle. "Oh, my God. Did she really just say that?" I whispered to myself as I poured another customer's drink. "Another round, please," he called to me. This man, the man I had found so inherently charming only twenty-five minutes ago, was quickly becoming the personification of all that I despised. "I'll be right back with that, Mr. Richards," I answered, stressing his last name. "Well, I modeled for a few years. I really wanted to be an actress, but then I decided I just want to help people. So I majored in physÂ ical therapy, and now here I am," Marie said. "That's incredible. I mean, I save lives everyday, but you, you save not only lives, but you save people's dignity, their livelihoods, their families, but most of all," he paused for a moment , "you save their souls." "No way," I said aloud. I could not believe what I was hearing. These lines were worse than some cheesy daytime soap opera. I looked over and watched as they stared into each other's eyes. "Let's get out of here," he said to Marie. She nodded and began to gather her things. Suddenly, he stopped walking. He pulled a small black beeper from his pocket. "Excuse me. It's the hospital. One second," Matthew said to Marie. He stared intently at the pager, which I, until this moment, thought had become obsolete. He shook his head and looked at

Marie. "I am so sorry. It's the hospital. They need me to come in." "I understand, Doctor," Marie said. "Let me get your phone number again. We'll do dinner another night, when I'm not on call. I am so sorry." "Don't you worry about it. I had a great time tonight." "Let me walk you to your car," Matthew offered like a true gen足 tleman. Marie accepted his proposal, and they strolled out the door together. From my position at the bar, I could see Matthew walk Marie to her car. They stood and talked for a moment. I, then, watched as he leaned in and gave her a good night kiss. She got in her car, and he shut the door. He watched her drive away, and then, he slowly walked towards his car. He opened the door and sat inside his vehicle for a few moments. He, then, opened the door, got out, and walked back into the restaurant. He smiled at the hostess, walked up the steps, and sat down on one of the bar stools. "Another Rum and Coke, please?" he asked. As I poured his drink, I watched him fumble around in his pocket. He pulled out a ring and put it on his finger. As I fetched his drink, I glanced over at a man who had just entered the bar area. He wore dark framed glasses, and his light brown hair was parted to the side. He was probably only about twen足 ty-eight or twenty-nine, but from a distance, he appeared to be a mid足 dle-aged business man. He was average in every sense of the word and would have probably blended right in if it weren't for his bright orange button up shirt. He seemed nervous and looked around anx足 iously-perhaps for the date that would never arrive. "Hey, baby," Matthew called to a woman approaching the bar, effectively ending my thoughts about the man in the hideous orange shirt. The approaching woman was gorgeous.' She was tall and thin, with dark, curly hair. She walked over to Matthew and kissed him. "Michael, baby, have you been waiting long?" she asked. "Na, babe. Just since you called. How was work?" "I lost a patient today, during surgery." "Oh, babe." He hugged her. "It's okay. We did all we could. It happens. It was a rough day, 23

though. Enough of that. How was your day? How's the job hunt going?" she asked. I put a small red straw in his drink and took it over. "Here's your Rum and Coke, Mr. Richards. Mrs. Richards, can I get you a drink?" I asked. "Sure, one Cosmopolitan, please," she responded. Michael looked at me. He knew I knew. "One Cosmo, coming up," I said. It was none of my business, anyway.

- Stephanie English

Migratory Patterns Evening came too quickly at the Hospital. Winter's first full moon began its ascent through the bare branches of the deciduous trees. A lazy arc of late geese stretched their long necks southward over mostly molten leaves and muddy fields. There was a chill in the air appropriate for the time of year. The few people making their way to the double sliding glass doors of the entrance betrayed the season with each exhalation. Some milled about the doors at a safe distance from one another. All wore the mandatory surgical masks. Few were admitted to the quarantined facility. In the first months of the pandemic, so many died that mar足 tial law was declared. The economy collapsed under the weight of the dead. The dollar bought little, and little of value could be found for purchase. Healthy middle-aged women, who seemed to have the most resilient immune systems, were pressed into government serv足 ice. Medical manufacturing, health services, transportation of the dead and dying all went starving for help. The drug companies had become particularly important in terms of staffing to keep the con足 stant shipments of anti-inflammatories and antibiotics, as massive doses were the afflicted's only hope, to all the hospitals and infir足 maries. The virus claimed the very old, the very young, those with weakened immune systems, the already infirm, and, of course, those 24

unfortunates who had close contact with the infected. In this, the first wave, an eighth of the population of North America, surrendered their lives. None of the vaccines were effective. The President per ished. Then the virus mutated. Only the native strength of Western economies and governmental institutions kept the situation from decaying into utter chaos. This second wave was particularly hard on adult males as the virus found a weakness to exploit in that popula tion. At one point, all households with unafflicted residents were asked to hang red cloth in their windows so supplies could be deliv ered. The virus tore through the world's population a second time. Other diseases began to eat at the survivors due to the disposal of the dead: typhoid fever and diphtheria added insults to this grand injury. All unnecessary gatherings were forbidden. Anyone not already sick was mandated to wear a surgical style mask when out of doors. Eventually, The Speaker of the House was sworn in as President of the United States. Inside the hospital, second phase (nonambulatory), patients were crowded into the basement and first floors. They were kept in rooms and halls, on hospital beds and cots-whatever could be put into service-and their chances of survival were approximately one in twelve, if they got the much needed medications. If they deterio rated into third phase patients, or went purple, as it was called, they were moved to the fourth floor, and no one ever made the journey back from "the attic." An elevator opened onto the basement hall revealing a young woman dressed in what looked like a hazardous waste disposal suit. She waddled out of the elevator and passed the patients looking closely at each for signs of change. As she passed a rather large man, on the windowed side of the corridor, he spoke out in a raspy voice. "Nurse ... Oh, Nurse. I'm not feeling bad at all." She immediately walked to his bed side and put the digital thermometer in his ear. "I guess my thermometer must be broken then, Mr. Murphy," she replied. "Because according to this," and she flashed the num bers at him, "you have a temperature of one hundred and two point 25

four."

"I told ya," replied the man, with a painful grimace. "Can you have them send me my clothes over now, so I can check out?" he went on. "Yeah, right!" said the young woman as she continued her movement down the hall. "That's the one I was tellin'ya about, Mamon." "Johnny, our death sentences are all but pronounced, and you're thinking about women?" questioned Dick Powers, the man immediately to Mr. Murphy's left for the past two weeks. "She's a hottie," said the young Latino man at the foot of Mr. Murphy's bed. "She kinda reminds me of a sack of rice I once knew," he continued, commenting on the protective gear. "Hey, Dick," went on Johnny Murphy, "I told ya already, I'm getting better." John "Johnny" Murphy could have made his millions selling books on the power of positive thought. But he did make a couple million selling lift trucks for a major manufacturer throughout the Middle Atlantic States. He came out of Kentucky University, a Marketing Major, from a full ride athletic scholarship intent on setÂ ting the world afire. He smoked like a stack, drank bourbon on the rocks, and tried his best not to womanize-but enjoyed his only failÂ ing in this department. He was married but lost his wife to cancer some years back and, like everyone else, had lost enough family and friends in the epidemic to qualify him as a senior citizen, but he was only fifty-one. Johnny Murphy was irrepressible enough to make a mere mortal ill. "Did you hear what was said tonight on network news, Johnny, about patient zero?" "About him coming over on a flight from Turkey back in October?" "Yeah, is that ironic or what?" said Richard "Dick" Powers. "Mamon, Turkey. Get it?" "Oh, yeah, amigo. I got it!" The three started to laugh at the irony of it all. They had experienced enough death and suffering in the past few months to be

acutely sensitive to anything ironic. The laughter changed to the coughing, the coughing to hacking; finally, the three were barking furiously enough to crack ribs. They nearly fell out of bed with a bouncing, barking cough. It continued until they were exhausted. For ten minutes they did not speak. Each of them spat the thick green black mucus that rose from their lungs into the bean shaped cups. Other men in the hall coughed violently, too, as the night gave strength to the virus throughout the hospital. "You want to hear something really pathetic," asked Dick Powers, rhetorically. "My wife kept a small aviary in the house before she died." "Christ, help us," sighed Johnny Murphy. "Diablo!" hissed Ramon Esteban, the automobile mechanic who owned and operated a local garage. "I hoped ya killed the pajar itos for the pleasure of it," he continued. "Didn't have the heart," said Dick. "You seek bastad! Deek," exclaimed Ramon, who, affecting a Latino accent with perfection, was called Mamon by his friends for a reason long buried in the sands of time. Ramon was a third gener ation American, born in the area and a self-made entrepreneur. He was the most recent arrival to their basement purgatory and wel comed warmly into these conversations by Dick and Johnny because of the remnants of his youthful vigor and keen sense of humor deliv ered in two languages. The men started to chuckle again but had the control to avoid the hacking (the last attack being so painfully fresh in their minds) and the taste of bloody mucus still lingering in their mouths. Down the small passageway, hospital beds were crowded with the afflicted. A catheter and intravenous bag were attached to each, as they no longer mustered the strength for the dignifying walk: one gave life sustaining fluids; the other collected the used. Maybe thirteen men lay in this section of the basement. Some men hacked almost comically; others squirmed about under their sheets with a floating sensation peculiar to this type of fever; others, still, lay immobile barely able to lift their heads or simply not caring enough to complete the task, having lost hope. Night was coming 27

now, and every patient knew that night bruised every ripe injury. At the very best, they might enjoy a long, crawling fitful sleep; the worse could bring a purple body to the fourth floor and to death's pitched attic with the longings for voice and light. After a little while, as night approached its middle hours, Mamon had not spoken for some time, and Richard Powers rolled awkwardly onto his right arm. "John," he called to his friend, his brother in malady. "John." Johnny turned his head to Dick Powers, who heard the stiff bed dressings crunch beneath Murphy's head. "Yeah," Johnny replied. "John, I...I don't know ... " "What, man," Johnny responded in a friendly way, attemptÂ ing to help his pal get started. "I need to tell you something, and I've never told anyone this before." "Yer gay and you've fallen for me?" asked Johnny, jokingly. "No," Dick whined in an impatient voice, running out of energy for jokes and all. "C'mon, I'm serious ... I.. .well, I'm not by any means a pessimist, but I really don't think I'm going to be one of the twelve," and he choked a little on the words. "I think I'm startÂ ing to get close, and I wanted to tell you something." Johnny could hear the sincerity in his friend's voice and let down his defenses and lent a sympathetic ear. "Go ahead, pal." "Remember, I told you that I went down to the Caribbean on an extended vacation with an old friend from university?" "Yeah. Went down for the summer and had a ball chasing the gals and boozing, ended up working down there." "That's right. I didn't tell you about something that happened to me before that first summer ended." "Let's hear it, Dick." "One of the guys in the group I was runmng around with ...remember, I called them the rich kids?" "Uh, huh." "Well, one of them had twin sisters. They weren't identical-

they were more like opposites, in fact. I found myself attracted to one of the sisters-physically, and I had put some feelers out to see if she might be interested. My buddy from down there told me she was difficult and had not dated much. The next thing I knew, it was like the whole of Society was behind us being a couple-it was like the theme for the summer." "Wow, that is interesting," Johnny said. "So what happened?" "Her twin sister, Lisbeth, was flying in for the summer from Milan. She had apparently married a vacationing Italian several years before, and they had had a couple of kids. She came at the beginning of the summer with the children, and her husband was to follow her at the end of August. After we met, she thought I'd be just the right thing to cure the chill in her sister, and she went to work on it. "And you say, it was no big thing to you?" "Not really. She was cute, but I got the feeling she didn't like men too much. And that she-Odette was her name-was not a parÂ ticularly happy person." "You think she was gay?" "Who knows? Anyway, Lisbeth started hanging around with the group, and we all started touring the island: going to different houses that the parents of these kids owned at different beaches, and even in the mountains." "Mountains in the Caribbean?" "Yeah. I was a little surprised by the sight of the mountains myself. They were impressive," Dick wheezed. "Speaking of the mountains, it was there in a scenic little town called 'Jarabacoa' that we fell hopelessly in love." "You and Odette," coughed Johnny. "No. Lisbeth and I," said Dick looking deeply into the darkness for the glimmer of Johhny's eyes. "Ooo!" -"Exactly. Hopeless, never to be right in the head again love." "What'd you do?" "It gets even more extreme. After almost simultaneously realizing that we were madly in love with each other, I began to suf-

fer from a kind of extreme agitation. Not only did I have a sense of complete devotion to her, wanting to carry her every cross, but also that I began to have the same feelings toward people in general. I began to have a physical sensation of love pouring through my being, my chest from some unknown source passing directly to Lisbeth and then beaming back from her. I was in a state of devotion, and grace is the only way to describe it. "Christ!" gasped Johnny, "I'd never heard of such a love." "It's interesting that you should mention Christ. I was never particularly religious, but I remembered the stories of Christ from my youth, and the thoughts of Christ and the images from the stories began to overcome all my thoughts when I was not physically with Lisbeth. I began to imagine that 'this must have been the way that Christ felt towards everyone.' And the fact that the entire situation was going to have a life span of only three months was nothing more than a metaphor for any length of time or life. "So, what happened when the husband arrived?" questioned Johnny. "Massive and complete depression with a tinge of satisfacÂ tion. Satisfaction in knowing that, even though I might not be able to physically maintain this love, that I had at least found it," related Richard, rolling slowly back into his sick bed, exhausted. Johnny Murphy lay silent for some time thinking about the tale his friend had just told him. He searched his experiences for anyÂ thing that might have reflected a similar profundity. His life had been a contemporary race towards the holy grail of fame and wealth for him and, he deluded himself, his family. He realized as he lay there late into the night that he had, in the chase of life, frittered his time by chasing these shadows of what life might indeed be. He deterÂ mined to make a new life for himself, to take a new journey into what life might entail. As Richard slipped into an uneasy sleep, he began to dream the vivid dreams he had been experiencing since his life had begun slowly seeping out of his body. First, he had the usual dreams of being chased by the two tigers, which gave way to his walking over fields of venomous snakes. Finally, he found himself walking in a 30

shallow cool mountain stream. The pebbles at the bottom of the stream could be clearly seen. Tall pine trees shot up from each bank. He looked at his hands and noticed they were bleeding, but the realÂ ization was not bothersome. He looked downstream and could see or feel a warm white light. The light changed slightly revealing a woman's shape, but the warmth and brightness remained constant. In the light, Richard could feel the unconditional love with which he was familiar. He fell under the brilliance and felt a union with love. Richard woke momentarily and saw a blade of morning sun cutting across the bed. The white sheets that lit up under this blade of sunlight cast through the window behind him. It fell across his bare purple arm. Richard fell back to sleep. He dreamed a series of fleeting images that were not memorable. Then, he was back in Jarabacoa, and Lisbeth was walking very slowly across the lawn, on the balls of her feet as she always did, and turning her head ever so slowly toward him, smiling that high cheeked smile-bounding. He was seated, his hands were bleeding, and he was writing poems. The writing was cryptic, but he was able to make it out. It read ... "Are you ready, Mr. Powers?" "Yes," Richard Powers capitulated. The two health workers, in the hazardous waste suits, began to roll his bed towards the elevator. Richard Powers reached out to his friend, Johnny, who had not slept due to the eventful night; they clasped opposite hands that awkward way. The nurses stopped to allow them a moment. Neither man spoke, but the awkward handÂ shake was firm, and the hands shook hard three times. Then they released their grips, and the bed continued its slow journey towards the elevator. As the bed passed Mamon's sleeping body, Richard reached gently out to caress the foot of the young man. Mamon jumped and mumbled something, half awake from his feverish dreams, looked glassy eyed around, then fell back into his slumber. Johnny watched as his sick mate was rolled onto the elevator. The nurses manipulated the bed with gentle motions. The doors slid quietly closed. Johnny looked up at the lights slowly change as the elevator went up: 1 ... 2 ... 3...and, finally, 4. He choked back on the tears and swallowed hard to maintain control of his emotions. 31

