Quiz and Quill 1964

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THE QUIZ and QUILL Published by The Quiz and Quill Club of Otterbein College

The Staff Editor-in-Chief .....................................Rosemary J. Gorman Associate Editors ................................................ Ruth Lackey Karla Hambel Business Manager ....................................David K. Sturges Publication Staff .......................................Sha\A/nee Geeting David Brunton

Spring, 1964

Founded 1919

THE QUIZ AND QUILL CLUB - 1963-64 President .................................................................................. DavW K. Slurges Vice President (First Semester) .............................................. Kathy Kanto Secretary-Treasurer....................................................................1 halia Nikulcs Pron-ram Chairman .................................................................. David Brunloii FacdUy Sponsor ............................................................................ Robert Price Alumni Relations ........................................................................ Clcora Fuller Mary Thomas Ethel Steinmetz David Brunton ’64 Martha Deever ’64 Shawnee Getting ’63 Rosemary Gorman ’65 Karla Hambel ’64

Kathy Kanto ’64 Robert Koettel ’64 Ruth Lackey ’64 Thalia Nikides ’65

64 6j 64 j8 ’28 ’31

Priscilla Secrist ’64 David Sturges ’64 Cy Upton ’64 Dale Weston 64 Sondra Spangler ’64

HONORARY MEMBERS Mrs. Hazel H. Price Dr. Robert Price

Dr. Harold Hancock Walter Jones

LITERARY AWARDS Quiz and Quill Poetry Contest First Prize .................................................................................. David Brunton Second Prize .................................................................................. Ruth Lackey Third Prize .................................................................................... Verda Deeter Honorable Mention .................................................................... David Sturges Ronald Flanft Elizabeth Beezley

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Quiz and Quill Prose Contest First Prize .......................................................................................... Janet Blair Second Prize .......................................................................... David S. Calihan Third Prize .................................................................................. Jane M. Scott Honorable Mention ............................................................ William Catalona Pat Price Linda Zimmers

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Quiz and Quill Short Story Contest F'irst Prize .................................................. ................................... Ruth Lackey Second Prize....................................................................................... Don Queer Third Prize .................................................................... Cheryl Ann Goellner Honorable Mention .......................................................... Rosemary Gorman Lawrence L. Pryfogle Charles Messmer

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Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing Contest Second Prize.................................................................................. Verda Deeter Third Prize .......................................................................... Karen A. Hoerath

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Roy A. Burkhart Religious Poetry Contest First Prize .................................................................................. Barry P. Reich Second Prize ...................................................................... Marilyn MacCanon Third Prize ........................................................................ Rosemary Gorman Honorable Mention .................................................................... Verda Deeter

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Walter Lowrie Barnes Short Story — 1964 First Prize...................................................................................... David Sturges

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Weinland Writing and Selling Award — 1964 First Prize .................................................................................... Karla Hambel ’64 Second Prize .................................................................................. Ruth Lackey ’64

Kathleen White Dimke Writing Scholarship 1963-1964 David Sturges Txvo

’64

Dr. Robert Price

DEDICATION Quiz and Quill owes much to Dr. Robert Price, who, we regret very much to say, is leaving the Club office of Faculty Sponsor. Almost since his arrival at Otterbein, in 1945, he has been associated with Quiz and Quill and has selflessly guided it through constant turnover, through fluctuations of membership and through many trying periods, when financial difficulties threatened the successful publication of this magazine. His unswerving attention to the details and his dedication to every administrative aspect that have made the Club one of Otter­ bein s finest and distinguished campus organizations make any ack­ nowledgement small and valueless.

As the magazine and the alumni register have testified each year.

Quiz and Quill has ushered many capable Otterbein students into suc­ cessful careers in the field of writing. With many of them have gone Dr. Price’s careful guidance and personal interest. In each piece of writing, in each issue of the magazine, he has helped to transform into mature ideas what without his presence would have been mere student whims. Those of us who are leaving this year will cherish his simple excellence, his unassuming sense of duty, and those of us who are re­ maining will look for his return in the near future. In stating all the appreciation and thanks we can, we, the members of the Editorial Staff and of the Quiz and Quill Club, dedicate the 1964 edition of the "Quiz and Quill’’ to Dr. Robert Price, Professor of English, Chairman of the English Department and Chairman of the Language and Literature Division of Otterbein College.

David K. Sturges, President The Quiz and Quill Club Three

TABLE OF CONTENTS Dedication ..................................................................................................................... ® Too Much Too Late, Don Queer ........................................................................... 5 Upon Entering College, Verda Deeler ................................................................. 8 Isolation, Karla Hambel ........................................................................................... 8 Suicide, Nathalie liungard ....................................................................................... 8 A Weaver’s Hymn, David K. Sturges ................................................................... 9 The Back of the Bus, Pat Price ............................................................................. 19 I Know, Verda Deeter ...............................................................................................11 A Cinquain, Sandra Brenfleck ..................................................................................H Progress, David S. Caliban ....................................................................................... 12 Winter Content, Sandra Brenjleck ..........................................................................13 Growing Pains, Karen Hoerath ............................................................................... IS Tired, Gerald Lewis ................................................................................................. 13 A Little Thought, Philip Graf ...............................................................................14 Prepare A Face, Jane M. Scott ................................................................................. 14 The Cherry Blossoms of Spring, William Catalona ........................................... 15 Daughter, Beware, Verda Deeler ............................................................................. 17 Haikus, Barry P. Reich ............................................................................................... 17 Dying Star, David Brunton ....................................................................................... 18 Before and After, Janet Blair................................................................................... 19 Loneliness, Nathalie Bungard ...................................................................................20 Rush, Ronald Hanfl ...................................................................................................20 The Terrors of Night, Sue Drinkhouse ...............................................................21 Alone, Rosemary J. Gorman .....................................................................................22 The Prize, David Brunton .......................................................................................22 The Purple Lady, Ruth Lackey .............................................................................23 Allegory—Humanity, Nancy Erlel ........................................................................... 31 Mudpuppies, Marilyn MacCanon .............................................................................32 The Coming of Gentler Weather, Linda Zimmers .............................................33 Santa Satan’s Saturnalia, Amy Christensen ......................................................... 35 Wind and the Empty Cadence, David Sturges ...................................................36 Misery Past Midnight, Lynne Puterbaugh ........................................................... 37 Empty Canvas, Elizabeth Beexley ........................................................................... 38 On Taking Communion, Barry P. Reich .............................................................40 The Sea and a Man, Rosemary J. Gorman ...........................................................40 Bridge between Two Seasons, Cheryl Ann Goellner .........................................41 In The Days of Youth, Verda Deeter ...................................................................44 Sandstone Sonata, Ruth Lackey ...............................................................................45 Justice’s Helper, Charles Messmer ...........................................................................46 The Glory of War, Reggie Farrell .........................................................................52 Once Upon a Friday Night, David S. Caliban ...................................................54 Nagobi, Rosemary J. Gorman .................................................................................64 Guest Poet .................................................................................................................... 67 Pterandons, Lloyd Kropp ...........................................................................................68 The Run to Murmansk, Lloyd Kropp ...................................................................68 Cover Design by Carolyn Van Asdale ’65 Four

TOO MUCH TOO LATE? DON QUI'.KR ’6G

Second Prize, Qtdz and Quill Short Story Peter Lucas drew a deep breath, laid down his pencil, and pushed his chair away from his desk. The sunlight, pouring in through the dusty window pane, glinted on the side of his leathery face. His green eyes, which were set deep in his face, scanned the page quickly and nervously as he read.

January 29,1965 I’d like to believe them, but I can’t. I’m a traitor, and the worst part of it is that I can’t tell anyone. No one even has a slight sus­ picion that I’m not a hero. But I wanted to be a hero, who doesn’t?