Time passed agonizingly slowly that early morning for Johnny after watching the elevator floors tick off on the display. Each moment passed with all the pride of the planets passing through their seasons. When the sliding glass doors shooshed open that late March morning, Johnny Murphy, perhaps only as large as life now, emerged into a squint of natural sunlight. He wore a coat too warm for the season and clothes too large for his still large frame. Johnny took in a deep breath of the cool air and let it out with a new admiration for the freshness of the out of doors. With his second great draught of air, Johnny let out a yawp that carried loudly enough to startle a few of the people who had gathered near the front of the hospital. Johnny smiled a knowing smile. The influenza season was coming to its end, and the gentle giant had survived. Johnny was not full of himself with the fact, however. Of course, his focus on the positive had never wavered, but Johnny also felt closer to the importance of life than he ever had. He paused a moment to dedicate some thoughts to his friends with whom he had gambled so much. Mamon, his dedication to making his friends laugh under the worst of circumstances, had been released the week before. And, of course, Dick, whose kinship and story of love remained locked in the heart and mind of his irrepressÂ ible companion. When Johnny's daughter pulled up in the big Ch rysler, Johnny slid in next to her with a little telling groan and gave her a massive hug. "Dad," she complained. "Ya tryin' ta crush me?" "Maybe," he replied with a sparkle. "How do you feel, Dad?" "Like a Jove," Johnny barked. "Jesus, Dad, it's a miracle," she wept. "Na!" And with that Johnny gave his daughter another masÂ sive hug. "Well, maybe a little one." "You want to go to your place first?" "Let's pass by that garage over on Third Street. I want to show you off to a friend of mine over there. And then we'll go over 32

your house for a few so I can wrestle with the kids." His daughter gave Johnny a look with a question in it but decided that a man who had narrowly cheated death ought to get an afternoon explanation free, and she began to drive toward the highÂ way down the long exit road from the hospital. As they approached the light that marked the exit, about a dozen or so newly returned geese were having a feed in the hospital field. Johnny reached over to the wheel and gave the horn a honk as he watched the geese give a respectful hop and waddle in the other direction. Johnny grinned broadly at his daughter, and she could see he was welling up. -Mark Scott

Headed Home He was the only older man other than my father who I ever threw a baseball with before our house. I could tell his body was old, as he bent down often a little bit slow. A handful of years later he came to live with us. Tears were in my eyes. Now I hold those years like fine gravel in my hands, and let the wind take it away, when I hear the distant cries, and voices of people yelling and happy, as a man rounds third. The last time I saw him he was laid out and hollow, with a gray-white hue. I was afraid to hover too long by those flowers, yellow, red, before I kneeled down to pray. Our dear Lord took him home as he will to all someday. I studied the beads 'round his then still earthy hands. His strong body was diminished, and the light in his eyes was gone. That late afternoon

after the Mass by the priest who knew him from his loved one's voices best, I stood below the huge full-leaved oaks rustling in the deep blue summer sky, on green grass.

- Daniel Picker

Night Drive A boy and a girl walk down a driveway towards a parked car in the upper end of the city. The boy looks back towards the apartment complex from which they just exited; his glance is guided up towards one window illuminated by a dim light shining through the curtains. He contorts his face. "Is she gonna be okay?" "Yeah." He looks at her, waiting for an elaboration. The silence grows awkward, "She'll be fine." They walk across the street to a new model silver Mazda. It has a dent running along the passenger side that looks as if it had been sideswiped, maybe more than once. They open their doors and duck into the car. The sound of both doors closing echoes off the silent towers looming over them. They sit down and strap their safety belts around their chests. "Are you okay?" He widens his eyes and directs them at her in an exaggerated motion so that her peripheral sight registers the gesture. "I'm fine," she speaks with a convincing tone. She shifts the car in gear and it jerks forward from its resting place. Her stare is focused on the road ahead. "Hmm, so what do you want to do tonight?" "I dunno, whatever." "Fine, Fridays it is," he leans over with a smile and rubs her arm. "What are you gonna get to eat, babe?" The car slows while approaching a red light. Her attention finally breaks from the road as she leans on the break pedal and turns to face his half-smiling stare. "Would you ever lie to me?" 34

"I would never." His face wrinkles into a concerned expression that quickly devours his smirk. He does not allow a second to sepa rate her question from his answer. He corners her eyes with stern attention; the discomfort she feels is a calculated effect. Unsure of the direction she plans to proceed in, he waits for her response. "If you ever did anything, would you tell me?" She watches him while red light creeps up onto his face as the car slows to a stop. "What do you mean?" He loosens his glance on her slightly. "If you were with anybody else, like if you had sex with some one, would you tell me if you did?" "Of course I would." The red light cast on his face turns green. His eyes flinch to the right, in the direction of the intersection, and back to her. Her head returns to the road, but her eyes remain on the boy. He studies her expression from across the interior as she settles her stare somewhere between looking at him and the street ahead. She steers the car left-away from the main road. In the rear view mirror, the boy catches a glimpse as the yellow lights dropping from the hanging lamps retreat behind some grey uninhabited build mgs. The lingering stripes of light that manage to sneak around the cor ner are at last smothered by the concrete architecture. The girl's expression is covered by a dark shadow-the boy is no longer able to explore it for a reaction. His eyes start dancing nervously around the interior of the car, searching for some familiarity. He pulls air up through his nostrils and his ribs swell in his chest, "I would never lie to you. If anything like that were ever to happen, you would be the first one to know. You know that," his eyes flash upward from her face to the rear-view mirror and back to her. She watches his fingers wrestle through several contortions until they seem to become stuck in a clawed deformity. "But I would never just drop something like that on you. I would tell you as soon as I felt even remotely interest ed in someone like that, so you wouldn't have to be hit with it out of nowhere." Every few moments, her face flashes with the glow of street lights as the car creeps its way through the darker side streets of the city. He uses these moments to document the movement of every 35

detectable muscle in her face, probing desperately for any sense of satisfaction his explanation might be lending her. "Because," she continues as if his previous response evaporated somewhere between them. She inhales deeply, "When I bon-owed your phone...I listened to your messages." His face does not break from hers while he feels as if the floor underneath him has dropped to open a gaping hole to the sewage running below the streets that he could fall lifelessly into. He no longer has to study her expression for her sentiments. Her eyes become glazed. Their glance falls onto the Mazda's odometer, "...you would have done the same thing." The engine's muttered vibration hums through the dashboard. The boy shuffles his feet around the cluttered floor of the Mazda, sliding an empty pack of cigarettes back and forth between his shoes. He looks down at his feet and puckers his lips. He is distracted from his non-comforting nervous twitches by the glisten of her eyes spotÂ ted in the corner of his vision. His lips and his expression tighten as he brings his face upwards again to meet hers. Her eyebrows cringe closely together as she watches him strugÂ gle to speak. She clears her throat, "I'm not upset. .. I can handle this. I mean, I've done the same thing to you before." Above the buildings looming high over roads that the Mazda moves along drift streets of dark grey clouds, slowly paving over the distant shining stars-unseen to both travelers. The boy lifts his arm in front of him and exposes his palm as if about to speak. His eyes inten-ogate the road ahead for words to say. She interrupts his search by continuing her train of thought, finding it harder to locate words herself, "I just...the way I feel about it is, I just feel like ...at this point in my life, I don't want any more drama, you know? I mean I've had enough. We've both had more than enough of it." He rocks his head forward and back with a blank stare, noting his agreement as she speaks. "And at this point in my life, I feel like..." The girl's eyes glance left to discover the silhouette of a couple walking in the opposite direction on the newly paved sidewalk. She uses this momentary lapse of thought to return some of her attention to steering the 36

Mazda. She lifts her right hand to the steering wheel and fastens both hands around it-she reminds herself where she is taking him. She flicks on her right turn signal while slowing the car for an approaching stop sign. Following the lead of her attention, the boy turns his head forÂ ward and looks up through the windshield. His vision travels up to the dark buildings staggering so tall overhead that the ocean of clouds they stand guard over hide with ease. He falls back into his seat and returns his eyes to the concrete walls joined around the Mazda, the girl placed next to him, and the yellow beams of light sliding along the crumbling street ahead. The girl looks around and absorbs the surrounding cityscape. There are no street lights in this area. A few of the gothic window frames that cling to the apartments above hold captive a dim light; from within its occupants have not yet fallen asleep, or who have done so without turning them off. The lighted windows stand out in the black sky overhead like poked holes through a blindfold. The boy does not recognize his surroundings. He might, were his mind not so arrested by the circumstances unfolding within the car. The uncomfortable bouncing as the Mazda tramples over a pothole thrusts his focus back into the present situation. The girl decides that her thoughts are sufficiently organized to communicate, "I feel like at this point in my life I'm doing real well now. And things like this...dramatic things.. .just make me unhappy, you know? I don't feel like at this point in my life that I deserve to be unhappy. And I don't want to deal with drama. I'm not going to flip out about this. I don't want to make this into one of those draÂ matic situations where we freak out. This just. .. " (the girl's nose and chest swell to conceal any evidence of the pace at which her heart is beating) " ... all feels so childish, and I just don't want to deal with it." Her speech overshadows the boy's attempt to mutter something about being sorry. She watches the silhouette of the boy shift awkÂ wardly in the passenger seat. His chin settles lifelessly against his chest. She becomes moved and somewhat angered by this scene, stemming from the time-implanted challenge of differentiating 38

between the boy's sincere acts and the times when he would act sin cerely to satisfy her. Moving his eyes to the left without interrupt ing the position of his head, the boy searches through the darkness of the Mazda's interior for the girl's face. "It was a momentary act of stupidity," the boy finally manages to find his voice again. "I would have told you about it, but the whole situation was just so temporary...and regretful...that I didn't even want to think about it. So I just forgot about it. I was ashamed and embarrassed that I would ever do something like that. So I just did n't think about it." She is able to discover his eyes in the darkness as they begin to glisten over with his explanation. The combined weight of his own voice and her stare pushes hard against his chest, so he finishes his speech to the windshield instead-while she looks at him and drives. The boy clears his throat and slows his breathing, as if preparing for a speech. "I don't want to hurt you anymore. Now I know how it feels when you were in this situation when we were together. It's just so hard to admit things that you are embarrassed about. I don't want to cause any more drama for you. You're right that you don't deserve it." His eyelids press down to push out evidence of any lin gering tears. His hand feels its way over the consol between their seats, closer to the girl's. He moves slowly, careful not to offend her. He waits for the touch of his index finger on her thumb to provoke her stare from the bumpy road and over to him. Influenced by the pressure of his touch, she returns his glance. The glitter of reflected light from moisture dried to his face flashes across her eyes. He opens his mouth slowly to speak. The words creep out from his mouth at an almost still pace. "I love you." The words linger between them, slowly seeping into the atmosphere. The girl returns her head forward to see where she is steering the Mazda. Ahead of them, the road dips down a steep decline, revealing a rare glimpse of the city from an overhead per spective. For a moment they can both see the lights of the buildings and cars shining up towards them. The Mazda drops down the slope before the girl snaps on the left turn signal and guides the car onto a connecting street. 39

"I know, baby," she says without smiling. She rubs her nose to muffle her inaudible sniffling. "I'm not gonna make a big deal about it. I don't care about it." She pauses for a moment while her thoughts extend from the present to explore related situations to assist her next thought, "I guess we're even now." "It's not about being even," he insists. "I don't want to hurt you and I'm sorry for lying to you about it." "Don't worry about it. I'm fine. It's not like we're together or anything... I'm fine." The boy frames an unsatisfied expression to his face and holds it in her direction. "I'm fine." She obliges his intention and contorts the muscles in her face in the shape of a slight smile-an act that is met with a relieved exhaling of breath from the boy in the passenger seat. His eyelids press down, this time to hide the tears he feels seeping out. They both turn to face the road through the windshield again, but his hand remains holding hers. The beams shooting from the headÂ lights bounce up and down revealing the Mazda's path ahead as it makes its way across the corroded black pavement. The boy wipes his eyes and sits up as the girl pulls the car around a curve to reveal a familiar part of the city. "So where are we going?" The boy's voice vibrates with an enthusiasm unfamiliar to both of them since they started the car. "Fridays!" The girl chirps with uniform enthusiasm, knowing that the change of subject comforts him. Ahead of the Mazda, the light at the next intersection turns yellow. The girl turns to the boy. A struggling half-smile stretches across her face. The light from the intersection ahead enters the Mazda through the front windshield. A dark red shade, disturbed only by the black caverns of their faces, creeps up from the floor and covers both of their silhouettes. Fridays illuminates the dark street only a block ahead. "So what are you gonna get to eat?" he asks in a voice almost frenzied with eagerness. He squeezes her hand and smiles to get her attention. Her face remains forward, unmoving. "I dunno!" she says in a cheerful tone that is identical to her pre-

ceding statement. She returns pressure to his hand before pulling it away to adjust the heat slightly. She then returns her grip around the steering wheel. The boy looks away and nods his head. "Okay ... I think I'm gonna get a wrap of some kind. I'm not sure. Maybe a soup and a wrap." He nods his head as if agreeing with his voice. "That sounds good." The girl puts the left blinker on and turns the car into the Friday's parking lot. Her eyes probe for a spot while her head remains fixed forward. She drives past an open spot that the boy notices. "There's a spot right there. You just passed it!" She does not respond but loops around to find the spot he just indicated. Noticing it, she pulls in and shifts the car into park. The car jerks to a stop, causing both passengers to sway forward. The boy pulls the handle and his door swings open. He unbuckÂ les his seat belt in the same motion as he steps his foot onto the paveÂ ment outside of the Mazda. Detecting no movement from the girl's side of the car, he turns to her, "Are you coming?" He looks in to see that the girl has both hands still clutched to the wheel. Her eyes remain focused on the windshield. She appears to him strangely as if she is still driving the Mazda. Her body remains stiff as her words seep out from her clenched lips. "In a second. I just need to breathe." -Robert Snyder

October Rain The street light shines through the fresh rain on my window as it trickles lightly down the screen, like the star-filled sky. The cool fall breeze whisks 41

through my hair down to my toes. I feel tired and calm, but exhilarated. The brown leaves stick to the sidewalk as they fall and hit the wet air. The sound of the trees dancing through the night keeps me awake, as my pen can't write fast enough. The new morning doesn't stifle the rain, but embraces its sweet beauty and is fulfilled. My eyes begin to tire, while my soul feels cleansed and hopeful that this morning will bring happiness and the peacefulness of a rainy October night. � Marie Burkitt