But I’ve never encountered anything so penetrating. Maybe if I would have had time to prepare for it, I might have been a hero after all. It wasn’t only me. "The other guys were scared too, only I wouldn’t admit it. Even when they all sat in the cell the first night and talked about how we could be tortured, I just sat there. I didn’t say a word. I heard them all say that they were afraid they couldn’t take it, afraid they would give in.

I was glad someone else was afraid too, but I didn’t show it. I mean, I guess I didn’t show it until they started to torture me. 'The two guards came in the first night and took us one at a time. 'They saved me until last. Once they took a guy, they didn’t bring him back. 'The longer I waited, the more afraid I got. Then it was my turn. They branded me with a hot iron on my chest. I guess I made up my mind then that I was going to tell them anything they wanted to know. I could take no pride in the fact that no one had told of our mission. I thought the whole mess seemed like a rather trivial matter to get all disabled over.

The next night, as I lay in my darkened cell, they led the other men, one by one, past my cell door. The first to go was Al; he never came back. Next went the Wop from Detroit, that’s all we ever called him, and he never came back. "Duke”, the Polish boy from New York, walked slowly past my cell, and then I became acutely aware that I was next. My awareness took the form, first of fidgeting, and finally of extreme tenseness. My fingers closed tightly over my palm, and I began to squeeze my fist more tightly as I heard the steps of the approaching guard.

I remained silent as the guard secured the cuffs on my wrists. On the way down the hall, angry tears, not scared tears, welled up in the corners of my eyes. I hated every living thing. I wanted to rant and rave about such an injustice, but I guess I was afraid. When I en­ tered the room, it was well lighted, not dark as it was the previous night. There were no hideous instruments of torture, and this only served to alarm me more. What could they have in store for me? I never found out, because, when the man, who I supposed was the big man behind the whole deal, began to quesiton, I immediately began to reply in a concisely rehearsed manner that astounded even me.

The words began flowing out and continued to flow until I had told every detail that I honestly knew. After I had fini.shed, the three Russians just looked at each other, muttered some things in Russian, and walked out. I was left alone, and I guess I just broke down. I cried for some time, and finally I came into reasonable control of myFive

self and suddenly became conscious of my hand. I couldn’t open it!

I tried to pry it open with the fingers of my other hand, but I couldn’t budge it. Sometime during the course of this incident, one of the guards walked back in and led me to my cell. After some time back in the cell, my hand slowly regained its movement. I was glad to have something to think about besides the scene in the room. I di­ verted all my attention to my hand and toyed with it as though I were a young boy who had just discovered that he had sex organs.

There were other trips down the hall, and each time, there were other sessions back in my cell as I nursed various parts of my body back into free movement. While in the room, I would give answers by rote, but I would really be concentrating on the part of my body that was now paralyzed. This temporary paralysis was no longer a mere escape from reality, but it had now become a way of life with me, a way of life that no one could compel me to share. 'This was something the Russians could never get from me. I had raised this monster, and it was at my beck and call.

After seventeen days in their prison, I was returned to the United States. However, instead of being considered a coward, I was pro­ claimed a hero. So this is what the Russians had in mind.^ They had made it look like I was a genuine hero. Me! A hero! At first I didn’t know how to accept it, and now, three weeks later. I’m still not sure. This is the reason I sit here and write this. Someone, something, must know what I feel. ’ I’ll probably write here again soon, for there is much that must be written, and lived. *

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Peter picked up the book, folded it and placed it in a large, wooden, shoe-type box with much apparent love and care. He placed' it high up on the shelf behind some blankets that his mother never used. He knew it would be safe there. It was out of sight of every­ one that mattered, and everyone mattered.

Pete turned once more to his desk and picked up a pack of cigar­ ettes. He took one out and lit it. He puffed nervously and picked up a folded letter from the desk. Pete had never smoked much be­ fore but now he was smoking three to four packs a day. He slowly opened the letter. He had read it before, but now as he opened it he hoped that it would have a different message. The letter contained his orders from the Air Force, instructions to take a thirty-day leave and report back to base February the twelfth at eight a.m.

He stood for a while, reading and rereading the letter. The message had not changed. He knew what he had to do. «

*

*

The days passed quickly for Peter as he became increasingly ner­ vous. He would sit for many long hours and smoke cigarettes and drink beer as he watched television. All the while he would sit and try to avoid seeing as many people as possible. Sometimes, friends would come to the house, and he would become very tight-lipped and nervous around even those people who had once been his friends.

Soon, everyone got the word that Pete was now odd, and stopped

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coming to see him. They all thought that the torturing had done this to him. They all thought it was a terrible, terrible, shame. When­ ever his name was brought up at parties, everyone would "tsk, tsk,” a few times and the subject would be dropped. Occasionally some brave, free-thinking soul would say, "Well, if that’s what being a hero does to you. I’d just as soon be a coward.’’

On February twelfth, he was told that he must report the follow­ ing day for a senatorial hearing. Pete slept little that night. He paced the floor and smoked, one cigarette after anorher.

"What if they know? What if they already know that I have given the information? Should I plead innocent? or guilty? or in­ sane? or what? Maybe insane, yeh, temporary insanity!”

In direct contrast to his inner wrestlings came back the calm re­ assured voice of his own rational self, "Wait a minute, there wont be any pleading to do. This is just a hearing, not a trial. Relax boy, relax. Maybe they just want to find out what the Russians did to you. They knew you were prerty rartled when you got home, that’s why you got the thirty-day leave. Now comes the heat, you can take it. And if you can’t, well, you always have 'your baby’ to fall back on. Just paralyze some part of yourself, and you’ll have them eating out of your hand” Pete dropped off to sleep thinking which part of his body he would paralyze first.

Because of his lack of sleep, and his mental condition, the first day of the hearing went slowly. The basic conditions were supplied for the record and the meeting was adjourned. The next day, the questioning became more intense and held some degree of penetration.

He was asked what various methods of torture were applied, and what also happened to the men he was shot down with. When one of the interrogators suggested that Pete knew a lot about the flight and that it would take a man of real character not to even hint at a small detail of the mission, Pete began to feel his arm tighten, then his leg, and he knew this was the time for him to unlease "his baby!”

"No one,” his mind now raced, "is ever going to take this away from me. This is my baby, I raised it to work for me. Its my own private joke on the whole damn world. Ask your damned ques­ tions, but I’m not going to answer them. I m a hero, and heroes don’t answer questions; they ask them. Listen, all you . . . listen to this question. Have you ever been tortured? Do you know what it’s like to sit in a cell and wait for them to come and get you?

No, you don’t know, but I do. That’s one thing I have over you, and here’s another thing. I can paralyze any part of my body any­ time I want to. I can paralyze all of it. Watch me! Watch me, you self-appointed judges! I’ll show you what a real hero is. Peter Lucas the completely paralyzed hero! ” 'Hie hearing room was buzzing now with whispers. The chair­ man was rapping for order and at the same time yelling at Peter Lucas who sat rigid in his chair, a faraway look in his eyes.

"Mr. Lucas, Mr. Lucas, can you hear me?” the chairman shouted!

But not a word from Peter Lucas, just a stare at the back of the room, a cold, transfixed stare that betrayed nothing.

Seven

One of the men sitting in "How do you like that, not a as though he is paralyzed. He dle of a sentence. No wonder

the room turned to another and said, word, just a stare! He almost looks just stopped talking right in the mid­ he didn’t tell the Russians anything.”

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The following is a newspaper clipping from the Pittsburgh Press: Peter Lucas, who was shot down and tortured by the Russians two months ago when his special solid fuel missile carrier violated an air corridor over Russia, has been post­ humously awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for service above and beyond the call of duty.

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UPON ENTERING COLLEGE ’67

VERDA DEETER

I, the wanderer, though filled with fears, must now explore the dim unknown . . . between my ears.

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ISOLATION KARLA M. HAMBEL

’64

Red, blue, green, yellow lights twinkle and glow.

Twinkle and glow up from the valley below.