White Hats· It was an ordinary July day when the gunslinger arrived in Oakfall. Summers on the frontier were the second-worst time of year, right after the winters. The temperature· soared and the air was thick with moisture, enough to rob . a man of his strength. Consequently, no one stayed outside in the open sun for too long, instead choosing to loiter inside the saloon, to the owner's chagrin. It was too hot to drink much, let alone·perform any kind of physical activity, legal or otherwise. .Oakfall was a flawed jewel, a rotten piece of fruit. Debauchery and murder ruled, just like every other frontier town. A man named Darwin would have felt right at home in the endless acres of the American West; only the ruthless and powerful thrived. Everyone else either died or became a slave to the fittest. Lawson's men made up a good portion of the crowd in the bar, 42

the centerpiece of the town. Their boss was upstairs "discussing" an urgent matter with one of the girls. Everyone knew to stay off the second floor for awhile, and so the motley band assembled under his name lounged at the bar and the tables, content to wait for their boss to finish his business and then come down. The last guy to walk in on Lawson got a bullet in the head for his troubles. Lawson had a reputation for hiring only the toughest of desperaÂ dos to do his dirty work. He was another two-bit hoodlum who had enough smarts and shooting skills to take what he wanted, and what he wanted was Oakfall. Lawson had systematically removed all obstacles in his path until no one was left standing in his way, leavÂ ing him free to take over the settlement. In the vast expanse of the West, a town was a self-contained oasis of humanity, an isolated island of order. No one came to deliver the people of Oakfall from 43

Lawson's wrath; they were completely at his mercy. Lawson repre sented judge, jury and executioner, and only God himself could stop him now. On the horizon, a man appeared. The rocky ground shimmered from the extreme heat, making the stranger look as though he had sprung up from some mystical portal. No one paid any mind; the town constantly attracted anonymous vagrants and wanderers from Deadwood, only a few miles away. However, this visitor was differ ent. He was mounted on a young horse, the usual method of trans portation in North Dakota. The stranger had wrapped himself in a black trench coat, with a dark hat covering his head for protection from the sun's oppressive rays. He should have passed out from heat stroke by now; no one wore black on a day such as this one, not even the roughest and meanest outlaws in town. The wanderer's steed casually entered Oakfall, its hooves kicking up ghosts of dry dirt along the way. He approached the nearest hitch ing post and dismounted, his loyal equine companion not misbehav ing in the least. His ebony boots crunched as they hit the ground. The stranger's long black coat floated reverently in his wake, revealing dark gray trousers and a black vest over a wrinkled white shirt. A faded leather holster was slung low at his right hip, cradling an ancient-looking revolver, scuffed and scraped from countless bat tles. However, the wanderer's most striking feature, dangling from a length of chain, was the shining white crucifix around his neck. It was carved from ivory or some similar substance. The level of detail was incredible, probably the work of a master craftsman. From underneath the brim of his dusty hat, two faded blue killer's eyes probed the landscape. An old scar slashed down one side of his face, two separate lines broken up by his eye socket, like a road obstruct ed by a pond. A shock of dry brown hair framed the wanderer's face, his strong square jaw set in a perpetual grimace. He was an honest-to-God, real life gunslinger; anyone with eyes could see that. The gun didn't mark him as a professional. Every fool in town had at least one shooting iron with him, something stolen or purchased. The stranger was different in the way he carried himself

and set him apart from others; he possessed no cocky swagger, no overconfident smirk. His eyes absorbed every detail from his sur roundings, missing nothing. From the saloon, a young thug observed the stranger's anival. A recent inductee into Lawson's gang, he was eager to prove himself. He had come all the way out to Oakfall from Virginia and had no intention of returning home. The young man's overzealous nature took over once again, and he gathered his nerves with a shot of whiskey and meandered out the door. Two weeks had passed, and he still had not brought in any swag for Lawson. The boss did not take kindly to freeloaders; the youngster needed money, quick, and to his foolish, drunken eyes, this fellow looked like a sure thing. The alco hol seeping into his brain, bolstering his courage, the young man strode towards the dark gunslinger, making sure to stay behind him at all times. "Hey. Hey, you." The wanderer ignored his slurred greeting, continuing his slow, easy walk into the center of town. "This here's Mister Lawson's town, ya hear? There's a tax on uninvited strangers in Oakfall, and ya better pay up." Nothing. The stranger either couldn't hear him or chose not to. "Ya heard me! Don't make me get rough, pal ... " The thug, frus trated, warned. Everyone in Oakfall worshipped at Lawson and his gang's feet, giving in to their every desire and demand; this stranger's comparative insolence infuriated him. Stomping forward, the young man seized the gunslinger roughly, by the shoulder, turn ing him around. "You brought this on yerself, mister-" The thug gaped in hmTor when his eyes passed over the brilliant crucifix that danced though the air, finally returning to its home on the gunslinger's chest. Stumbling backwards, he tripped clumsily over his bootlaces, panic rising on his face. Frantically, he began to drag himself away with awkward, clawing hands. "It's him! The White Cross is here! Helllpppp!" A boot attached to a mighty foot cut short the young man's high pitched wail, brutally stomping into his throat. A choking noise escaped the thug's mouth before he collapsed. As he watched the 45

young man die, the gunslinger's lips parted, his bright white teeth bared in a sadistic grin. The wanderer stepped over the thug's crumÂ pled body, his course once again set, and walked towards the center of town. The stranger strode into the saloon with the same easy, comfortÂ able gait displayed earlier. He was in no hurry; he had all the time in the world. At least a dozen snarling desperados were there to greet him, along with a few curious residents of Oakfall. For a long moment, an oppressive curtain of silence draped over the bar. The gunslinger finally spoke, a rough whiskey-soaked grumble: "I'm looking for Jericho Lawson." A heavily armed man spat at him, bandoliers crisscrossing his barrel chest. "Mister Lawson ain't seeing nobody right now. When he gets down here, he's gonna be real happy with us when we tell him we killed the White Cross." No more words were necessary. With unearthly speed, the gunÂ slinger swept his coat aside and snatched his six-gun from its holster with his right hand, catching everyone in the room off-guard. Before any of the gaping outlaws could draw, or even blink, the slumbering murderer in his hand awoke. He pulled the trigger again and again, fanning the hammer with the side of his left hand. Six thunderclaps echoed through the bar, and six fresh corpses hit the ground with a brand-new chunk of lead inside their skulls. The gunslinger reloaded with inhuman coordination and skill, ejecting the cylinder and discarding the smoking empty shells while slapping in a fresh speed loader. The gunslinger smiled, relishing the moment. He enjoyed this part, when the king's peons retained a bit of braggadocio before he wiped them all out. The one they called "The White Cross" was a simple man, with precious few pleasures in life, and killing was one of them. The saloon erupted into chaos. Terrified townsfolk scattered, some leaping from their chairs and flattening themselves onto the floor, others dashing out the door in an attempt to escape the inevitable, indiscriminate hail of gunfire that would soon explode inside the building. The remaining men finally found their courage, shakily drawing their weapons.

The White Cross dove behind the bar, dodging some of the ordi足 nance hurtling his way, shielded from the rest by its sturdy wood construction. The deafening roar of so many firearms discharging at once blotted out Lawson's demanding shouts from upstairs. "What the hell's going on down there?" Jericho Lawson kicked open the door to his room, half-dressed and growing angrier by the second. Who would dare make this much noise while he was trying to enjoy himself? The unlucky fellow who started it would be sorry, no doubt. Rounding the stairs, rage painted across his face, Lawson stormed down to the bar, "Alright, you dimwits-" Lawson froze in his tracks, his white-hot anger melting away to astonishment. The room lay in ruin: chairs thrown everywhere, bul足 let holes pockmarked the walls, and the haze of gun smoke filled the air. Bodies covered the floor, his men as well as innocents. Only one man was left standing, a shadowy figure who smiled when Lawson entered the room. "You must be Lawson. I've come a long way for you." Lawson's hand flew toward his sidearm, but the gunslinger proved faster. A bullet tore through Lawson's hand, mangling it beyond repair. Screaming in agony, the mighty lord of Oakfall fell to the floor, cradling his ruined appendage. Slowly, surely, the gunslinger crossed the room, the crucifix that was his namesake swaying slightly, gleaming in the faint light shin足 ing through the smoky room. He stood over Lawson, looming like the specter of death. "You've made some powerful enemies, my friend. You're worth much more dead than alive, which happens to be my specialty. Goodbye, Lawson." The gunslinger raised his weapon to Lawson's head, finger rest足 ing on the trigger. A diminutive form raced down the stairs, tiny feet pattering on the wood floor. It was a child, no more than five or six. The kid wore expensive clothes, much better-dressed than anyone else in the town, and was rotund, obviously well-fed. The child ran to the broken, bleeding man sprawled across the

floor, embracing him tenderly. He looked up at the gunslinger, terror in his teary young eyes. "Don't hurt my daddy, mister. Please, don't hurt him ... " The child clung to his father desperately. Lawson pulled the boy close, attempting to shield him with his own pitiful body from the White Cross' legendary wrath. The gunslinger's grin faded. Slowly, he lowered his pistol, the bloodlust erased from his face. He shook his head and holstered his weapon. Frowning, he turned away from the bizarre family, his mind far, far away. He exited the perforated saloon, leaving behind the sobbing man and child, and strode towards his horse, which was exactly as he had left it. Oakfall was a ghost town; the surviving townspeople cowered inside their homes, leaving an ee1ie calm that spread across the tiny settlement. Only one dared to show her face. A young woman (with admiration and fear warring in her mind) carefully approached the White Cross as he walked through the silent town. Shyly, she opened her mouth to speak, but the gunslinger cut her off. "He won't be bothering anyone again. Do with him what you will, miss." She gaped at him in awe as he passed, unsure of what to say. "At least tell me your name!" The gunslinger stopped and turned around. He looked tired, his shoulders slumped a bit, his eyes weary. He smiled, not the predatoÂ ry grin as before, but a gentle smile that lit up his face and made him look younger. He tipped his hat to the girl. "The name's Django, miss." The gunslinger left Oakfall, disappearing once again into the haze of summer, back on the road to redemption and damnation. - William Lange

CATHEDRAL STREETS LIVE ON

(Allegheny Suites Part One 1889) Water-Ash-Memory THAT unrelenting 'Arch of Elms' From here to ETERNITY ....

(Old steel ghosts--coal-black of another night, long ago ...long alone.) Allegheny Suite of Mountainized Beings; Partially forgotten in a town, at times thought to be FAR AWAY FROM HEAVEN .. . Alongside History: Nine Nuns, 3 X 3 of strong prayer, their inner-song and pride tryÂ ing to hold some Dee-almighty at bay. That slap of water defying heaven and hell-Conquering Water against architecture, St.Gualbert's Cathedral, Johnstown, Pa., unlikely fortress, unlikely last-hour stance by nine nuns; their Balance of human Catholic strength, as surrounding walls knew of no certain future. Prayers answered, defeated the enraged fire and water. Miraculously, the nuns were rescued. Forever's concept of lost-hour metaphysics chanted within that Cathedral ... Transcending Elms-ETERNITY ELMS-GHOSTS of the Arch theÂ atre reflects the terminus of talk. Heaven and Water-Mind-Earth, quiet within themselves Bound to a Cathedral Sky, back and forth, above and below, near 49

and far as martyrs, heroes, and terrestrial fictions live on Water-Ash-Mountains Sway with the years respectfully. All Memory Beings arch themselves there Under the Cathedral Streets. Gentle people continue on ....

- Dennis Natoli

As Earth Takes Hold Colors drip down her face Wind sweeps her emotion away Grass catches her uneasy aches Rain seeps into her clothes Daisies circle her toes Vines begin to strangle her body 50

The sweet smell of dirt engraves her ears Cartilage becomes fertilizer A garden, a treehouse, three tiny kindred spirits Stumble on broken limbs She lies beneath ...the Earth takes hold! Eyes widen, lips quiver, toes curl Fingers grasp a sheer cloth of nothing Bones feather into dust Earth takes Hold! Sceneless Summers, Weary Winters, Fearless Falls, Sulky Springs... THE E ARTH TAKES HOLD

- Jennie Rose Prochorenko

Bread of life

It is too loud in his basement for Jason to concentrate. He has not eaten since he took his medicine in the morning, and it is now approaching mid afternoon. His hands feel slightly less stable with every new minute as he fervently paints his model train. The growl of his stomach and the noise of the washing machine incessantly shaking from an unbalanced load just ten feet to his right creates a fleeting consciousness that Jason cannot regain. Stimulated by his need for tranquility and fulfillment, Jason decides to move into his kitchen, where it is much quieter. Jason ascends the steps, reaches for the light switch as he steps out of the doorway, and turns the basement lights off, then back on again, then off, and then back on again. He walks past the table, covÂ ered in old newspapers. Several headlines are clipped and pasted to the large piece of cardboard pinned to the wall. Above the miscellaÂ neous clippings is a small shelf that holds two troll dolls. One doll wears a novelty football helmet and a sailor suit. The other doll lies horizontal, unclothed. The walls are painted a starch white with a 51

high gloss finish. A few scattered decorations hang from hooks and nails in the wall. At the center of the wall are two self-portraits. They are framed together. The portrait on the left is a charcoal, and the portrait on the right is a watercolor. Jason pauses a moment to look at his art. He then approaches his bread box as he prepares himself to make a sandwich. As he stands at the counter, just ten feet from the newspaper conÂ cealed table, two couplets of bread lie in front of his hands, the first of which is wheat bread, the second of which is white bread. Each set consists of certain qualities that make it more, or less, appealing than the other set. Jason tolerates the wheat bread, a part of the diet his medicine requires, althrough, his taste prefers the white bread. Jason's appetite, however, requires only one sandwich to be made out of whichever bread he chooses. For Jason, a wasted sandwich parallels a wasted life. When Jason looks left at the wheat bread, he thinks of the health and nutritional value and how those slices of wheat bread would not harm the loss of the second five-pound increment in his weight-loss program. The nutrition represents the only redeeming quality, and a boring one at that. Only its healthy value shades the bread's stale, bland taste, which sours his mouth like heat-curdled milk. While the wheat is the bread Jason should eat, he cannot sway the temptation to choose its contrary. When he looks to the right, his eyes fall upon the heavy bodied, rich tasting white bread. His mouth moistens at the sight of it. The slow drool caused by his favorite lunchtime compoÂ nent begins to leak from the small gap between his relaxed lips. His tongue whips around his lips as to catch a falling glass. Full of caloÂ ries, the country-style white bread stares at him as an orphan puppy would gaze at potential masters through the glass window of his cage. Jason, unaware of the full repercussions, reaches for the wheat bread. He douses the bread with mayonnaise, in order to disguise its taste, places two pieces of turkey breast onto the spread, and presses the slices together. Jason begins to wonder, "With all of the dressing on the healthy bread, it is possible that it is as healthy as the white bread? Should I have just made the sandwich from white bread?" Jason, despite his feelings, sits down at his kitchen table. He 52

sets his platter in front of his hungry eyes. A glass of iced tea with two ice cubes, an apple with a bruise directly below its apex, and the wheat bread sandwich, two slices of turkey laid softly in its core, are all arranged randomly on a over-sized white napkin. He has always thought that eating lunch alone was much better for him than dining with a crowd because the experience of eating alone gives him time to deliberate the arguments that control his future. As his mind sliv足 ers through uncommon shame and events that one could only imag足 ine, Jason senses that he is not completely satisfied with his choice. He looks at his sandwich. The vast emptiness of the white napkin behind it, which is much too large, seems to eclipse his sandwich. With this imagery in mind, Jason takes the first and last bite of his sandwich. The napkin upon which it rests reflects the lack of unique足 ness of this particular sandwich best. As the bread passes his teeth, the sandwich makes his throat coil in disgust. A heaving motion pushes fluids from his bowel towards his neck as the mayonnaise squeezes out from the porous bread to blanket his mouth. The fatty condiment restricts the sweet taste of the meat from ever touching the buds of his tongue. Jason snatches his iced tea and pours it into his mouth to quell the mounting disgust on his pallet. All of the bad flavor, or the lack thereof, makes Jason uproot himself from his seat at the kitchen table. He looks over his shoulder at the pieces of blank white bread on the counter, the sight of which reminds him of a canvas, perfectly prepared for an artist, though never painted. "Bread doesn't get sad if you don't eat it," he tells himself after becoming bored with the argument he conducts in his own head. "However, it will get green, rotten, and forsaken by its keeper, as it lay untouched in the bread-box that doubles as its death bed. I won足 der how it would have tasted." Jason revisits where he started. He knows that he cannot have both sandwiches and that he has already made the decision to eat the wheat bread sandwich. He cannot discard the wheat sandwich, for it would go against every standard by which he was reared. To waste is such a terrible thing. But Jason realizes he can make another meal out of the white bread. All he has to do in order not to be hungry any53