But I am still alone.

Alone on a hill with a star man-made of wire and lights.

The timer clicks, the star goes dark.

I am all alone with the whirl of wind and the sweep of snow.

Red, blue, green, yellow lights twinkle and glow.

Twinkle and glow up from the valley below.

But I am all alone.

■Ar

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"SUICIDE” NATHALIE BUNCARD ’66

You are all alone.

There are no smiling faces, No extended hand; There is no help, no hope.

You have failed.

^ Eight

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A WEAVER’S HYMN DAVID STURfIF.S

’G4

Pass the shuttle of my days in and out: Under grey sickness, Over green health, Through heat.

Back on cold.

Under seven nights of stomach-growling sleep.

Over two ears listening for footsteps in the hall.

Through the ambulance whining down the street.

And back on moonlight falling on the shoulder.

Pull Itack the treadle and there is no pattern.

There is always that one missing thread.

Where I stopped la pet a wolverine.

The Weaver’s Hymn CAROFYN VANASDAI.F ’().')

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THE BACK OF THE BUS PAT PRICE '66

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Prose She quietly lifted the child onto her lap, moved closer to the window, and motioned to her two other children to move to the op­ posite end of the seat, thus leaving room in the middle for me. I put my overnight bag up in the rack and sat down in the midst of this little family in the back of the bus.

"Thank you. It’s so aowded, I thought I’d have to stand all the way to Akron.” I grinned at my traveling companion who was seated closer to the front, and gave her the "okay” sign. "Hi,” I said to the little passengers on my right. 'They looked up at me for a brief moment, murmured a small "Hello”, then returned their gaze to the window to watch the city roll by.

I switched to the little traveler beside me sitting contentedly in his mother’s lap. He was charming in his absolute candor. Not over two years old, he regarded me with an open stare without the slightest trace of fear or apprehension. '"What’s your name?” I waited for him to answer "Bobby” or "Joey”, but he only continued to smile at me with his big, brown, doll-baby eyes until the movement of a comic book in his brother’s hands diverted his attention.

"His name is Tony,” his mother offered. I questioned him about his name, the way one does with children, trying to get him to repeat it. But he was not especially interested and started to squirm. I offered him my hand, and his mother and I watched (she with a most tender expression) as he curiously explored my fingers.

"May I hold him?” At first I mistook her hesitancy for a reluc­ tance to give her baby to a stranger, if only momentarily; but it soon became apparent that she was concerned only with my possible dis­ comfort. It was one of those yellow-hot afternoons in late August, and already her own skirt was badly wrinkled. But Tony showed a willingness to come to me, and that was good enough.

The mother very happily relinquished her toddler, smoothed her skirt as best she could, and seemed to thoroughly appreciate her un­ expected liberty. From time to time she’d say, "You don’t have to hold him any longer if you’re getting tired,” but I’d merely smile and shake my head, quite content to have this little burden on my lap for the rest of my trip.

One of the children told me that Tony had learned to sing "Happy Birthday,” so I sang it very softly, hoping he would join in. The three waited expectantly, but the most Tony managed was a series of "Coo’s”. He ate the cookie I fed him, though, after his mother of­ fered me cookies, candy, and other food that the grandmother — whom they had been visiting in Cleveland — had packed for them.

The woman and I passed most of the journey in conversation.

So grateful was she for someone beside a child to talk with, that our topics ranged from the friendliness shown her and her children in Cleveland, and her wonderful husband at home in North Carolina, to some of my college experiences, and our mutual interest in sewing.

It might have gone on and on for hours. But it didn’t. Before I realized that we were even within the city limits, the bus had pulled into the Akron depot. "I’m afraid I’ll have to get off here,” I almost apologized. For her, the trip wouldn’t be over until late the following morning.

Ten

"You know,” she said, "you’ve been so friendly. I wish the people back home were more that way.” I was at a loss. I’d always been lousy at saying good-by. As I began gathering my belongings I found that we were exchanging thank-you’s for everything—the companionship, the friendliness, the food. But these words, though sincere, were nevertheless superflous. Neither of us could say what we really felt.

Say good-by to the nice girl, Tony. She’s been very sweet to us.

Good-by, Tony,” I said softly, then I turned around and re­ trieved my bag from the rack.

"Wait a minute; I don’t even know your name.” The urgency in her voice was moving. I told her my first name, said good-bye to all of them, and stepped down from the bus.

My companion was already far ahead of me. "Hurry up, the cars oyer there!” she said, scrambling through the crowd to reach it.

I rn coming! ” and I turned around to wave to the four black faces smiling at me from the back of the bus.

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I KNOW VERDA DF.I'TER

’67

Honorable Mention, Roy A. Burkhart Religious Poetry Contest I know what Space is.

Once I even caught some in a box.

Today it is still there, still confined in my little box.

I know about Time, too.

I couldn’t catch it, though; it goes too fast for me.

But I did learn to mark its going.

The sun helps for that.

And so do calendars and clocks.

Once I sat and watched a clock move its hands for an hour.

Yes, I know about Time.

And I know about God. Once I learned about him in a little creed.

Today he is still there, still confined in my little creed.

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A CINQUAIN SANDRA BRKNtEECK

’64

Water: God’s miracle Of versatility — (hiiet brook or roaring ocean — Life, death.

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PROGRESS DAVID S. CALIHAN ’66

Second Prize, Quiz and Quill Prose Stillness and quiet. Not complete silence, but yet not the type of sounds one would expect to hear. Or are they.^ Certainly there are noises; the rumble of traffic over the new expressway, less than seventy-five yards from the old playground site; the blaring of a radio in a service station sitting where the open green used to lie; and the bawling "Okay, kids, let’s break it up,” of a cop patrolling the wooded lane. After all, it’s just an old, over­ grown, deserted, discarded town park on a summer evening. What is there that might be considered out of place?

If one had been acquainted with the area for only the last ten or twelve years, the previous question would be justifiable and quite reasonable. 'Things are about the same as always.

But the park isn’t just ten, or twelve, or thirty years old. It’s almost as old as the town itself, and its current character is about as far removed from the original as a New England town-meeting is from a presidential nominating convention in Chicago.

A few years ago, a person could stroll through the park and hear snatches of whispered conversations from the lane, the squeaking of swings filled with little children begging "Higher, higher,” the group­ singing of a family settled around their picnic campffie, the dissonant chords of the community band in the band shell, and perhaps the dipping of canoe paddles in the peaceful, moon-reflecting river.

Not on this evening, though, or on many before this one are these things to be heard or seen. They’ve gone—been replaced, in a sense.

At strategic places throughout the area are eyesore signs prohib­ iting parking after dark. 'The swings have fallen apart from rust and negligence. Fires are not allowed during the dry summer months and singers are sometimes chastised for disturbing the peace. The band disintegrated from lack of support and the band shell has been con­ demned. Anyone taking an unobtrusive, nostalgic walk and re­ membering the used-to-be runs the risk of being arrested for vagrancy or prowling. And the peaceful river? It’s now a connected series of scummy, stagnant pools in an eroded gulley, fed by sewer lines and industrial waste.

The townspeople who made the park what it was and what it is— what of them? Most of them are sitting numb and mute and semi­ conscious in front of their televisions, killing themselves with combin­ ations of fast cars and slow thinking, making absolute fools of them­ selves in richly appointed bars, or sitting at home on a did-it-myself patio, attracting droves of mosquitoes, yelling at their children, and complaining about the traitors and the idiots in Washington, the for­ eigners, the Negroes, the noisy neighbors down the street, the taxes, the latest cost-of-living figures, or the fact that today there is no time or opportunity for the pleasures of the good old days.

And the park, what is left of it, sits lonely and disgraced, the helpless image of its innocent past crying out like Job for the soul of the Inquisition to explain its persecution.

Twelve

WINTER CONTENT SANDRA HRICNFI.I'CK ’64 Deep and darkening blue-gray sky.