more is make a white bread sandwich. With the two slices of deli足 cious white bread on the counter Jason can fill himself with the hap足 piness that can only come from a good sandwich. It looks exquisite足 ly appetizing as it lies there. Jason rushes over to the counter as urgently as a mother to her injured child. He picks up the used knife and slaps some mayonnaise onto the upside of the slices. In seamless motion, Jason flings an oversized serving of meat on top of a slice as he throws the second piece of white bread on top. Like a starved animal, Jason packs as much of the delicacy into his mouth at once. Had it not been for the lubricant of mayonnaise, the sandwich would have choked him on site. His mind and heart race together in harmony and bliss. It is the best sandwich he has ever eaten. He slows down to eat the second half in order to prolong his delectable mid-day meal. Jason is filled with satisfaction after he finishes the sandwich. He is enriched with a full satisfaction, the likes of which Jason has never experienced before. After he finishes, he licks the crumbs, the miniature remains of the sandwich, off his fingertips, and he realizes what he has done. A regimen has been ruined, and a meal has been wasted. All things are true; however, the element of the situation that disturbs Jason most is his realization that he will never again feel satisfaction greater than the one he has felt today. Depressed, dejected, and demoralized, Jason reaches for the knife with which he made both sandwiches, presses it into the soft tissue in his neck, and tears his skin from ear-to-ear. As he lies and bleeds on the floor underneath his self-portraits, he remembers his wheat and white sandwiches and now knows that neither is as eternally quenching and satisfying as his inescapable death.

- Theodore Mueller

Ginger, Carole, Marilyn, and Joan I suppose it started at the beginning of the summer. We had fin足 ished school about three weeks earlier, and there wasn't much to do. 54

Every kid feels that way at some point, but for us, it was true. We lived in the country, off one of those roads you come across by acciÂ dent. Dad always said he liked the solitude. He would stand in our backyard admiring the vast woods behind our property and remark, "There's nothing like it in the world, just you and your family." In later years, those words became ironic as he spent more and more time away from home, sometimes leaving on business trips that lastÂ ed for weeks. Dad's abandonment left plenty of quality time with Morn, who, being a teacher, had a schedule that mirrored ours exactly. The summers provided the most bonding experiences as our friends opted not to trek to our house, forcing us to spend time with one another. Usually, this circumstance meant drives into town or walks through the woods. Occasionally, Mom would gather us together for her favorite pastime-watching black-and-white movies. We four girls would cram onto the couch, munching popcorn and listening to Mom relate stories about the actors and actresses. To her, the movie stars of that generation were to be admired and revered, unlike today's celebrities who constantly occupy the headlines with rehab visits and inappropriate behavior. We tried to point out that her heroes weren't exactly saints, either, but she held firm in her belief. As I grew older and Dad's presence faded even more, I began to notice a pattern. The less Dad was at home, the more Mom watched her movies. That arrangement suited me fine because when they were at home together all they did was fight. At first it started with a harsh word or a nasty look. Gradually, those words and looks gathered steam and morphed into full-blown fights, complete with obscenities and empty threats. The day Dad left marked the worst one ever. I started feeling uneasy when I could hear them over my music. Usually they kept their voices low so as not to alarm us. Intrigued, I snuck out of my room, quietly closing the door behind me, although with the racket downstairs they were making I doubt they would have heard it. I peeked into Nikki's room to see if she wanted to join me in eavesdropping. As I opened her door, I felt a breeze blow in through

her open window, causing the curtains to flutter. I saw nothing that resembled my sister, which didn't surprise me. Always the rebel, Nikki had apparently decided to usher in her junior year of high school with as much alcohol as possible. She thought her actions were a closely guarded secret, but every night I watched her climb down the lattice and sneak off into the woods. It didn't take a genius to figure out what had transpired when she reemerged, stumbling around the backyard and giggling to herself. Where she obtained the liquor was beyond me, but I figured her stash would run low soon. Closing her door, I made my way to the landing that over looked our living room. I sat and pressed my forehead against the cool wood of the railing, remembering when I was younger and would try to overhear adult conversations. Moments later, I heard a door close softly behind me, then footsteps, as Nikki joined me. "Where were you?" I asked, my eyes still focused on the scene downstairs. Apparently, my parents had chosen to take a break from screaming at each other and sat at opposite ends of the couch staring into space. "In my room." I glanced over at her. Her eyes remained glued to the living room, anticipating a resumption to the fighting. As if sensing my disbelief, she added, "I was there. You just didn't look hard enough." "Bullsh-" My rebuttal was interrupted by a raised voice below us. Any civility had left them years ago, which was evident by their foul language and airing of each other's dirty laundry. "What's going on?" Jackie's innocent question startled both Nikki and me, the argument downstairs muffling her door's squeaky hinges. Nikki leapt to her feet. "Go back to bed," she ordered, rough ly pushing Jackie back into her room and shutting the door. "What?" she asked as she settled back into her place. "She's seven. She does n't need to hear this crap." I had no objection. No kid should have to witness their parents fight. I wasn't so wonied about Lily, who routinely displayed a resilience far beyond her four years, but Jackie concerned me. A mean look could shatter her confidence for days. I didn't want images of Mom and Dad arguing to haunt her. 56

The fight lasted a good forty-five minutes. I eventually stopped paying attention to their actual words until I heard Dad yell, "I'm leaving." My head jerked up so fast it's a wonder I didn't do damage. An eerie quiet descended on the living room, and I thought for sure they would hear my heart pounding. Finally, my mother replied, "What's that supposed to mean?" "Exactly what I said. I've got someone else and I'm leav ing." My mother covered her mouth with one hand, either to silence what she would have said or to choke back a sob. My eyes followed my father as he grabbed his coat from the closet and departed. At the sound of Dad's car roaring to life, I turned to Nikki. Never one to show much emotion, she stared blankly through the railings, her eyes transfixed on some inanimate object, her teeth clamped down so tightly on her bottom lip that I swear I saw blood. Vulgarities escaped from her mouth before she scrambled to her feet and retreated to her room. I refocused my attention on Mom, curious as to what she would do. For the longest time, she remained a silent statue, digest ing the devastating bombshell. Then, as if a switch were thrown, her head swiveled, surveying her surroundings. I watched her grab a movie from beneath the TV, unsheathe it, and feed it to the VCR. Ignoring the more comfortable options, she sprawled on the floor. As the first strains of music floated up to my ears, I withdrew from the railing and snuck back to my room.

*****

The next morning, I found my mother sitting amongst a sea of movies. Bogart and Bacall eyed me from a video jacket on the floor, while Fred and Ginger danced merrily at Mom's feet. I waded carefully through the mess until I was face-to-face with Mom. She refused to acknowledge my presence, instead focusing on the cellu loid characters cavorting about on screen. "Mom? Have you been watching this all night?" I asked. No response. I quickly scanned the room for the remote control, but finding no sign of it, opted to turn off the TV manually. Almost 57

immediately after the appliance clicked off, a bright square of light appeared on the screen. As the picture gradually came into focus, I glanced back at Mom, who gripped the missing remote in her hand. Taken aback, I decided to leave her alone and headed for the kitchen. Jackie and Lily sat at the table, bowls of cold cereal lying untouched in front of them. Nikki stood at the counter, head tilted back, pouring her own cereal straight into her mouth. Noticing my incredulous stare, she mounted one of her ingenious defenses, "What? All the bowls are dirty." Having no interest in her slovenly ways, I pointedly asked, "Have you seen Mom?" "No. Why?" I crooked my finger, beckoning her over, and she followed me to the doorway. "So what? She's watching TV." "So she's been there all night. I think she's going through all of her movies." "No. No! No!" Nikki shrieked, hands to her face, com pletely mocking my concern for our mother. "She's watching movies? Surely she's gone insane." "Stop screwing around," I c�astised her. "This is serious." Nikki shot me a look of disdain. "The way I see it, her ass of a husband left her, and all she wants to do is watch a little TV. Right, Mom?" A swell of music punctuated Nikki's question. "See?" she retorted, interpreting Mom's silence as an agreement. I rolled my eyes. "I don't know, Nik." "Then call the doctor." Nikki's simple solution didn't suit me. "No," I said slowly. "I'll leave her alone for now. We'll just wait and see." I guess it was a little foolish, but I didn't want some one coming to the house. They would see that Dad had left, and maybe they would take Mom away. We would be placed in foster care, and what good would that do? No, I was just going to let Mom work through her crisis. Besides, as long as she wasn't hurting any one, what did it matter?

***** 58

A week later, Mom still wasn't showing any signs of life, and I began to wony Her blonde hair had taken on a brownish tinge, and oil appeared to seep out of every pore. I wanted to talk to her, but a foul odor enveloped the room, making it impossible to get within twenty feet of her. In Mom's absence, I tried to take charge. Lily, the youngest, would need the most help, so I assigned Nikki as her guardian. Frankly, I was surprised Nikki agreed until I realized Lily would be living a life of servitude. Jackie, who had become my shadow, enjoyed helping, and I put her to work doing any chore I thought she could handle. None of us mentioned what was happening; we just went about the days as if everything were normal. The only one who seemingly enjoyed the situation was Nikki. With Mom oblivious to the world, she had a new sense of freedom, which she used to the fullest extent. One day I found her struggling to push a cumbersome banel up the stairs to our rooms. "What the hell is that?" Nikki looked at me in shock. "Oh, my God. You have to get out more. I didn't realize how bad it was." I shot her a withering glare. "I know what that is," I retortÂ ed, pointing at the keg. "I mean, what are you doing with it?" "I'm putting it in my room," she replied with an attitude that suggested I was the dumbest person she had ever met. "Help me up the steps." "Nicole." The tone of my voice and the use of her full name surprised Nikki enough for her to stop pushing and look at me with raised eyebrows. "Get it out of here," I threatened. "Or what?" she asked with an annoying smirk on her face. "You'll tell Mom?" She snorted. "If you won't help me, I'll get someone who will. Lily! Help your sister move her alcohol." I imagined the requests would only get worse, so I vowed to put a stop to it. As we cleaned the dishes that night after dinner, I tried to reaÂ son with Nikki. "It isn't healthy, you know." "What isn't?" Nikki asked, drying a plate. 59

"Her behavior. I think she needs help." Nikki glanced at me as she returned the dry plate to the cupÂ board. "You were the one who said we just needed to give her time." "Well, I think she's had all the time she needs." "What are you going to do?" Nikki's words had a hint of suspicion. I could see the wheels turning in her head. An alert Mom would mean the end of her freedom. "Stop being selfish. I'm doing this for Mom's good." "I said, what are you going to do?" Nikki repeated her request with a little more malice. I uncorked the drain. The water receded into the dark hole, creating a small whirlpool. Sighing, I looked up at Nikki. "I'm going to call Dr. Tate." "Don't." I stared at her in amazement. "Even you can't be that much of a bitch that you don't want your own mother to get help." Shaking my head, I started toward the phone on the wall. Suddenly, I felt an arm snake around my neck. Nikki used to love watching wrestling, and the sleeper hold was one of her favorite moves. Although she had never actually taken anyone down using it, she never failed to try. This time proved no different. "You're not calling anyone," she hissed in my ear as she locked her fingers together. I elbowed her in the stomach, but to her credit, she held firm. "Go to sleep," she commanded, as if that would help me comply. "You go to sleep." Unfortunately, she had once again underestimated the effecÂ tiveness of the hold, and I could still drag the two of us toward the phone. I was almost there when a voice from the doorway startled us both. "Girls, please. This is no way to act." Nikki and I came to a dead stop. Mom stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Casually, she glided past our entangled bodies and opened a cupboard. "Oh," she remarked. "There's not much to eat." "I went to the store a few days ago," I offered. "I was gonna

go back today." "Suck up," Nikki muttered under her breath. "Bite me," I hissed back, still trying to extricate myself from her grasp. She managed one last pinch before releasing me and turn足 ing to Mom. "Are you okay?" she asked. Mom pretended she didn't understand the question. "Of course, I am. Why wouldn't I be?" Nikki looked at me quizzically. "You've been staring at the TV all week," I explained gently. "Oh, yes," she cheerfully replied, closing the cupboard and dismissing my concern with a wave of her hand. "I just needed a lit足 tle time to myself." She pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. "Now that that's out of the way, I have a little project for us. Nikki, get the blue trunk from the hall closet. " As Nikki left to honor the request, my younger sisters, alert足 ed to the fact that something had changed with Mom, poked their heads around the do01jamb. "Mommy!" Lily exclaimed, bursting through the door and jumping into Mom's lap. She wrapped her little arms around Mom's neck and gave a visible squeeze. Then, releasing her grip, she pulled back so she could clearly see Mom's face. She tilted her head, first to one side, then the other. "Nikki said you were crazy, but you don't look crazy to me." Mom laughed. "No, sweetheart, Mommy's not crazy. She just needed some time to think." This answer seemed to satisfy Lily, who closed her eyes and nestled against Mom's chest. Jackie, a little more leery of Mom's sudden revitalization, scooted closer to me, her head lowered to avoid eye contact. Nikki reappeared dragging a large trunk behind her. A smile graced Mom's features as she waited for Nikki to deposit the hulk足 ing object in the middle of the floor. Once in place, she dropped to her knees beside it and threw open the lid. Our eyes met with wigs in varying colors and lengths and different sized garments. "Where did you get all this stuff?" I asked. Mom fished out a black canvas bag from among the clothes 61

and emptied it onto the table. Dozens of make-up paraphernalia tumbled out as she answered, "I used it in my Drama class at school. The kids loved it." "What are we gonna do with it?" Nikki wondered aloud. Mom beamed at us, "Ladies, you're going to become movie stars. Sit down. We'll start with Lily first." As we all took our seats, Mom began rummaging through the trunk. She pulled out a brown wig and fit it onto Lily's head, explaining, "Lily, you're going to be Joan Crawford." Lily's smile lit up her face, although I was fairly certain she had no idea who that was. "Didn't she beat her kids?" Nikki whispered in my ear as Mom accentuated Lily's tiny eyebrows with make-up. It did seem an odd choice for a four year old, but I trusted Mom had her reasons. Within minutes, Lily was transformed, almost sinisterly so. As she trotted off to play, Nikki called after her, "Stay away from the wire coat hangers." Mom, ignoring the comment, focused her attention on Nikki's face. Frowning, she studied it, almost as if trying to conjure an image of which celebrity my sister most resembled. Nikki had her own idea. "Can I be Angela Lansbury?" Baffled, I shot her a look. "What?" she asked, shrugging away my wonderment. "She kicked ass in Murder, She Wrote." "No Angela Lansbury for you," Mom said cheerfully, tossing Nikki a blonde wig. "You're going to be Carole Lombard." "Who the hell is she?" "Someone whose mouth was almost as filthy as yours." Nikki seemed placated. "Bitchin' ." "And you," she continued, turning to me, "will be Ginger Rogers. I trust the two of you can handle your make-up." With Nikki and I transforming our looks, only Jackie remained trapped in the present day as the rest of us faded into the past. As I fitted my blonde wig into place, I saw Mom eyeing her. While Mom hadn't taken much time deliberating about the rest of us, Jackie proved different. Mom tilted her head to the side.

Her tongue flicked out of her mouth to moisten her upper lip. Slowly, she nodded her head. "Yes," she whispered. "I think it'll work." Snapping out of her reverie, she hastily pawed through the trunk, finally emerging with a platinum blonde wig. She placed it on Jackie's scalp and tugged it down to get a proper fit. She then went to work on Jackie's face, adorning it with heavy mascara and eye足 liner. For a finishing touch, she drew a beauty mark above Jackie's lip on the left side. Admiring her work, she took a step back and looked to us for approval. "What do you think, girls? Do(!sn't she look like Marilyn Monroe?" I had to admit, with Mom's make-up job and the wig, Jackie made a convincing Marilyn.

*****

As the summer sun melted away the last days of June, we took on our new personas. We watched movies just as before, but this time Mom would bark orders, reminding us to watch our name足 sakes' movements and listen to their speech patterns. Jackie was encouraged to talk in a whispery tone while Mom frequently remind足 ed me I should practice my dance moves. Clothing from that era mysteriously appeared in our closets, and Mom became cross if we didn't wear them. One day, a scream from Nikki's room drew my attention, and I raced in to find her squinting menacingly at a cardboard cutout of Clark Gable. "What the hell is this?" she demanded, gesturing at the lead足 mg man. "Well, Carole was married to him," I offered as way of an explanation. ''I'm getting sick of this," Nikki replied, punching poor Clark right between the eyes. As he toppled over from the force of her blow, I grabbed her arm, pleading with her. "Just go along with it. I think it's helping her." Nikki's eyes met mine for a second before she averted her gaze. 63

"Fine," she conceded, wrenching her arm away. "But I'm not sleeping with him." Before I could muster a decent comeback, I heard Mom's voice calling me. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, anxiously peering upward. As soon as she caught sight of me, her features seemed to relax. "Come here." She gestured with her hand. "I have something for you." I made my way down the steps and, once at the bottom, she encircled me with her arm. "You girls have been through a lot. You deserve a little break." She handed me a roll of bills. "The carnival's in town. Take your sisters. Have a good time." She smiled and for the first time since Dad had left, she looked like herself. I smiled back and before I knew it she had wrapped me up in her arms, squeezing me with a force I had never felt before. Awkwardly, I pushed away. Her eyes had a far away look in them, and I quickly escaped back upstairs. My first stop was Jackie's room, where I found her lying in bed, bunÂ dled up to her neck. "Mom says I'm sick," she explained. "What do you mean, 'Mom says'?" Jackie shrugged underneath the covers. "I dunno. She said I felt hot." Her forehead did feel a little warm, but I chalked that up to the mountain of blankets smothering her. "Are you sure?" I asked her. "We're going to the carnival." Her hand snaked out from underneath the covers to rub her nose. "Yeah," she said a little reluctantly. "Mom said she would take care of me." Nikki appeared in the doorway with Lily draped on her back like a baby monkey. "Let's go, losers." "Jackie's not going. She's sick." "What?" Nikki asked skeptically. "She looks fine to me." "Yeah, well, Mom says she's sick." "Whatever. Let's go. I wanna pick up a carnie. Later, faker." And with that, Nikki and Lily departed, leaving Jackie and I alone. Pulling the covers down a little to give her some air, I prom64

ised, "We'll be back soon." The carnival wasn't much to write about. There were the usual rides, food stands, and games of chance. The roll of money from Mom quickly dwindled. On the way back, we stopped at one of those old-fashioned ice cream parlors with a real soda jerk machine. As we waited for our orders, Nikki and Lily amused themÂ selves by spinning around on their red puffy stools. "You guys are gonna get sick," I warned them. Nikki shot me one of her withering glances. "Lighten up, square." "Yeah," Lily chimed in. "Lighten up." "That's good, Nik. You're a real good role model." "It's what I do best." She flashed me a smile, then belched. Lily squealed with laughter. Rolling my eyes, I slid off my stool and wandered over to the magazine rack. It was the usual fare-a couÂ ple fashion magazines, some tabloids. A familiar face peering out from the magazines caught my eye. I shoved aside a Glamour to find Marilyn Monroe's ditzy smile staring back at me. It wasn't the platinum blonde hair or the white dress that caused my stomach to drop; it was the headline: "4oth Anniversary of Marilyn's Death ." Hastily, I grabbed the magazine, flipping past the glossy ads and news until I found Marilyn again, winking at me from the open pages. My throat tightened as I read the words-"This week marks the fortieth anniversary of the screen legend's death. Monroe died August 5, 1962, from an alleged overdose of sleeping pills... " I don't remember much about the car ride home. Nikki kept asking me what the hell was going on. I couldn't speak right, so my explanation to her was garbled and didn't make much sense. She only knew that something was wrong with Jackie. I took the turn into the driveway a bit too fast, and the car momentarily skidded onto the lawn before I steered it back on track. Before I could shut off the car, Nikki had thrown open her door and leapt out, charging full speed for the front door. A few steps behind her, I saw her fleeing form at the top of the staircase, rounding the 65

banister and heading for Jackie's room. Before following, I glanced around the living room. The TV, turned off, reflected my image. Magazines and today's newspaper adorned the coffee table. Nothing indicated that anything was amiss. Taking this as a good sign, I bounded up the stairs in pursuit of Nikki. I don't know what I expected to find, perhaps Nikki sitting on Jackie's bed, ready to tell me what a dumbass I had been. The door to Jackie's room remained as Nikki left it, open for all eyes to see. I saw Nikki on the bed, her head lowered, her hand stroking the top of Jackie's head. When she looked up, I knew. Tears had grabbed her make-up and were washing it down her face, leaving a black trail in their wake. She looked demonic, and in any other instance, I would have found that amusing. "She's gone." Her voice was strained, not at all like the overÂ confident braggart that usually inhabited her body, but more like a child, a little girl who was unsure of what to do. "What do you mean, she's gone?" I asked, although I knew full well what she was talking about. Nikki shook her head. "She's not breathing." She seemed to have trouble swallowing. After that, everything got kind of hazy, as in a dream, or when you have a high fever. Events seemed to happen disjointedly. I remember Nikki getting up from the bed and sweeping all of Jackie's toys off the shelf and onto the floor. I remember thinking that was stupid because we'd have to pick them up. r remember hearing a howling sound, but I'm not sure if that was Nikki or me or if it really even happened at all. Mostly, though, I remember Jackie. I remember her blonde hair fanned out on her pillow. Her eyes were closed and her lips puckered ever so slightly, as if she were Sleeping Beauty awaiting a kiss from her prince. I remember touching her face and noticing she wasn't cold. They always tell you dead people feel cold, but Jackie didn't feel cold-she felt normal, like Jackie. I'm not sure who called the police, but they a1Tived. One of them tried to talk to me, but his voice sounded like it was in slow motion, and I couldn't understand him. I knew he wanted to take

Jackie away from me, so I bit him when he reached out his hand. Somehow, he got me out of the room and down the steps. As we passed through the living room, I saw Mom sitting on the couch, talking to an officer. I heard the man ask how many children she had. "I have four daughters," Mom replied. "Ginger, Carole, Marilyn, and Joan."

- Beth Cieplechowicz

Juror Number Eleven "Alright," Juror Number One yawned. "Let's try this again." As the head juror the job of getting eleven people with different views, different backgrounds, and different experiences to come to a consensus fell to him. "I put my vote in for death, again." His voice held a slightly sarcastic tone. "Let's go, one more time," he said as looked down to his left. "Juror Number Two, what's your vote?" "Death," she stated as she pushed her tomato red hair behind her ears. She spoke with confidence and affirmation as though she had life experiences to account for her strong beliefs. The freckles that dotted her cheeks and the small silver hoop that jutted from her eyebrow suggested otherwise. "Death," she repeated, "and I'm not changing my vote. For any reason." "Juror Number Three?" the head juror said. He now stood at the top of the long wooden table. Juror Number Three was a grandmother of twelve. "Death," she whispered from the opposite end of the table. "Everyone has got to pay for what they do." "Death," Juror Number Four inte1jected before the head juror turned to him. He sat next to Juror Number Three. Brown sideburns snuck out of from his Boston Red Sox hat. He kept his glare fixed down the table towards Juror Number Eleven. "Number Five?" The head juror remained at his position at the head of the table. A Puerto Rican lady sat next to Juror Number Two. An apple

pin adorned the tan blazer she wore. She kept her petite hands fold ed on the table top. "D-," she stuttered. "Dea-," she continued to stammer. She sighed heavily. "I'll go with death," she pushed out, "but I'd feel much more comfortable with life without." Juror Number Eleven rolled her eyes as she spoke. "Number Six?" "Death." The tall black man never looked up from the legal pad in front of him. He draped his long limbs over the table. "Number Seven?" "I'm with her," the middle aged man responded as he point ed in the direction of Juror Number Five. His nose occupied most of his face. He spoke with a nasal voice. "I'd be able to sleep better if we went life without, but what that man did was horrible, and I sup pose the punishment would fit the crime. You know what the Bible says," he paused, "an eye for an eye." "Okay, Number Seven. Number Eight?" Juror Number Eight held a pen in his hand. He rubbed his round belly with his free one. Calluses covered his large hands from years of working con struction. "Death," he grumbled completely uninterested. A plump middle aged black woman sat to his right. She resisted the urge to make faces at Juror Number Eight. She held her purse close to her chest. "Number Nine, what do you say?" The head juror still stood at the head of the table. "This man deserves death." She pushed her glasses up her nose. But I would be much more content to settle with life without." "Number Ten?" Juror Number Ten wore a dark blue polo shirt and had neat ly cut dark hair. "Death." He delivered his opinion without hesitation. "Oh, just let me go," interrupted Juror Number Twelve, "before she starts again." Heavy shadow and liner framed her bright blue eyes that she rolled as she spoke. Her blonde hair bounced over her shoulders and layers of blush and foundation covered her face. She appeared younger than her true age. Her stare darted down the table

at Juror Number Eleven. "I vote for death." "Okay." The head juror turned towards Juror Number Eleven. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Number Eleven?" A woman with shoulder length dark hair and chunky brown glasses that lay crooked on her face sat directly to the left of the head juror. Her fingers played with the ean"ings that decorated her lobes. She looked directly into the head juror's eyes. "Life with parole after thirty. That's the best I can do." She continued twirling the gold studs on her ears. Juror Number Twelve audibly sighed. Juror Number Eight threw his callused hands in the air. Number Ten, in the dark polo shirt, silently shook his head. "You've got to be kidding me!" Juror Number Five, the Puerto Rican lady, grew exasperated. "At least I was willing to consider it. This is getting ridiculous. Go ahead. Why don't you quote the damn Bible again." Her arms now lay crossed against her chest. The rest of the room began to clamor in agreement with her statement. "Okay, folks! Okay!" the head juror called for quiet. "I under stand that we are all frustrated, but we need to focus. This is where we are," he sighed and looked down at the pale blue carpet that cov ered the floor. "One vote for life with parole after thirty and eleven for death, with three more favorable to life without parole. Is that correct? Can we all at least agree on that?" He looked up around the room. Any expression of hope had vanished from his face. He finally sat back down. "Yeah," the overwhelming response came from the room. "That's great. We agree that we disagree. What are we sup posed to do now?" Juror Number Five continued. A tone of disgust had crept into her voice. Juror Number Nine gave Number Eleven dirty looks from across the table. Nine still clutched her purse to her chest. Juror Number Eleven did not care. She began drumming her manicured fingers against the table. Let them make their looks. Obviously these people did not have souls or compassion. She already made the decision in her head. Eleven had known she would not condemn someone to death. When the lawyers asked, before the

trial, if she would be able to do so, something compelled her to say yes. She knew she was lying. Killing someone qualifies as wrong, no matter how evil or cruel the person. Everyone deserved a chance at life, a chance to change and grow and seek forgiveness. She refused to be responsible for the death of another human being. She had a difficult time using the fly swatter when the flies snuck in the back door in the summer. And these people expected her to give the okay for someone to stick a needle in this man's arm. They wanted her to throw her morals in the trash like a half eaten sandwich. She would not do it, not for anyone. Values seemed obtuse to the group of people that sunounded her. They all appeared tired and frustrated and more concerned with going home and reacquainting themselves with family, petting their dogs and sleeping in their beds. The fate of this man seemed to be the last thing on their minds, as long as they made it home in time for dinner. Not that she could blame them. She felt tired and frustrated, too. She missed her husband and her dogs. She hadn't talked to her daughter in days; the baby could have started walking. Five had young kids. Twelve, who wore too much makeup, had teenagers that had probably destroyed her house. Nine, the purse holder, took care of her grandchildren. She knew big-nosed Seven lived with his mother and she had trouble getting up the stairs. They all belonged to families who missed and needed them. Life or death, they would all return to their lives and not have to face the consequences of their actions. They remained silent for a few minutes. The room they occuÂ pied smelled of fresh carpet. The long oak table which the twelve sunounded monopolized the room's square shape. Its sterility gave it the feel of a waiting room in a doctor's office but without the outÂ dated magazines. The room had bleach white walls. Behind the seat of the head juror, a white board was attached to the wall. Piles of pens and legal pads lay strewn across the table. Their cushioned chairs rested on wheels. She could feel their glares fixated on her through the silence. Tension filled the small room, and Eleven knew she had the 70

power to end it. Three hours had already passed since they had locked themselves in the room and away from the rest of the world. The judge had left them with simple instructions; come up with a unanimous sentence for the man they had unanimously agreed was guilty and convicted as a murderer. They had to choose between death, life in prison without the possibility of parole, life in prison with the possibility of parole in thirty years, or life in prison with parole in twenty-five years. If they could not reach a unanimous decision on a sentence, the judge would prescribe one herself. However, a sentence of death could only come from the hands of the jury. If the decision fell to the judge, the worst penalty she could deliver would be life in prison without the possibility of parole; she could not choose death. "What the hell do we do now?" Two bellowed. She fever足 ishly twisted a lock of fire red hair around her knotty finger. "That was the eighth time we voted, and she still won't compromise with us." The indignation in her voice grew stronger as she continued. "She's being unreasonable. There is no way she can honestly say Ucciso doesn't deserve to die for what he has done. He killed five people. All she is worried about is givin' him a chance to say he's sorry." Sarcasm predominately reigned in her voice now. "Everybody deserves a chance to repent. Everybody changes." She never stopped twirling her red hair. "Where are these people's chances? Did she ever think of that?" Twelve who wore too much makeup blurted out. Eight, with the callused hands, grunted. Number Ten in the dark polo shirt shook his head in disapproval. Nine, the purse hold足 er, looked annoyed. Number Three, a grandmother of twelve, seemed as though she might fall asleep in her chair at any second. Four, in the Red Sox hat, bit his nails and long limbed Six doodled on his notepad. "What now?" Red headed Two repeated. "We are all exhaust足 ed." "Why can't you just agree with us, huh?" Four in the base足 ball hat pressed. "This would be over if you'd just say death." "Truly," Nine, the purse holder, spoke up, "the rest of us who 71

didn't want death thought about the situation. Ucciso killed fiveÂ five people. One of them was a child. Makes me think of my own grandchildren. I don't agree with the death penalty. But think about it. This case is an exception. The rest of us who didn't want death were willing to admit it. W hy can't you?" Eleven wanted to scream. "There are no exceptions when it comes to killing people." She knew she was yelling now. "Is it right to kill one person if the situation permits!" "Alright! Alright!" the head juror called for quiet. "This is what we're gonna do. We are going to go over the facts one more time. Then we will vote. Again. For the last time. If not then we will leave it to the judge. That's all we can do." He picked up a marker. "Let's start from the beginning," he said as he turned to write on the board. So Eleven listened. She listened to the gruesome details of the five murders Ucciso had committed. She listened to the details of the crime. She listened to them talk about his past, how he served as an altar boy, how his parents divorced at the age of twelve and he spent his childhood with his alcoholic father. She listened to them state their reasons for death. She listened to them go on and on about what he did and what he deserved. She listened but said nothing. She knew remaining steadfast would speak louder than anything else she could have added. She listened and reaffirmed her own beliefs and cemented her position in her mind. "Alright, let's try this one last time," the head juror said as he pushed up the sleeves on his flannel shirt. "If we can't come to a consensus, we'll tell the judge we're stuck. It'll be up to her. I again put my vote in for death." He turned to his right and looked down at Juror Number Two. "Number Two, what do you say?" His voice was resigned.