Soft cotton clouds Tinged with the last rosy hue of sun.

Clean white crystals Floating gently earthward.

Hush of December twilight Broken only by the light crunch Of footfalls in virgin snow.

Cold that bites.

Warmth of coats.

Two hands joined — A smile shared — You beside me Walking in the snow.

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GROWING PAINS KARKN A. HOERATH ’64 Third Prize, Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing Mother’s friends

“It’s no wonder the girl hasn’t started lo date.

Have you noticed her feet? I bet they’re size eightl"

Potential dates

"Her figure will do, she has nice-looking calves, But look at her shoes! Size eight and a halves!”

Mother

“It must be your father’s influence, not mine— You’ll soon surpass him. with your size number nine!

Boyfriend

“My honey, please tell me . . .” and ,so with a laugh, I admitted my shoe size was nine and a half.

Slioe clerk

“You’d like a size nine and a half, you say?

But Ma’am I believe you need ten double-A!”

Me

So on through life’s paths with my big feet I wend.

Hoping that someday this growing will end!

■A: ★ ★ TIRED GERALD LEWIS ’67 If I can make it one more mile Then I can rest.

There’s an inn there The Black Stallion--------The Dark Mare--------The Gray . . . . . . tired ... so tired . ..

And that blond waitress Mary Ellen--------Mary Ann--------Mary . . . .. . tired .. .

And the cook’s special pot roast--------stew--------. . . baked . . . ... so tired . . .

Have to go on---------just a little way---------tired Mary Beth chowder so tired . .. ★ ★ ★

Thirteen

PREPARE A FACE ,|ANIO M. SCOTT

’G5

Third Prize, Quiz and Quill Prose Babette, a famous French model, has but one job to do: comple­ ment a beautiful figure with a beautiful face. This is important. Every lash and each brow must be properly curled and covered and colored, every wrinkle discreetly concealed, and the whole lovely mask coated with a well-practiced expression of sophisticated indifference. She is beautiful—now. Ten, twenty, thirty years from now, who will know that this lovely, reminiscent being was once the epitome of the elite?

Who will care?

The hours and years of practicing an outward beauty, where are they now? The clock ticks so fast — now. Surely it didn’t always tick so fast.

Time, by any clock or star, is a relative thing, to quote Mr. Ein­ stein. Time is space and the time of Babette’s beauty is filled with nothingness. Her time is relative to better things and better people.

Anything goes. Everything goes: religion, friends, morality, love of others — things that build the internal structure that holds the body together when the prettiness is gone. No time for that now. She must be beautiful today. There are so many people to meet, to im­ press, to use. So many heights to conquer — molehills, not mountains moved by faith.

After the mountains are conquered — what then? A few moments of glory and fame? An instant of being rightly honored for a job well done?

The epitome moves among the elite, a will-o-the-wisp in a smokeblue crowd. After so much preparation for the best things — success.

But time is running out. The sands are eternally blowing.

Change is the motto of the world. Her friend, the mirror, has become her enemy. It reveals the cracks and flaws while beyond she sees a girl. A girl more beautiful than she, more ambitious. The race is on.

S^he runs, but she cannot win. Time is not on her side nor anyone’s.

Who is she to wind a clock or set it back? She has used her time — in preparation. She has lost her identity to the ages, buried beneath unheard of names: Susan B. Anthony, Clare Boothe Luce, Eleanor Roosevelt.

But, she says, they are not as beautiful as I am.

No, Babette, not beautiful, they answer, but prepared. ". . . there will be time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet...”

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A LITTLE THOUGHT I'HILII* GRAF '66

III

the Genesis There was a Psalm Of a simple Exodus, Which ended in a Revelation.

•k Fourteen

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THE CHERRY BLOSSOMS OF SPRING WILLIAM CATALONA

’64

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Prose I am writing you because I need very badly someone whom I can tell about my inner self. I need someone who knows that I exist in this world, that I struggle. I hate people who attempt to understand only themselves. I cannot talk with them. But still, I am one of these people. However, I desperately need some sort of social con­ tact. How sad it is that I need you and yet, at the same time, hate you.

What a mess I caused the day I arrived at the airport to meet Naomi for the first time. While she was looking for me, I took a cab to San Francisco by myself. I did not know she was in the airport.

Finally, I was able to see her at her parents’ home. The first time we were alone, she kissed my right cheek. I never expected her to kiss me and I stood there like an idiot. I could say no words.

I had not been there long when Naomi decided to leave for her apartment. As we were walking to her car, on the bridge over the creek, she kissed me goodby — again! All I could do was stand there like a fool. I looked into her tear-filled eyes. The many golden hairs on her cheek, around her mouth, and below her ears were shining in the leaf-broken sunlight. I could not even embrace her. I wanted so much to, but I could not.

It was several days later, to be sure, the day I was to depart for Los Angeles and my new job, that I visited her parents home again. It was a warm day and Naomi and I went into the creek. She stood mo­ tionless in the middle of the stream. Then she turned her lovely face up to the bright sunshine and closed her eyes. The water murmured. I want to stand here all day,” she said. Her eyes were still closed. All right, Naomi, if you feel tired, let me know. I’ll support you,” I said, watching her slender, lovely legs—^her legs, her arms, her face! The water murmured and murmured. I wished, I even prayed to someone, "Please let me be here forever! ” Now I feel more and more disorganized and I do not care much about this world, not even myself. Without seeing any future, I am still loving Naomi. I guess I shall just have to fight myself alone — the blackness of my skin.

I have just returned from my week end vacation to Naomi’s home.

Now, I am drinking in the lonely silence of my room.

While I was on the bus from Los Angeles to San Francisco, I knew that Naomi was not coming to pick me up at the depot. I had received a letter from her in which she wrote, "I now see a dead fish floating in our lovely stream. I had hoped a lot of things, but it is impossible. You may come to my home, but I shall not see you. I cannot face you or anybody. Let me say that it was good writing you while you were at college. Goodby.”

How powerless I am! I wish I could believe in God. I want to sacrifice myself for her. I desire to give her my life if it would bring her happiness, but I am not super-humaa I am only one tiny insignificant nigger.

Fifteen

Again my soul cries out to you as the blackness of the night closes in around me until it and I become one. I have tried desperately to stay away from San Francisco and Naomi these past weeks; however, I found myself on a bus last Sunday morning. My heart was pounding so violently that I felt certain everyone on the bus could hear it.

When I arrived at Naomi’s home, I was greeted by her father and seated in the living room. I chatted with him about my work for what seemed like hours. My hands were wet and trembling and I listened for Naomi’s voice in another room. Finally, he mentioned that Naomi was at the beach cottage. I excused myself saying I had met some of her acquaintances in Los Angeles and would like to give her their regards.

It was drizzling as I approached the quietness of the harbor. She was alone in the cottage listening to "Jazz Track,” which I had sent her from college. I entered the gloomy room. She did not even look up. Mechanically, she lifted the needle from the record, stood up, and walked through the door onto the beach. I followed her.

All the excuses I had prepared for coming had left me; we walked in silence. The eternal ocean was waving back and forth. ’Three English Setters followed us, but nobody interrupted us. We sat down on a piece of driftwood and she leaned her shoulder on mine. Silent and motionless we sat there as the rain got heavier and heavier.

After some time she stood up and started back to the cottage.

I caught up to her and she placed her left arm into my right arm.

I embraced her hand, but we kept silent. I could not speak. _-As we reached the cottage, she said, "I’ll take you to the bus sta­ tion.

Naomi, ’ I whispered, but she placed her fingers on my lips.

Fler limp hand slipped to my chest; my eyes followed it. The ebony of my skin stood out in patches on the soaked cotton of my shirt.

She turned and entered the cottage. I could not follow her. Soon, she returned in a clean white sweater and white short pants. She looked so young, so pure.