*****

The twelve members of the jury filed into the jury box. Raymond Ucciso stood next to his lawyer. The bright orange of his jumpsuit matched the bright orange that adorned Number Two's finÂ gernails. Number Eleven surveyed the faces of her peers. Number One, the head juror, stared straight ahead, stoic as always. Long 72

limbed Number Six bit his lip. The layers of paint that covered the face of Number Twelve made it difficult to decipher exactly how she felt. Eleven felt as she had on her first day of high school, vaguely familiar with the proceedings but not entirely sure what was going to happen. She had watched enough Law & Order to know how this worked, but still her hands shook in her lap. She felt the blood drain from her face. The others appeared somber, but she knew they only thought about their own escape. It all happened fast. The judge walked in. Mr. Ucciso spoke. He commented on the remorse he felt for his crime. Eleven wanted to believe his apology, but it proved harder than she anticipated. Mr. Ucciso never cried while delivering his apology. Eleven's hand still shook with anticipation. The judge turned to face the jury. The head juror stood up. Eleven could feel her heart beating heavily. She began breathing deeper. The tension had crept into every corner of the room. She could also hear Seven breathing loudly through his big nose. The Judge broke the silence, "Mr. Head Juror, stand." The only sound that could be heard now was the clicking of keys. The stenographer never looked up from her transcript. The head juror stood up as the judge continued, "Has the jury done everything in their power to agree on a sentence for Mr. Ucciso?" "Yes, Your Honor." Eleven swore she saw him shift his weight. Her hands still shook. "Mr. Head Juror, has the jury reached a decision on a preÂ ferred sentence for Mr. Raymond Ucisso?" Juror Number Eleven leaned forward. She took a deep breath and held it in. She fixed her glasses. "Your Honor, we the jury failed to reach a unanimous deciÂ sion in our suggestion for the sentencing of Mr. Ucisso." He sat down, his arms folded across his chest. Eleven gasped as she let her breath escape out from her nose. Juror Number Two rolled her eyes. Number Eight scratched his belly with his callused hands. Number Three, a grandmother of twelve, sighed and Juror Number Five, the Puerto Rican lady, smiled. She could feel Number Twelve's eyes penetrating the back of her head. 73

"I am disappointed that the jury has been unable to reach a decision." She turned towards Mr. Ucciso. "Mr. Ucciso, please stand. The jury has not come up with a suitable sentence for you. In that event I am sentencing you to life in prison without the possibility of parole for each of the five capital murder convictions. The sentences are to be served consecutively." Eleven's hands clinched the arms of her chair. "There is nothing you deserve more than to pay for your crimes with your life. I don't know which of the jury members burÂ dened themselves with your cause, but you had better be grateful that one of them did. You have received a gift that you do not deserve. The jury is dismissed." The members of the jury filed out of the court. Twelve stepped on the back of Eleven's ankle on the way. Eleven swore she did it on purpose. The jurors assembled themselves back in the Deliberation Room to collect their coats and bags. Eleven collapsed into her chair. She could feel the looks penetrate her as the others filed past her out of the room. Eleven's eyes were closed. She took a deep breath to steady herself. Her hands still shook. - Tarah Gillespie

Abandon All Hope Jonathan thrusts his shovel into the soft dirt. Squirrels chatÂ ter in the nearby oak tree. A swing creaks in the gentle breeze. The pool filter sputters along sucking up dirty water and spitting it back out, clean and fit for use. These sounds mean nothing to Jonathan, who focuses intently on the growing hole in front of him. The warm sun beats down on his back, causing his internal thermometer to rise. Sweat pools at his temples, creating matted clumps of dark hair, some plastered to his forehead, others protruding outwards, like tiny minions waiting for orders. Still, like a madman, he digs, scooping dirt from beneath him and casting it out onto the lawn above. A small figure appears at the edge of the hole. "Whatcha doin'?" Nate asks, squatting down.

Unexpectedly jarred from his concentration, Jonathan's small frame spasms before he turns and bluntly asks, "Why are you here?" "My mom's talking to your mom. Can I play?" "I'm not playing. I'm working," Jonathan huffs, obviously annoyed by the inte1rnption. Nate's pale blue eyes light up. "Can I work, too?" "No, this is for big kids. You're too little." "Am not. I'm gonna be five soon." "So what," Jonathan scoffs. "I'm already five." Momentarily deafeated, Nate sits, knocking some dirt into the hole. "Stop it!" Jonathan screeches. "You're messing it up!" He takes the shovel and hits Nate in the shin. "Owwwww," Nate wails, grabbing his throbbing body part. "I'm telling." It only takes Jonathan a second to realize the gravity of this development. "No, wait. I'm sorry." "I'm still telling," Nate calls over his shoulder as he starts toward the house. Shoulders slumping, Jonathan resigns himself to the inevitable. "I'll let you help me," he concedes, almost inaudibly. Nate stops and turns back slowly. "Really?" "Sure. But you have to use your hands. I don't have another shovel." "No, I want the shovel." "You can't use it, you're too--" ''Moooomrnmrnm.'' "Okay, okay. We'll take turns." Nate flashes a wide smile revealing a mouth of glistening white teeth, each pearly member fitted perfectly into its spot. Gleefully, he scrambles into the hole, his blond hair flopping over his eyes. He pushes the offending locks to the side and questions, "What are we looking for?" "We're going down into the earth 'cause that's where the devil lives," Jonathan explains. 75

"Who's the devil?" "He's really mean and he's really ugly. I'm gonna find him and beat him up." "Why?" "Just 'cause," Jonathan grunts as he heaves another mound of dirt. "My mom says he makes people do bad things, so if I beat him up, he can't make people do bad things anymore." "Oh." A few seconds of silence follow as Jonathan, hunched over like a primitive beast, continues to dig. Nate swivels his head to observe his sunoundings. The sun, momentarily hidden behind a cloud, re-emerges, its bright beams playing across Nate's face. Instinctively, his hand shields his eyes as he turns back to Jonathan. The boredom finally becomes too much for Nate to bear. "It's my turn now," he whines, grabbing the handle of the shovel. "Stop." Jonathan whirls around, a darkness clouding his face. He tries desperately to hold onto his tool, but his grip loosens as Nate continues to tug and the shovel slips from both their hands, spiraling in the air and landing in the pool. Jonathan, aghast, scrambles out of the hole, his features frozen in disbelief. "You dummy! Now we can't dig." Nate and Jonathan stand at the edge of the pool, peering down into the still water. A breeze begins to blow, floating the shovÂ el towards the boys. "Look," Jonathan points. "It's coming close. Get it." Nate kneels, gripping the side of the pool with one hand and stretching out the other. "I can't. You do it." "Nope." Jonathan folds his arms across his chest in defiance. "You made me lose it. You do it." Once again, Nate stretches as far as his little body will allow. As his fingers begin to curl around the wooden handle, his knees slip from beneath him, and he plunges into the cold water. His head breaks through the surface of the water, and he clings to the shovel for life. Desperately he kicks his feet, but they are too small to do much good. Jonathan bends and grabs the shovel, pulling it and Nate to the edge. He reaches down and swiftly pinches Nate's hand, caus-

ing the smaller child to release his only means of support. Triumphant, Jonathan stares at the tool in his hand, his lips curling into a misshapen, sinister grin. He looks down at Nate as the young boy's body descends to the bottom of the pool. "I told you you were too little to use the shovel."

- Beth Cieplechowicz

Coloring

"Jackie, gimme the green crayon. I need the green crayon," the smaller of the two girls said as she shoved the purple crayon she had finished using back into the box. "Gimme the green crayon," she repeated herself. "I'm usin' it, Lydie," the bigger girl replied. She never looked up from the picture of a house she colored. "You gotta wait." Both girls sat at a little plastic table. The white table top restÂ ed upon bright pink legs. Sheets of scribbled on paper, coloring books and crayons lay sprawled across it. Two miniature bright pink chairs completed the table set. "Pleeeaaaaseeee, Jackie. I neeeeeeed it!" "No, Lydie, you hafta wait. Whatcha need it for, anyway?" "I neeeeeed it, Jackie!" "Why?" "To color my monkey green. HmTy up, Jackie. I neeeeed it bad," she whined. "Everybody knows monkeys aren't green, stupid. I'm usin' it. I'm colorin' the grass in front of my house green, and grass is really green. It's a picture of our house. Everybody knows that grass is really green, not like your stupid monkey." She still had not looked away from the picture she colored. "They are too green," Lydie said. She folded her arms across her chest. "No, they're not" Jackie said, her voice growing louder. She finally stopped coloring and looked at her sister. "They are not!" "They can too be green, 'kay, Jackie. You're an asshole."

Lydie reached across the table and pulled the picture her sister col足 ored away from her, creating a large green streak across the middle of the page and through the house Jackie had been coloring. The movement caused the table to shake, and the box of crayons resting on it spilled over and onto the floor. Both girls fell silent and still. "Oh!" Jackie taunted. "You're in trouble. You said a bad word." She quickly seized the green cray足 on she had dropped when Lydie stole her paper. "It's not a bad word," Lydie retorted. She handed her sister the paper back, and Jackie immediately started scribbling over the house with green crayon to match the green streak that now divided it. "It's what you call people when you are mad at them. It's what Mommy calls Daddy when she's mad at him. And when Daddy's mad at Mommy, he calls her a bi-" "Stoooop, Lydie! Stop! Stop saying bad words," Jackie shouted. She continued her furious attack on her paper with the crayon, most of it now under a layer of green. The outline of the house remained visible, but the abundance of green made the grass hard to pick out. "They're not bad, Jackie," she answered. "Mommy and Daddy use 'em all the time. Like last night when Daddy said Mommy's dinner was bad, and they yelled about meatloaf. I like Mommy's meatloaf." Lydie had a red crayon now and scribbled over the picture of a tiger. "Yes, they are. They're words grown-ups use when they're gettin' a divorce," Jackie said. Green now entirely covered her pic足 ture. She continued to color with it, refusing to put it down. "De-borce? What's de-borce, silly?" Lydie asked. She switched from a red crayon to a yellow one she retrieved from the floor. "Not de-borce, stupid. Dee-vorce." "Dee-vorce," Lydie mimicked. "What's dee-vorce?" She col足 ored the same picture of a tiger but with a blue crayon. "Divorce is when Mommies and Daddies yell a lot so they don't live together anymore. That way no one hasta hear them yell anymore," Jackie explained. She picked a picture of a truck out of a

coloring book and started to shade it purple. She still held the green crayon in her hand determined to keep it away from her sister who had forgotten about it long ago. "Oh, goodie. I hate it when they yell," Lydie said. She stopped coloring and rested her chin in her hands. "Jackie, if they don't live together, then where do they live?" "Daddies live by themselves, and Mommies live with MomMoms. We are going to live with MomMom, too." "Forever, Jackie?" "Yup, forever." She used a black crayon on the truck's tires. "That's why Mommy packed up all our clothes and toys today." "Mommy said we were goin' to a long sleepover at MomMom's. I told her to make sure she packed Mr. Bear." "Don't you know anything, Lydie? We are going to MomMom's to live because Mommy and Daddy are getting a divorce," she said with impatience. "It's good that I'm seven and smart. You're just a dumb five-year old. You can't even color in the lines." Jackie pointed to the scribbled tiger picture. "I don't care. I love MomMom. I hope she lets us make cookies and watch Wheel of Fortune and tells us stories about princesses. I hope Mommy 'members to bring Mr. Bear." Lydie picked up a pink crayon and started coloring again, this time a pic ture of a flower, the monkey a distant memory. "Of course, Mommy will 'member, Lydie. She 'members everything," Jackie said. "Jackie," Lydie had stopped coloring again and looked at her sister, "if we live with Mom Mom, who is going to do Daddy's dish es?" "I don't know." "Who's gonna cook him dinner?" "I don't know." "Will we ever get to see him?" "I don't know, Lydie! Stop asking dumb questions." She forcefully pushed down with the red crayon she colored with, creat ing a deep red hue on the paper. "Girls," a voice called from the hallway, "start cleaning up

your mess. I want to leave soon." The woman who owned the voice peeked her head in the room, "Just a few more minutes, 'kay girls." She smiled although her eyes held a tired, worn look. "Okay, Mom," the girls answered in unison. "Here, Lydie," Jackie said as she handed her the green crayÂ on. "You can use it now. Hurry up and finish before Mommy comes back." "Thanks. I'm gonna give my picture to MomMom." Lydie started to color the stem of the flower. "I'm gonna leave mine here for Daddy," Jackie said in a hushed voice. She stared at the heart she had drawn in the right hand corner of the paper. "I hope he finds it."

- Tarah Gillespie

South of the Pulse I used to ebb and flow, With the pulse of blood, Coursing through the "times." Now, I turn on the radio, And sing along, In an outside voice. Longing for funky hair clips, Eye glitter and spandex wardrobe To look good on me. Admiring the bulging young waiter, Until the sound of "Ma'am" Slaps me in the face. With my finger just south of the pulse, I wonder how it slid there, And why I'm just now noticing.

- Michelle Hanna 80

looking for Cary Grant I am a single woman of a certain age. What age? Let's just say I'm old enough to know better, but young enough not to care. According to some statistics, at my age, the chances of meeting an eligible man are greater than being struck by lightening while standÂ ing in my underwear singing "The Star Spangled Banner." Therefore, I must be over thirty. Does the fact that I'm apparently doomed to spend the rest of my life alone bother me? Not really. After all, I think I've got a lot going for me, a support system of friends and family who love me, a job I adore, my own house (okay, mine and the bank's), a son in his early twenties who's now out of the house and on his own and sole possession of the remote control. I eat right, work out and don't need "Botox," yet. In fact, I'm pretty fabulous, if I do say so myself, and I will since I haven't heard anyone else say it (but I'm sure it's what they're thinking). In fact, I've never had a problem meeting men...it's the eliÂ gible part that eludes me. You see, I'm looking for a specific type of man: one who's suave, sophisticated, witty and debonair; also, a dimpled, chiseled chin wouldn't hurt. I'm not looking for perfection; I'm just looking for Cary Grant. Lately, my friends have been telling me to forget my cineÂ matic fantasies and start giving the "average Joe" a chance, a really poor choice of words, since my ex-husband's name is "Joe" ... enough said. I thought about it for a while and decided maybe they were right; maybe something was missing. Wasn't everything I had enough? I decided to open my mind and eyes to new possibilities. I should have kept them shut. Come with me now while I relive the past few months ...I'm afraid to do it alone. Shall we start with bachelor number one? Follow me into the supermarket. See the confused, nice looking guy in the produce aisle? He has a head of cabbage in one hand and a head of lettuce in the other. As I tap him on the back, the cabbage falls and goes rolling down the aisle, knocking over a display of salad dressing. Strike! We take off like fugitives to the deli counter. He introduced himself as 81

"Mike" and explained to me that he decided to make his girls a healthy salad for dinner but wasn't sure which one was the lettuce. I told him the bowling ball was the cabbage. Hey, wait a minute. Girls? No wedding band, was he dating twins? Did he have female roommates? No, he was a single dad. Well, I wasn't really sure if that was much better. It depended on the girls' ages and how many he had. After all, as I told you before, my son was grown and on his own. I saw him on holidays, Mother's Day and my birthday-when I reminded him. I also saw him when he came home to forage for food, when he ran out of clean clothes. Well, you get the idea ...no man is an island, especially if he needs a chef and a maid. Anyway, Mike's daughters were two and six years old. Danger! Danger! Been there, done that. I was looking for someone who could take off on an adventure at a moment's notice without having to answer to anyone. Okay, not very realistic, but I didn't want to baby sit another woman's kids every other weekend. Now, that might sound selfish, but I already paid my dues. I gave Mike my phone number (yes, the real one) and decided to give it a chance. I would have had better luck playing the lottery without a ticket. After a few good phone conversations, he invited me to an end of summer cookout. Now normally, I don't see any reason to eat outside in the dirt, but following my plan to be open minded, I aITived at his house the following Saturday caITying my worldÂ famous creme Brule cheesecake. Upon entering his backyard, I was amazed-no, dumbstruck at the sheer number of small children and the absence of grown-ups. Oh, there were a few adults here and there, but their eyes had glazed over, and they didn't seem to notice me. I spotted Mike at the grill behind a clown making balloon aniÂ mals. He waved me over and thanked me for coming to help out with his daughter's birthday party. What? At that moment, a tow-headed rug rat, swooped down, grabbed the cheesecake, yanked out a handÂ ful, shoved it in his mouth and promptly spit it out on my sandal-clad feet. Now, that cake was meant for discriminating palates, not for the gullets of nasty little boys. Mike laughed nervously when I asked where Rosemary's Baby's guardians were. He explained that he had told the kid's parents just to drop them off and pick them up in about

four hours. He figured he, his mom, his sister (the glassy-eyed women) and myself could handle the kids-no problem. He figured wrong. He also thought that later on I would like to bathe his girls and put them to bed (because I hadn't done that since God was a boy). He thought wrong. At that, my open mind slammed shut. He wasn't looking for a relationship; he was looking for a new mother for his kids. Well, he needed to start looking for a woman who never had children and wouldn't know any better. As I turned to walk away, regurgitated cheesecake oozing between my toes, he had the nerve to ask if I would mind babysitting one night next week. He wasn't Cary Grant; he was clueless. I made a gesture I normally reserved for cars that cut me off, and headed back to civilization. Summer finally let go of its tenacious hold and skidded with the leaves on the ground into fall. I was rapidly approaching my yearly dating cut-off. I never start a relationship before the holidays. It just gets you into trouble. Not only do you have to deal with your own family, but you also have to meet and greet his kith and kin. Double indemnity! Racing back and forth between two families is just insanity; it's a broomstick ride away from the asylum. Expectations are just too high; have you been dating long enough to exchange gifts? Can you expect jewelry or a gift certificate? Can you go on your annual ski holiday, or do you have to drag him along? I can't take the pressure, so I put a moratorium on new relationships between November 15th and January 2nd. New Year's Eve is nego足 tiable (especially ifl find something gorgeous to wear), and you def足 initely want someone around to help with the dreaded Christmas undecorating. But it's only Halloween, and with its magic, some足 thing or someone wonderful can happen. I should have remembered to look behind the mask. I love Halloween. I rushed home from work early, set out the candy, carved the pumpkin and dressed up the dog. The dog does not love Halloween, but being a female, she must put up with a little dis足 comfort in order to be stylish. A little after nine o' clock the doorbell rang, which was late for my neighborhood. On the doorstep stood a tall debonair man dressed in a tuxedo, carrying a DVD of To Catch a Thief, starring Cary Grant instead of a "trick or treat bag." He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place the face. He saw my 83

confusion and told me his name, "Ed," but that didn't help. He told me we had dated in high school; again, I drew a blank. Hey, "Ed's" a common name, okay? At this point, I'm sure he thought I had had a lobotomy since he knew me. He gave me the clue that put the last piece of the puzzle in place. He reminded me that I had dumped him before the prom because he cut his hair too short. Oh.. . that "Ed." The fact that I had been so shallow never crossed my mind; most teenagers think the world revolves around them. What I fixated on was that he remembered about Cary Grant. This had to be the real deal. Mr. Right on Halloween night! As I invited him in, it finally occurred to me to wonder how he came to be here. Ed told me that he owned a small construction firm and had just finished a job on my block. He saw me walking my dog, Heidi, and asked the owner of the house my name and where I lived. My neighbor, being a fellow testosterone receptacle, freely gave him the information, not stop足 ping to think that he was giving a guy off the street information about a single women living alone. To be honest, as I almost always am, I hadn't noticed Ed while he was working, I was too busy curs足 ing these workmen, under my breath, for waking me up at the ungod足 ly hour of eleven o'clock in the morning. Anyway, Ed decided to be inventive and cooked up the Halloween caper. That night, we watched the movie; polished off the leftover candy, and caught up on the past years. I'm still not telling you, dear reader, but Ed knew my age. Well, never mind, he was still a few months older than me, so that was all right. We gossiped about people we knew from school (yes, men, you do gossip). He asked me ifl remembered telling him about my date with "Puppy Dog Breath." I did not give him that nickname-my father did. I don't remember his real name, but he did have breath as foul as an open grave. He was a great guy, so I loaded up my purse with breath mints, which I intended to offer him fre足 quently throughout the date; the problem was, he always declined. By the middle of the movie, my stomach started to rebel every time he leaned in to whisper to me, and we still had dinner to get through! Drastic times called for drastic measures. At the restaurant, I started rubbing the side of my face. W hen he asked what was wrong, I told him my tooth had begun to hurt. I made frequent trips to the ladies' 84

room to add more tissue to the ball wadded inside my mouth. Finally, what's-his-name noticed that my face was swelling up. I told him I was in pain and had to get home. The waiter wrapped up my lobster and dessert (I decided it would help my tooth), and Ed drove me home. A goodnight kiss was out of the question with my "swollen" mouth. So I told him I would call him in a few days, after I had seen the dentist. A few minutes later, I got rid of "The Godfather" look, propped myself up in bed and enjoyed my dinner. Three days later I had emergency root canal. Coincidence, you say? Divine retribution, I say. Moral of the story: if you want to get out of something, don't use your health as an excuse-you will get the very illness you're faking. Use someone else's health. Someone it won't affect. For example, my grandfather has died at least five times. Since he's already dead, it doesn't affect him. Get it? Now, back to my Halloween "treat." Ed and I made plans for the following Saturday. I couldn't use any "tricks" on him (not that I would); he knew too much about me. For the next week he called me several times a day, both at home and work. This did not sit well with my employer, but I felt like a sixteen-year-old, so I really didÂ n't care. I even learned how to use the cell phone I purchased a year ago for emergencies. Well, it would have been tragic indeed had I missed his call. Finally, Saturday arrived. Ed called and told me he was coming over from the job site and asked if he could shower and change here. Nothing wrong with that. Maybe I would even watch him shave like Myrna Loy did with Cary Grant in Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House. W hile this scene was playing in my head, Ed arrived with a duffle bag filled with clothes. W hat was this? Ed figured he would stay the weekend ... or longer. I told him he'd betÂ ter do the math, just because we knew each other back in the day did not mean we knew each other now. Sole possession of the remote control was still important to me. We went to dinner and talked and laughed until they asked us to leave, not because we were loud, but they were closing. "Cary" left my house about 4:00 am. He was exhausted, but I didn't let that keep me from getting my beauty sleep. He would be fine driving since he said he lived close by. Three hours later my phone rang. I thought somebody had died! Nobody, 85

but nobody, calls me on a Sunday before noon. It was Ed; he want ed to go to breakfast; he missed me already. How sweet, right? If this kept up, I was going to get adult onset diabetes. Open mind, remem ber, open mind. I asked him over for dinner instead. He was disap pointed but said he would force himself to wait to see me. Now, if Cary Grant told a woman that, she would positively swoon; with Ed, it sounded a bit psychotic. Once again, he left early in the morning. As I dragged myself to work, I looked in the car's rearview mir ror...aarrgghh...hollow-eyed, rat-hair woman! If this is what semi love looked like, then somebody goofed! Ed called the office all day until my boss took the phone from my hand and hung up on him. Thank you! He told me to make sure "The Stalker," as he called him, stopped calling during business hours. "Stalker?" Ed was just being romantic, wasn't he? Of course, he was. I just wasn't used to all this attention. Everything's fine, open mind. Ed and I were together almost constantly for the next few weeks; I even started missing "girl's night," not a good thing. My friends were hurt and angry, and I was feeling anxious and trapped, but "everything was fine," insisted my open mind. Then something happened that caused the Cary Grant mask to slip. One afternoon when I was walking Heidi, my neighbor asked me why my boyfriend was always in the doghouse. I asked her what she meant. She said she figured he was in trouble with me since he slept in his truck parked around the corner on so many nights. When I saw Ed's truck pull up that night, I met him outside and asked him about his vehicle sleep-overs. He told me that since his wife (wife!) what wife?) had kicked him out a few months ago, he hadn't had time to find an apartment. He was sleeping at his friends' houses, or if it was too late, he used the truck. He thought that with the way things were going between us he probably wouldn't need his own place. Why pay rent when he could move in with me and help with the mortgage? Before I could digest this horror of a meal, I found out that this was only the snack. He then asked me to have Thanksgiving dinner with his family. It would be a four-hour drive to get there, and we would stay for the long weekend. A long, fami-

ly holiday weekend, with someone else's family? Air, I needed air! Before I could breathe normally again, he angrily wanted to know who the man was inside my house. What? I looked into my front window and saw the silhouette of a tall, well-built man. I turned to Ed, shrugged my shoulders and let my eyes fill with tears. Nothing was going on, I promised! Cary Grant was gone, and in his place, Creepy Ed. He told me he couldn't see me anymore; he wasn't even sorry if he hurt me; not even my tears moved him...he was gone. Well! Thank God it was windy. It made my eyes water...much more effective. I wiped my eyes, went into the house, my house, and watched with grateful, loving eyes as my son raided the 'fridge. It's now the middle of December, and I look at my friends gathered around the television set clutching their tissue boxes. Empty Chinese food containers litter the room. By tomorrow, we'll have retained enough water to raise the Titanic, and we haven't even started on the margheritas. Who cares? I have a lot going for me: good food, good friends and a good movie. I hear the sniffles as An Affair to Remember comes to an end. We've all seen it a million times, but a good cry is a good cry. I am content. I am loved. Do I really need a Cary Grant in my life? I watch as his suave, sophistiÂ cated, chiseled-chin image fills the TV screen and wink. -Mary C. Cameron

For the second consecutive year, Alumni Corner features stories and poems written by Holy Family graduates and represents the continuation of a seminal tradition that showcases the creative efforts of former Holy Family graduates. The giant sequoia that introduces the section symbolizes humanity's struggle to touch the ideal, the transcendent, the realization, ultimately, of the metaphysÂ ical-when one beholds for a spectacular, enchanted moment, undiÂ minished, the face of the Divine.

Until Then oily ripples in a parking lot pond create watercolor paintings of some place beyond the cratered surface of the moon-an eruption of memories from Krakatau, Kilauea, Pompeii ... the stillness gets to some after a while. a hundred thousand voices fell silent, yielding to the echo of one-Â and a powerful one at that. the dinosaur of the mind died under cold killing suns giving way to new evolutions of insight waxing and waning under the orbits of the moon and stars until things began to go awry again. the sky is falling? conceivable, but not likely. not in a world of unlimited possibilities, where there is really only one question that matters. to be or not to be? the greatest unsolved mystery. leave at least one to ponder, lest we all become lazy and self89

destructive with nothing better to think about. but alas, the warnings come too late. the play's the thing, or at least was until Hollywood took over, and will be again when California falls back into the ocean. until then we seek a reason to believe that we have not devolved. questions beget answers beget questions, until curiosity proves too taxing for the frail human mind and they all start whining that thinking is too hard. methinks they protest just to hear themselves talk. the only real mystery left is why we ever solved them all and the whole thing falls apart again. little do they know that their meager existence hinges on little more than a pair of serpents biting each other's tails. beginning follows end. each beginning keeps the last end from unraveling. don't tempt the serpent. he'll tempt you when he's ready. leave the "what was" behind you; it's time to consider the "what ifs." there is no quick and easy way to do it, only a right way. you can wish for wings if you like, or blame your ancestors in their obsidian tombs because you don't already have them. until then, the only way to get back to where you started is by crossÂ ing the parking lot, splashing through the rain. -

Freda M. Terrell-Tait

December Someplace First frost Really, first frost December someplace First frost like snow Rabbit spice, noÂ Gale wind might blow Underground Underground roots Eight lineal years long First frost lingers With minor chords In major time signatures Sing goddess! Without weeping Of the blues in sadness minor Crescendo, dear God, Lift up this fog Pick up this house Remind us of the vague prophecy Remind us of the pain The pain of everything Since the first frost

- WH. Smigiel

Solid Purple Solid purple Perfectly random Leave a small light on Random dawn rises slowly Slowly this morning Solid purple When we no longer... When we no longer know where to be Would we... Would we leave then? Port side wine sailing Sailing train into the night Rip out my brains -longing, longing ... sidings won't bring us home Solid purple Glazed grass that grows Home Hey ... Hey, we can take it Take it Home But remember that That when... Solid purple blood flows Into the oblivion scream That's all. - WH. Smigiel

The Shelf Artist He sits among the boxes, staring at the shelves of books. Horizontal, vertical, some diagonal. Floor to ceiling, books. But seen through the misty, intense eyes of the artist, the figures come into sharp focus-the books disappear. Lines, cubes, and prisms rectangular. He squints as he sketches, blocking out all else smTounding him. All that can be heard is the scratch of the pencil and the deadly silence of the eraser. With a wave of his hand, the rough edges vanish, never to be heard from again. Looking up from his sketch book, he notices the time. Clock in-back to work. Open the boxes; Shelve the books. Open the boxes; Shelve the books. -Meredith Kahn

Mountain Serene mountain serene, tobyhanna army base; old ban-acks torn down. memories like old photos, molded in black and white nostalgia.

the old man fishes, my ma reads her book. "there's pickerel in this water. caught one a few years back." once a year, escape into the mood meditation足 of pitch black pocono nights. bug noises chirping outside足 while u sleep. deer across the road, my mom, "it's a little doe." dad teasing, "let's take her home and cook her up." "venison has to be butchered right," i add. we fish the lake till dusk, and then they start hitting. "man, it sure gets dark up here fast." we head back to the house足 for some barbeque chicken, 2 beers and a movie, sylvester stallone; "first blood." - Frank Nicoletti