Surrounded by the eyes of the passengers, she kissed my cheek with her soft lips. I was shocked again. A tear glistened on her cheek as she turned her back and walked away.

Since that moment, I have been thinking of her. I am afraid I shall lose the significance of my life. Whenever I think of my worth­ lessness to her, I feel I am always ready to accept my death. To hell with my life without her! I want to take her someplace where there is nobody. But who am I to condemn?

Naomi is dead and alone in her cold grave. While her father drove the car to the church with me, I wished he were going to the hospital instead, but it did not happen. As I saw her cold face, I could not help crying cmd feeling guilty. I screamed, "I killed her!

I killed her!" I had asked of her too much love and she had to die.

She has left me alone to suffer for what 1 have done to her. Even my death could not eradicate my deep sin. I have lost the girl whom 1 love and above this, I killed her! 1 KILLED HER! Sixteen

The leaves are falling one after another in the creek as if they will never stop. The cold winter will come very soon. Naomi must be very cold. I hope she is sleeping soundly so that she will not notice the coldness of this world.

I have been seemingly dead since the tragedy, the death of Naomi, at the end of last summer. Mornings and nights I even whisper to her, holding her tightly in my empty arms.

Last night, I dreamed of Naomi. It made me depressed again.

As I look into her picture, sometimes she smiles, sometimes she looks angry with me.

In my mind, I can recall the exact tone of your voice. How won­ derful it would be to see you again, to talk with you as we did.

★

★

★

DAUGHTER, BEWARE VKRDA DrFTKR

’67

Second Prize, Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing Daughter, beware . . . ot strangers who offer you a world ot Peppermint Twist on a yo-yo string.

Darling, never trust . . . the Junior Executive with cigar ashes under his magic carpet.

My dearest lamb, always look , . . (both ways) before you cross over the Great White Way. And above all things, take care to never, never wear Orange with Pink, My love.

★

★

★

HAIKUS BARRY I>. REICH

’67

East Bodies exquisite Quiver in this tilling bowl God trembling takes.

West My youth gaze chars pits.

Purpling tulips who smolder For lost gypsy fires.

North Child, eat ice cream in The snow wind of tomorrow; You will be warm there!

South Unlovely bird cries!

Draggled feathers tipped gold-brown.

Tracing time of glinting rains.

★

★ Seventeen

DYING STAR DAVID BRUNTON

'64

First Prize, Quiz and Quill Poetry

i

Our star was hope, gone seeking to a place Near Vega, summer-si^; with restless grace From Lyra, silent music, all apace.

By some ethereal hand was mystic-played.

Our star these gossamer visions saw, and strayed (while here our dark and blinded voices prayed) To call in song, thinking Cygnus a dove.

Thinking Virgo an innocent in white raiment.

While good queen Cassiopea gently reigned Her mild domain. .

But to the south was Scorpio and lea?; Leo forbade the Northern Cross, and near The winter’s cold ecliptic was their peer, Orion, and his secret sword, which stay The anguished red-eyed Bull who knows “half-slay” As creed of kings who war in endless day.

Our star saw all these storied twilight things, The idle songs our fable-makers sing Of what, beyond the crumbling mountain’s fall.

Lives on.

Yet even all The infinite young galaxies must know The void shall cool and swallow up their glow, ,\s rivers of creation all stagnate.

Our star is dead. We take our holy plate; Our myriad voices chant, and chant again.

In frenzied hollow sounds lost in the piercing rain: “......... dona nobis pacem . . . pacem . . . paccm: . .

While galaxies die silently, like trees.

★

★

★

m

ROCI K SIMI'LI V '(H

BEFORE AND AFTER JANET BLAIR ’67

first Prize, Quiz and Quill Prose Morrow County is a small, conservative, rural section of the state of Ohio. Nestled in its heart are Mount Gilead and, close by, Edi­ son and Cardington. Mount Gilead, the county seat, is the largest of the county’s several villages. Its two banks’ major business is handling the accounts and loans of farmers. Cardington’s bank is a branch of one of Mount Gilead’s. The three newspapers in the county are typical rural weeklies. Mount Gilead’s and Edison’s schools have recently consolidated. The county courthouse and hospital are the main centers of activity. The county jail holds petty thieves, a few drunkards, and some traffic violators who couldn’t pay their fines. The junior high school, a few stores, and several old houses make up the village of Edison, which is now almost a suburb of Mount Gilead. The people are hard-working farmers and owners of small businesses. Cardington is similar but is larger and has a few more stores. The lawyers of the county are concerned with divorces, pro­ perty transfers, wills, and bankruptcy cases.

One day surveyors come to Morrow County and put red plastic tags on the fence posts. Companies begin to lease the farms for from two to ten years. A well is drilled on an old man’s farm near Edison. 'Tlie old man need worry no more about money. He now has a share in an oil well. He now has a fortune in the "black gold.’’

A few more wells are drilled, but excitement diminishes and progress is rather slow. Now, a year and a half after the drilling of the first well, one of the wells catches fire and draws attention to the "buried treasure.” Investors come from Utah, Texas, California, and Michi­ gan. Suddenly, Mount Gilead is full of huge white Cadillacs bearing out-of-state license plates. Over fifty wells are drilled and producing within one summer. Drilling continues and in early winter, the huge field at Cardington is discovered.

No longer asleep, the villages swarm with oil men. The for­ merly quiet and rather empty hotel is full of busy people, and the restaurants have neither the space nor the help to accommodate the new business. The banks find accounts jumping to hundreds of thou­ sands of dollars. A well is drilled on the junior high school’s base­ ball diamond. All the new issues of a national magazine are bought by a man who doesn't want his past associations known. Rumors of a visit by an interested actress circulate. 'The bars in town prosper.

As profound as the change of appearance and activity of the area is the change in the people themselves. Farmers who have worked hard and saved every penny all of their lives now buy large cars and expensive clothing with abandon. A lonely widow becomes very popular and is taken to Florida for a weekend by a divorced car dealer from the state capital. Neighbors who have always worked to­ gether as friends now swindle and sue each other. Those who have no well clamor for one and everyone is alert lest someone drill a well within two hundred feet of his property and doesn’t give him part of it. The lawyers have many cases to handle and are befuddled by the new terms and laws involved. The merchants are thriving. Even the state legislature becomes interested in the county now and decides to pass laws governing the drilling of the wells.

Nineteen

The people in the other villages and townships of the county are still working hard for the necessities. Some of them anticipate the day when the oil boom will reach them, while others are skeptical as to whether it ever will come at all. A few dread the advent. Oil has already made a great change in Morrow County. The extent of this transformation is yet to be seen.

★

★

★

LONELINESS NATllALIF. liUNOARD '66

Loneliness is as black as night— Sullen, eerie, frightening— Poisoning the mind of Society Against one who is as black as night.

★

★

★

RUSH RONALD HANFT '66

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Qmll Poetry He donned a garb of gaiety to show them he was pleasure.

He trumpeted his wit to show them he was laughter.

He chased his tail to show them he was sport.

He scorned the morbid mores to show them he was fun.

They laughed along And while applause was ringing he ran to lose his mask and back again to sing one different song to show them he was man.

Hut they were gone.

★ Twenty

★

★

THE TERRORS OF NIGHT SUE DRINKIIOUSE

’64

I’m a terrible coward. I have absolutely no courage when I must deal with someone who is walking, talking, rolling down a hill, or climbing a tree—in his sleep.

Being a night owl I find myself busily studying or washing my hair or clothes when the rest of the world is in slumberland. Conse­ quently, I have many chances to run into and converse with sleep­ walkers and sleeptalkers. I am powerless in their presence—unable to communicate with them or control them.