Popping the Question Lloyd walked Mira into the small park next to the spot where the carriage driver had let them off. They sat on a bench in the middle of the square and held hands. Spring had finally an-ived, and every足 one wanted to take advantage of the warmer weather. People either picnicked with friends and family on the vibrant green lawn, read 94

under a tree, or took a brisk walk. Squirrels scurried about, picking up nuts and acorns from every imaginable place while eluding human footfalls. Birds chirped their pleasant messages to the world as they lounged in their treetop perches. Lloyd looked over at Mira and watched her as her eyes wandered across the square. She smiled and glowed with contentment as she 95

soaked in all of the activity around her. Her long red hair rested gin gerly on her shoulders and slightly rustled in the breeze. She looked beautiful in her spring attire, consisting of a plain white T-shirt with a pink button-down sweater, blue jeans and sandals. Mira radiated with natural beauty to Lloyd, even though he rarely shared a similar opinion of himself. He wore a dungaree jacket over a white T-shirt featuring a faded image of the Beatles. Black jeans and black Vans sneakers finished off his ragamuffin appearance. Next to Mira in her consistently stylish attire, Lloyd always felt sav agely under dressed. He had mentioned this reservation to her in the past, but she laughed it off and told him that she prefe1rnd the T-shirt and-jeans look for him above all else. She loved him just the way he was and did not want him to change only for her. He cited this as one of the many reasons why he loved her so much and saw great things to come for them in the future. He hoped to add this beautiful day to the long list of great days they had spent together. Unbeknownst to her, a question lingered on his lips. This question had been on his mind for a number of weeks beforehand, and it carried much more importance than any question he had ever asked anyone before. The setting, the timing the mood required absolute perfection. Everything had to fall into place. Lloyd toiled many nights over how to ask this question. He con sidered several options, but none seemed quite right. Then, one night, a negotiation over the phone concerning weekend plans led him to the answer. Mira mentioned how nice the weathermen pre dicted the weekend would be and that the two of them should do something outdoors. Lloyd inquired if she had any suggestions. "Well," Mira said in her soft voice, "maybe we could go into Center City and walk around." "That sounds cool," he said. Then, a sudden jolt of inspiration took hold of him: "Hey, maybe we could look into going on a car riage ride through the city. I know you said you've always wanted to go on one." "Okay, I like that idea." Lloyd smiled. Now, he had his plan: A romantic carriage ride through Center City, Philadelphia, during which time he would ask

his question. A boy, a girl, a ca1Tiage ride, and a question, he thought, the stuff of true romance. Unfortunately, the day started off on a rather unromantic note. When Lloyd drove to Mira's house to pick her up, she greeted him at the door still dressed in her bathrobe and pajamas and sneezing uncontrollably. She held a tissue over her nose, and her eyes with ered in the red of irritation. "It's my allergies," she told him in her stuffy, scratchy voice, a sound that nearly made Lloyd burst. All of a sudden, weeks of planning teetered on the precipice of doom because today of all days the pollen count topped out at disas trous levels. Lloyd had no "Plan B." He never thought about what to do should the sequence of events he had already envisioned in his head not occur. He spent the time leading up to this day playing around with how to verbalize the question, how soon into the ride to do it, and what to do in the improbable case of her answering nega tively. He never once thought to include a back-up plan should the entire day face cancellation. "So," Lloyd sheepishly uttered, "I guess we're not going out today?" Mira sneezed, sniffled, and wiped her nose. "I'll take a Zyrtec and see if I feel any better," she said. "If not, I think staying indoors might be my best bet." Much to his elation, the pill cleared up her sinuses and returned the spring to her step. She changed out of her pajamas and into more presentable clothes. An hour later, they left the house en route down town. They walked through the city, stop ping in various stores and checking out a few landmarks. All the while, Lloyd's excitement and anticipation grew to a nearly over whelming point. The moment of truth drew closer and closer, with each passing minute feeling like an eternity unto itself. However, he sustained his cool veneer and never let Mira onto the fact that he had a secret question to pose to her. After an hour-long walk-about, Lloyd and Mira reached the row of horse-drawn carriages lined along the 5th Street sidewalk. They stood in a small line of people waiting their turn for a ride through the city. Young men and women dressed in tuxedos and acting cordially led their passengers to their carnages and assisted them into their seats. The drivers saddled up in

the front of the coach, grabbed the reins and elicited a loud "Yah !" as they steered the horses into the street. Finally, out of this group of nicely attired and well-coifed drivers came a disheveled-looking man named Phil. His tuxedo looked like it had seen better days and slimmer owners, with a tiny bit of flare coming from the Starfleet pendant on the lapel of his vest. His illÂ fated attempt at a beard left him with unsightly patches of brown hair scattered across his face like islands in the Pacific. He spoke with a soft, yet obnoxious voice and continuously pushed his thinning brown hair over a bald spot on the back of his head. He approached Lloyd and Mira and offered his services. Mira smiled and walked toward the caITiage. Phil offered his hand, behavÂ ing like a gentleman driver, and Mira held onto his hand; as she boarded, a slight feeling of regality passed through her. Lloyd entered the carriage by himself and groaned under his breath as he took his seat, feeling mildly disappointed even at this early juncture. However, he silently promised to himself that this minor blemish would not stand in the way of his completing his task for the day. He was only mere moments away from asking the big question, and nothing could stop him. After Phil had taken his seat in the front and grabbed the reins, the ride began. They had barely pulled away from the sidewalk before Phil started talking, pointing out the many landmarks in this historic area of the city. As their journey continued, he rambled on and on, dishing out many little-known facts about some of the most famous people who had lived in the area at one time. He continued talking and never stopped for much of the ride. The only pauses in his litany came when he had to focus on steering his horse, Lucky, around comers and away from traffic. Lloyd sat in stunned awe. Apparently, he had overlooked the fact that this carriage ride was not a simple carriage ride but a guided tour. He sulked as he realized that Phil showed no signs of halting his history lesson long enough for him to pop the question. He hid his disappointment from Mira, who engrossed herself in the sights and history around her, and attempted to enjoy the remainder of the ride.

Finally, Phil steered Lucky back into his resting spot on 5th Street. Lloyd and Mira stepped out of the ca1Tiage and back onto the sidewalk. Phil handed Mira an apple and told her she could feed it to Lucky if she wanted. She did with a grin and gently patted Lucky while he noisily chomped on the apple. Lloyd placed his payment into Phil's open hand. Phil pocketed the money and then stuck his open palm out again. He wiggled his fingers and murmured an "Ahem" that not so subtly hinted at his wish for a tip. Lloyd stared at him with a deadpan glare, wondering if this joker seriously thought he deserved more money. He ulti mately crossed the driver's palm with two more dollar bills. Phil wished them a good day and strolled off to his next cus tomers. Mira bid good-bye to Lucky and walked up next to Lloyd. "So, what now?" she asked. Lloyd looked around hastily conjuring up another plan. After a few tense seconds in his mind, his eyes locked upon the small park adjacent to their drop-off spot. "Let's go in there," he suggested, pointing toward the park. Mira agreed and a few minutes later, they rested on a bench in the middle of the tiny sylvan square. "Such a lovely day, isn't it?" Mira said. "Yes, it is," Lloyd responded. "So, did you enjoy the ride?" Mira smiled and said, "Of course. It was really nice. We should do it again sometime." Silence. She turned herself so that her back faced Lloyd. She leaned against him and draped her legs over the arm of the bench, letting her sandals dangle from her feet. "What a wonderful day," she uttered. Suddenly, it hit him: This is it! The setting, the timing and the mood had achieved absolute perfection and he knew it. He preferred the privacy that the carriage offered for this moment as opposed to the park, which unceasingly swarmed with people. However, he feared losing the moment more than having an audience, so he knew he had no choice. It was now or never. "So, um," Lloyd said, clear ing his throat in the process, "Mira, I, uh.. .I have something I wanna ask you." "Sure. What is it?"

"Well, it's actually .. .it's a question I've been meaning to ask for about a month or so now." Mira sat up and looked into his eyes. With mock sarcasm, she said, "Let me guess: You're moving to Alaska and you want me to come with you?" "No, no, that's not it." "Well, then, what is it?" Lloyd hesitated. He secretly wished for more small talk but saw his pool of stalling tactics drying up in the drought of his banen silence. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket for the only prop he needed to complete his question. However, the concealed object he wrapped his fingers around latched onto a thread inside the pocket and refused to come out. He yanked at the object while shooting an awkward smile at Mira, who waited patiently while wearing a quizzical expression on her face. "Is something the matter?" she inquired. Finally, after a few more yanks, Lloyd produced a small black box, which looked conspicuously like a ring box. Mira's face went through a quick succession of emotions, including shock, surprise, and utter amazement. Her hands covered her face once she finally realized what question Lloyd planned to ask her. With shaking hands, Lloyd opened the lid of the box to reveal its content: A shining solitaire ring, featuring a gold band with a half carat diamond placed at the top. The sunshine of the day made a small spectrum of light sparkle from the stone, shooting up diago nally and landing on Mira's hand-covered face. "Mira," Lloyd asked gently, "will you many me?" She removed her hands and stared wide-eyed at the ring. She locked herself into a silent trance, with time suddenly slowing to a crawl. Each passing millisecond fueled more anxiety in Lloyd's psy che. He had expected a quicker reaction from her, but she remained wordless. Lloyd could only think of one thing that would cause a delay in her reaction: Her inability to express to him her rejection of his proposal. His heart sank as she continued to search for words. "Oh, my God..." she breathlessly blurted. "Oh, my God ..." "So," Lloyd tentatively asked, "what do you think?" 100

She blinked three times, inhaled deeply, and smiled. "Yes!" An hour later, after they had peeled themselves up off of the park bench, they strolled to the parking lot where Lloyd's car rested. They walked arm-in-arm, with Mira holding up her ring hand every now and then, admiring the glittering symbol of the new frontier their love was headed for. She cupped her fingers, so the ring would not fall off, since Lloyd had mistakenly gotten the ring a size too large. That minor foible aside, Lloyd breathed much easier now, with the anxiety of the moment diminished enough so that he could fully enjoy himself. They approached the car, and he sprinted in front of her. He opened his car door for her, and she smiled at him. "So," she asked, "how long have you been planning this?" "A few weeks, I guess," he responded. "Did everything go as planned?" "Not really." He smiled before adding: "But then again, someÂ times, the best things in life don't go as planned." They shared a soft kiss before saddling up in Lloyd's blue Grand Am, en route home to spread the good news.

- Christopher Tait

June 16th Too damn hot for June, the 5 p.m. weatherman said, or wanted to say-I could tell. But they can't say that on the news. 50% chance it will rain, 50% chance it won't. 100% chance the weatherman is just guessing. Dusk slipped in unnoticed and watched with a wry smile as children played in the almost-dark, forgetting curfews. Fireflies drifted aimlessly on disquieted air currents, chased by grubÂ by little hands. I always preferred the sound of lightning bug-a more decisive, striking name. Call them what you want. They'll both be dead by morning left in a mayonnaise jar. 101

Night fell with a resounding thud and fog whispered out of the forest like a small herd of deerÂ tentatively at first, wary of leaden feet and one-eyed cars, then bolder and more certain, they wander out into the streets, obscuring pathways and daring reckless drivers to go just a little bit faster to prove how much control they have. Is it too cold outside? Then come in and warm yourself by the fireÂ fly jar. Darkness always did sound strange coming from you, but when the sun cools off, darkness is all that's left. It smells like rain now. Let the fueflies go find a place to hide. There's a 50% chance you'll see them again tomon-ow, and a 50% chance that you won't. Nobody ever promised that the sun would come back each time it leaves, and just because you set the lightning bugs free, it doesn't mean they'll always come back to you. -Freda M. Terrell-Tait

Royal Picture Show, AD 1192 Corleone, shield your eyes, The new kingdon has been posted on the wall, Shallow and impenetrable. How many images lying flat could describe The sight of the boss, flinching, unflanked, Who will never see his blind spot in every dimension Behind him, a town of yesteryear's premier attraction At the center of a meta tableau; two sights, Celluloid armor, bloodied sword, Pair off and cover each shoulder like 102

Poster glue. No matter, says the boss in demonic French, Our earliest kings were shields. Then the object Becomes historical subject, perceiver One With that perceived? Zoom out, and we've The portrait panorama. Your lineage is your protection. Your brothers can cut your flimsy throat To find the pages of the gate unconquerable still, As a town that fondles with retina of Glass measures the men in relation to Their statues in time. In this circle, I continued, I become a pillar to each pixel Out of sight that I try to gleam, Every point an invisible grain of salt. I could not converse with my father, My son will embrace the masses After the circle has closed upon this heart, When I remain giving order, sitting and watching. So I finished. But they Drowned me in volume, and I grew transparent, Staring at the glimmering colors, A harbinger of riches past.

- Christopher Mote

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Contributors: Christopher Szalwinski - currently an undergraduate student at Holy Family University Regina Frey - history concentrator and graduate of Arcadia University, previous contributor to Folio Christopher Alwine - currently an undergraduate student at Holy Family, concentration in Psychology Stephanie English -cmTently an undergraduate at Holy Family University; concentration in English Mark Scott - instructor in the Philadelphia School District and part-time student at Holy Family University Daniel Picker - instructor of English at Holy Family University and previous contributor to Folio Robert Snyder - currently an English concentrator at Holy Family University Marie Burkitt - cmTently an undergraduate at Holy Family University William Lange - cmTently an undergraduate at Holy Family University Dennis Natoli - poet, free lance writer, currently resides in Las Vegas, Nevada, a previous contributor to Folio Jennie-Rose Prochorenko - undergraduate at Holy Family University

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Theodore Mueller - English concentrator at Holy Family University Beth Cieplechowicz - English concentrator at Holy Family University Tarah Gillespie - English-Education concentrator at Holy Family University Michelle Hanna - English concentrator and senior at Holy Family University, a previous contributor to Folio Mary C. Cameron - English concentrator at Holy Family University and a previous contributor to Folio. Widespread publiÂ cation in newspapers, magazines, and journals Freda M. Terrell-Tait - instructor in the Archdiocesan schools of Philadelphia, previously published in Folio, former chief editor William H. Smigiel - graduate of Holy Family University, former Folio editor and contributor Meredith Kahn - graduate student at Arcadia, former Folio editor and contributor Frank Nicoletti - graduate of Holy Family University, photograÂ pher and poet, previous contributor to Folio Christopher Tait - graduate of Holy Family University, previous Folio contributor Christopher M. Mote - graduate of Holy Family University, has published in magazines and previous Folio contributor, begins graduate studies in the autumn

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Folio 31 Staff Advisor: Thomas F. Lombardi, Ph.D. Assistant: Victoria Philomena Inverso Lombardi, M.A. Chief Editor: Mary C. Cameron Associate Editors: Robert Snyder Theodore Mueller Tarah Gillespie Chief Proofreader: Mary Ann Gimbel General Staff Philip Moore Stephanie English Beth Cieplechowicz Reader Participants: Kira Meibos Debora Martin Allison Clothier Kelly O'Brien Graphics & Visuals: Raimond del Noce Senior Ryan Panfil Thomas Francis Lombardi (photography) Special Thanks to Dr. Regina Hobaugh for her assistance and encouragement

HOLY FAMILY UNIVERSITY