Roommates are the most frequent terrifiers of my late waking hours. One night was particularly baffling. I returned to the room after getting some pop from the coke machine, thinking that I’d have one more peaceful hour of studying before I fell asleep. As soon as I relaxed in my desk chair, spread out my calculus papers, and began last week’s assignment, I heard my roommate stirring in the bed be­ hind my back. Glancing warily over my shoulder, I saw her sit up, regard the room with a blank stare, and climb out of bed. I sank farther down in my chair, ignoring her actions and praying that she’d go back to bed. But luck wasn’t with me, because she headed for the closet, grabbed her terry cloth bathrobe, and prepared to leave the room, regarding me with utter contempt.

Wild visions of her walking straight out of the dorm at 2:30 A.M. leaped through my mind. Madly I considered blocking the door with my desk, tying her to the window latch, or simply falling asleep on my own bed so that I could plead innocent later. My thoughts were interrupted as she decided to make conversation now that she was up.

"Does she need help?’’ she questioned directly, indicating that she was not joking and thought that I could act a little civilized.

I answered, "No, go back to bed.”

Her second look revealed that I must be an idiot for getting her up—which I didn’t do—^but she obediently took off her robe and climbed back into bed. I breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Another roommate of mine was always very talkative in her sleep.

About two hours after her early retirement, she would begin telling her little brother what she thought of his dying her stockings in red paint or his setting off a firecracker under her latest boyfriend. Her spiel usually began right after I had decided to turn in for the night.

Being particularly sensitive, I would cling to my pillow or crawl un­ der my quilt, absolutely sure that she would soon resort to physical violence on me.

As a camp counselor I got used to hearing conversations between my eleven-year-old darlings as they dreamed about home, mother, and cute eleven-year-old boys. One thing I never did become accustomed to, though, was their behavior on sleep-outs. Everyone was always happy and satisfied at bedtime when she laid out her sleeping bag in a nice flat smooth spot on the ground. Everything would be fine until about 3:00 A.M. when I would awake (as I naturally do when anything exciting happens) to find the biggest camper sleeping on my head and pinning me to a huge shaggy-barked tree. How do you reason with someone who is lying on your head?

Twenly-om;

It is difficult enough to reason with people when they’re sane and happy, but it is completely impossible when they’re asleep.

As I sit here typing this my fears of talking to sleepwalkers have been completely dispelled by the soft breathing of my roommate who has long since passed out on the top bunk. But wait! Something just stirred in the bunk. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I hear covers being pulled back and something sliding off a mattress. Thud! I spoke too soon. Can I convince myself that my roommate isn’t really standing there looking bleary-eyed around the room? Probably not, but at least if I stay real quiet, she won’t notice me—especially if I keep sitting here underneath my desk.

★

★

★

ALONE ROSEMARY GORMAN

'65

Third Prize, Roy A. Burkhart Religious Poetry Contest No man can know llic depths of his own soul; He fights, he gropes in this abyss of dark; He spends his days in search of that one spark That guides his steps from birth to death’s last toll.

No other man can help him find the key; No other man can lift him when he falls; Bereft, alone, he lifts his soul and calls— To hear his echo from eternity.

Alone, alonel His lonely heart despairs; ‘‘Is there no salve to heal this empty wound?

Is every man to awful silence doomed?

Can no one bear the burden of my cares?”

And thus he knelt when the Thunder from above Spread peace through him by whispering, "I love.”

★

★

★

THE PRIZE DAVID BRUNTON

'64

People bigger than the sky Might catch the starlings’ Burst From the chattering trees, Never knowing.

Perhaps, A dove sits quietly Feeding on the fall corn.

•k Tjoenty-lwo

-k

-k

the purple lady RUTH LACKKY

’64

First Prize, Quiz and Quill Short Story He hadn’t come.

Lisa supposed he never would, but she half-dreaded, half-antici­ pated seeing him there tonight. She waited nervously behind the scarred door leading to the main room of the Purple Lady Club, not seeing the smudged finger marks, the dark stains of time on the door, but seeing again Bob’s angry face, his hurt and bewildered look when she had told him five months ago that she intended to sing at the club.

"But, Lisa! Why? ... I won’t have it; I won’t have you being pawed over by a bunch of drunks. 'That’s all there is to it! . . . Why do you have to sing there, of all places? Why not sing, ah, at church or . . . some other place?” he had questioned incoherently, his gray eyes stormy, his tanned face lined in puzzlement and in something like worry.

"Oh, honey, don’t worry,” she had said soothingly. "The Purple Lady’s a perfectly respectable place and you know it. Besides, we need the money; you know that, too. I’ve always liked to sing, anyway, more than anything else. Tell you what. Come listen to me some night, maybe tonight, and you’ll see I’m doing the right thing.”

But he hadn’t come. Now, five months from Lisa’s first ap­ pearance at the club, it was time fot the 8:30 p.m. show, the first one of the evening, and Bob had still never heard her sing.

She twisted the gold band nervously around her finger; her palms were wet and she wiped them carefully with the white scarf she was carrying. It was always like this before she sang—her nerves tingling, all her senses heightened in anticipation. The blues wail outside was calm now, the people were quieting, expecting her any moment. She took a deep breath and slipped out the door to the smoke-filled room, crowded by small tables and many people. Her eyes searched for him in the breathless dimness as she waited for the one spotlight to reveal her fully to the audience.

She knew what they would see, what they were seeing now, the blue spotlight outlining her against the upright piano. She stood on this platform, usually on this very spot against the piano, six times a week; she had sung here for five months, so often that she could see in her mind’s eye the picture she was presenting to her avid listeners.

Her audience was mostly men, interspersed with a few women, of course, and they were seeing a slender, pale, young woman standing easily (seemingly) on the small platform, a five-piece combo ranged behind her, the piano at her back, drums and bass behind her to the left, saxophone and trumpet in ftont of them. The music began, slowly, mournfully, the saxophone wailing out the melody for eight bars, while the bass and the drums pulled heart-throbbing rhythm from taut strings and drumhead.

He wasn’t there.

Her eyes had searched to the far corners of the dim room and hadn’t seen him. But the time had come. Lisa began to sing, her voice deep, throaty, running over the words as smoothly as clear water flows over round pebbles in a stream; a blues sound, it was, plaintive, wailing her loss, her love, to her hungry listeners. She was the reason, she knew with no false pride, that Arnie Stack’s Purple Lady was

Twenty-three

packed tonight, why it was packed three nights out of the week. Lisa Howell, she was, the nobody who had walked into the Purple Lady five months ago, had asked Arnie for a job, and had drawn the crowds week after week ever since.

Lisa knew she was a good singer, knew that her voice was vital and emotional. She smiled now, singing softly, waiting for the combo to finish their improvisations on the melody, smiling as she remem­ bered what Arnie had said a few weeks ago.

"God, Lisa, that was some singin’,” he had breathed. Then, run­ ning a wrinkled hand over his thinning, close-cropped white hair, he had said hesitatingly, "I ain’t too good at sayin’ things, but you scwnd jist like what I feel when I make me a big cool drink on a hot night.

Man, it goes down with a comfort, that drink. Yer singin’ does the same thing to me.”

The music crescendoed now, the piano leading her into the last chorus, her voice thrumming and vibrating with the song as she made it her own, put something of her own life into it.

Don’t know where you’ve gone; S’pose that I’ll live on.

Seeing you in my dreams.

Don’t know what to do; My life today’s all blue.

Wondering what you’re doing now.

Sad though it may seem.

In spite of those dreams.

You’ll never wander back to me.

We had a quarrel.

Maybe there’s a moral; Never fight with one you love.

So, don’t know where you’ve gone; S’pose that I’ll live on.

Seeing you in my dreams.

She finished, lingeringly, caressing each word, each note, as if she would never give it up, seeing him in her dreams, letting her listen­ ers see him, know him, feel how much she loved him, needed him, missed him.

She ended, trailing off into a silence so absolute that a few listeners in the back of the room were caught with their mouths open, eyes blinded, when the houselights came up and they realized that Lisa had quietly stepped off the stage in the interval between the dimming of the spotlight and the brightening of the houselights. Her audience applauded wildly, asking, pleading with her to sing again or just to show herself once more. Lisa complied, appearing briefly in the doorway leading to the small dressing room, smiling rather shyly now, her white dress modest but revealing her as tall and slender, her dress contrasting with her high sculptured brown hair, her eyes deep and lovely.

Twenty-four

She turned, closing the door behind her, and walked across the narrow, dark hallway with its sparsely placed yellow bulbs, to her own dressing room. Opening and closing the door, she crossed the room slowly and sat down in front of her well-lighted mirror. He still hadn’t come, not tonight, not for this first show. Five months she had sung here; he had not come to hear her even one time. Oh, Bob had heard her sing around home, in church — never at the club. She didn’t quite know what it would signify if he did come to the club, perhaps that he really didn’t mind her singing, perhaps that he was giving in to her growing ambition to sing, to make more of her life than being just the daughter of a tight-lipped bank manager, or even the wife of a man who couldn’t seem to hold a job, not because he didn’t want to work, but because he had the disconcerting habit of picking jobs he neither liked nor felt could be permanent.

Lisa absent-mindedly fingered the silver filigree on the back of her brush, sighed deeply, and thought perhaps Bob would come at the second show, at 10:30 when she sang her final song for the evening.

She scrutinized herself in the mirror, beginning to take her hair down, to arrange it for the next show. "I don’t even look like a nightclub singer, how ever they’re supposed to look. But I don’t suppose I’m still the innocent little church singer who used to tug heartstrings in New Bedford, either.”

A knock on the door interrupted her.

"Come in,” she called and turned to face the opening door.

Arnie Stack, owner of the Purple Lady, the now well-known pur­ ple lady tattoo showing plainly on his thick forearm, crossed the room excitedly and grabbed Lisa’s hands.

"Kid, we got it made! Someone heard you tonight, a Mr. . . . what’s-his-name . . . Ballard, that’s it; he wants you ’n’ the boys to come to his club in New York ’n’ spend a two weeks’ engagement, he called it, singin’ ’n’ playin’. After that, who knows? Someone’s bound to hear you, like you; you gotta chance to go straight to the top, Lisa. What do you say?” he finished, looking at her, his little blue eyes gleaming in a kindly Santa-Claus face.

Lisa was amazed, at first unable to comprehend what he was saying. "Someone wants me to . . . Do you mean it? Really?” she questioned in a wondering tone.

"You bet I do!” he grinned, grabbing her up, whirling her in a quick dance across the narrow room. Lisa was still looking at him rather stupidly but felt caught up by his own excitement.

"But what’ll you do,” she wondered, "about having someone sing here. You said yourself that I was good for business. I wouldn’t feel right leaving you like this,” she protested finally.

She remembered then, had never really forgotten, but had been captured by his own enthusiasm. She disengaged her hands from his and sank down on the straight chair in front of the mirror.

"You know you’re like my own daughter I never had,” Arnie said with an embarrassed chuckle. "I just want to see you get ahead in the world.”

Twenty-five

Lisa didn’t hear him say this, nor did she feel his blushing ten­ derness for her. A fine opportunity to sing in New York, if . . . And this was the problem, the thought that had swirled around in her mind ever since she began to sing here five months ago.

"Well?” Arnie asked a bit impatiently, looking at her with a per­ plexed frown lining his red face. "The man can’t wait all night, you know. Are you gonna do it or not? I don’t mind sayin you d be a fool not to take the chance. Well? Say somethin’ ’n’ stop lookin at me with them big hurt eyes.”

"I’m sorry,” she apologized softly, smiling. Then she said slowly, hesitantly, "I can’t tell you yet; I’ll have to talk it over with Bob. "Bob!” Arnie said explosively. "Since when has that big bum ever done anythin’ fer you? He can’t hold a job; he can t provide fer you; he can’t give you all the things you oughta have. WTiy ask him?

He don’t care!” and he threw his hands in the air, repudiating the three years Bob and Lisa had been married, those years they had loved, those years together that seemed to be coming to a cold end.

'Then Arnie said quietly, "This is your big chance, Lisa; you may not get another. I’m gettin’ old; I can’t keep the place open much longer. I’m tired; I wanta get away from this, but I want you to get settled first.”

Lisa frowned, hearing little of what Arnie was saying, thinking over those past few strange weeks. Bob hadn’t talked to her much during that time; neither of them had said a lot, just the necessary words to keep the apartment running in smooth order. She sup­ posed their trouble had all begun, definitely, when she got the job at the Purple Lady. She had been sure everything would be all right, that she was doing the right thing by taking the job at the club. But seemingly she had been wrong, no matter how much she hated to admit it.

Bob hadn’t talked much before then, but his silence had love in it, love and companionship and tenderness. Even when he said only, "Please pass the salt, honey,” he would look at her in that special way, his nose crinkling, the little-boy look she loved showing in his rumpled brown hair, his freshly-shaved smooth face, his laughing gray eyes.

Bob had always been more a smiler than a talker, even when she first met him in New Bedford, her Midwest home town, he coming from Pennsylvania to visit her oldest brother Hank, or Henry, as Father preferred, to work that summer on a farm outside of town. Even then, there had been a special look in him, a strength of body and purpose, she thought.

"Ah, Lisa,” he had murmured. "We’ll have a fine life together when we get married. I don’t intend to be a farm hand all my life, you know. I’ve got big things planned; we’ll do it all together.”

She had believed every word he had said, had tried to help him, encourage him, but somehow the dream had faded. That time he had lost the job in the gas station she had not been too worried.

"There’ll be other jobs, honey. It’s important that you find something you like, that you do well,” she had encouraged.

Twenty-six

■ had looked up, less dejection in his face, new purpose burning in his eyes.

You’re right. I’ll go out the first thing in the morning. saw an advertisement in the paper that Klein’s needs someone to drive a truck. I’ll go see about it tomorrow.” . He had gone and he had come home announcing, "I got the job, Lisa; I start this afternoon.”

But he had come back two weeks later, dejected, silent, hating her that he had lost again. Since then, there had been an endless succession of jobs, mostly small, not of long duration, only substitutions for people on vacation, or special assignments to deliver produce across town, or to help a business re-locate to another section of the city.

Finally, Lisa had gone to the Purple Lady, a club in the neigh­ borhood, quiet, respectable, owned by the funny little man who clucked around her like an old biddy, whom she felt was more a father to her than her own, still in New Bedford. The coldness between her and Bob began from that day. ’Women!” Arnie muttered di.sgustedly and slammed the door, startling Lisa from her reverie. He popped his head back in for a moment. "I’ll tell him to wait; you see you tell him somethin’. He said he d give you two days to decide. Then he’s gotta get someone else.” Arnie disappeared for the last time. *

*

*

Lisa sank back in thought, not feeling the hardness of the chair nor the coolness of the bare, gray-bricked room, not hearing the dim music or murmurings from the club proper where the combo was again playing the blues, the audience calmed now in the dim smoky room, the long low room with one wall lined by plastic-covered wooden booths, the bare floor crowded by a dozen small tables with a few empty feet in front for dancing when the crowd was in the mood, the other wall opposite from the booths being taken up by a long bar, bottles ranked in orderly rows in front of a dusty mirror; Lisa not hear­ ing nor seeing nor thinking of this, but remembering those strange days before this night.

Bob had been gone a lot the past few days, gone very mysteriously, long and late; he wouldn’t say what he was doing, she being almost afraid to ask, because they had been so non-communicative, totally unlike the first two years together, when one word, one look, glance or touch, told him what she was feeling or thinking or wanting. Now there was not even the word, none of these things, the thought bridge between them being broken seemingly beyond mending. When she looked at him questioningly on those nights when he came in late with no explanation, he would smile agonizingly, shrug and say nothing.

Last night, one of those nights when she didn’t sing at the club.

Bob had gone out early, had not told her where he was going. Lisa had puttered around the neat apartment, cleaning, dusting, straighten­ ing furniture, moving around absent-mindedly, wondering what Bob was doing, feeling something almost akin to jealousy, speculating that he was with another woman, when she had no reason for this sus­ picion other than that he was gone.

Twenty-seven

When she heard his key in the lock some hours later, out at him before he even stepped his foot inside the door. were you? I’ve been dying, all cooped up in here, wondering w er you’ve been .... I don’t mean to jump on you like this, she apo o gized, calming down somewhat, "but I get worried. You werent out with some old girl friend, were you?” she asked, trying to make ® 1° ® out of her question, but with something in her voice that cried out desperately for him to say "No, of course not.”

Bob crossed the room to the small closet in the bedroom, just inside the door, and took his time about hanging up his tweed coat.

Looking out at her across the room, he questioned with a glint o humor and speculation in his eyes, "What would you do if I sai was out with someone else?”

Now Lisa was worried; she felt almost as though her suspicions, as unfounded as they were, had been confirmed by his question, b e flared up at him, not at him personally, but at the gnawing unrest he had made her feel.

"All right, if you said that, I’d say it was about time you made a choice, me or her,” she said coldly.

The humor was gone from his eyes now; he returned her lo^.

"And what if I said it was about time you made a choice, me or the club?”

She had no answer to that question; this was the first time he had put it to her so bluntly, her love for him weighed against her love of singing, and she had no answer because the question caught deeply in her mind, making her speculate about the course she would take when the time came for her to make the inevitable decision.

Now, tonight, the time for the decision had come, far sooner than she had expected, and she still had no answer.

Lisa felt flushed and rose from the chair. She crossed the small room, its expanse crowded by an old leather chaise lounge on which she rested or read books between shows, the old floor lamp with its yellow fringed shade adding its glow to the bright bulbs around the mirror. The window opened easily, because she did this often, leaning her head against the window frame, letting the cool city night blow on her face. She could see only the dark outside, with the warm glow of the streetlight mellowing shadows in the alley, glowing in a night creature’s eyes momentarily before it jumped from the crate and dis­ appeared into the darkness.

"Oh, Bob,” she said silently. "It’s not that you can’t keep a job, not really. I can take a little poverty, here and there, in small quanti­ ties, even in large ones, because I love you. But I can’t stand it that you don’t seem to care, that you seem to have left me, being gone all these nights with no explanation. This I can’t stand. I wanted to do more than this, more than cleaning up a small apartment that doesn’t

Twenty-eight

tn

k

every day, because we have no child to throw toys around, eereal on the kitchen floor, to throw blankets out of his crib.

mn

^ set out, had to do something ore than clean an already spotless apartment. I had to sing; singini?

IS something I do really well. It was the only thing I could do. 1 as right, wasnt I? she questioned the unhearing night.

,. in

turned away from the window. This was not the time to or such things, not when she had another show to do, to prepare.

Time, Lisa, Arnie called from the hall, rapping softly on the door.

. , 'ti a minute,” she called hurriedly, applying lipQk carefully, smoothing her hair, straightening her dress. i)he took a last look in the mirror. Not too bad. It would be dark enough outside that they wouldn’t be able to see the ravages of thought on her face; it would be all right.

She opened the scarred door to the main room of the Purple l ady for the last time tonight, this being the last show before she went home.

She wasn’t looking for him this time; she had convinced herself those long moments in the dressing room that he would never come.

But he was here, he was here now, sitting at one of the bare tables in front of the small platform, looking at her as she mounted the steps at the left of the stage and took her place against the piano.

She could see him clearly; he smiled slowly and raised his hand in a half wave.

She began to sing then, in the same deep voice as always but with something new added, an exaltation and clearness of tone that changed the blues into something new and soaring, to something with­ out the blues melancholy but with the words, words that were not someone else’s but were hers, welling up and overflowing with the thought that "He’s here; he’s come at last, when I had resigned my­ self to never seeing him here, when I had given him up to dreams that cannot love..

Stan faltered a little at the piano, surprised, she knew, that she wasn t singing the right words, not the ones to the song they had practiced that afternoon, but something of her own composition, some­ thing that she felt now, the true composition that comes from an over­ flow of feeling, whether of joy or sorrow, but was joy in her case. She sang, keeping Bob’s face before her, watching him all the time, as he sat in the small spill of light that overflowed from the spotlight in which she was standing, watching his face as it changed from the slow smile to a look of amazement, then to incredulity. _ She ended triumphantly, pealing her thought to the low ceiling, going beyond to the cool night in her triumph, bringing her audience to their feet, something that had never happened before when she

Twenty-nine

sang. She stood there, looking at Bob, seeing only ^ with the rest, a look of pride on his face, but also , . j if he knew then that she had made a decision between him and the c b.

She stepped down from the platform, looking at hm and moved toward the door to the dressing roo .

P his chair quietly and followed her.

"Hey, what is this?” she heard a man protest loudly from one of the booths.

"Shuddup, bum! That’s the lady’s husband,” she heard Arnie retort from his position at one of the small tables w y sat when she sang.

Bob followed Lisa to her dressing room and shut the door behind them. She turned to face him, looking at hirn J , j her eyes still shining from her triumph, still hearing faintly the noise of the crowd, slow to quiet.

Bob locked his arms tightly around her, holding her fiercely, whispering reverently, "Lord, Lisa, I didnt know you cou i ^ that,’’ while he held her pressed against him, and she wished he wouU never let go. But he did; his arms dropped and he stepped back from her, looking at her with sadness, saying quietly, I suppose you ve made up y^r mind now; what I said last night about choosing be­ tween me and the club. You’ve chosen the club; I see that.

He turned to go, his hand on the doorknob, when she called out desperately, "’Wait!”

He turned, surprise and faint hope on his face.

"You lovable darling, didn’t you see I was singing for you? I’ve never sung like that before; I hope I don’t ever again. I hope there s no reason for me to sing like that again, because it 11 mean that 1 ha almost lost you. And I couldn’t stand that,” she ended, with some­ thing in her voice that said she could never choose singing over her love for him, because she could sing only when he did love her. bhe could see that now, that she could never go away from hun and smg, she would be no good in New York or any other place without him there.

"You’re not going away, then? Arnie called me and told me about this guy that wanted you to sing in New York. I had some­ thing to tell you tonight, hoped it would make you change your mind, but I couldn’t tell you . . . had to let you make up your own mind . . .

You’re really not going to leave?” he asked finally, incredulously.

Lisa threw her arms around his neck, whispering. When I saw you out there I knew I never wanted to go anywhere but with you.

Besides, who needs to sing anyway? I can do that anywhere, any time; it doesn’t have to be in the club. 111 quit, she^ promised with a catch in her voice, lying to herself, saying it didnt matter that she was giving up the club.

"No, you won’t,” Bob answered firmly. "I won’t let you quit, not now. I saw you up there; there’s nothing you enjoy more than singing, and I won’t let you stop.”

Lisa began to cry then, something she had not done for a long time, even during those difficult days after she began to sing at the

Thirty

club. Those nights that Bob ... she looked up suspiciously through her tears, "Just what were you doing those nights you were gone?”

Bob laughed, his white teeth flashing, his strong throat rising from a subdued sport coat and white shirt. "I was at work!” he an­ swered triumphantly.

"At work? Really?” Lisa exclaimed, shaking him a little in her delight, in surprise, in renewed hope.

"Yes. At work, doing what I like and getting paid for it, too.

So who cares that cab drivers don’t make too much money; so who cares. But a lot of cab drivers make a lot of money, and Joey Sartella and I are partners in a cab business. So how about that?”

"Marvelous!” she cried, feeling silly as she said it, but so happy that he was doing what he wanted, that she was still singing, that they were still together with the deep bond between them being revived, warmed into glowing life by these few words.

Arnie tapped on the door and peeked around the corner. what’ll I tell this here Mr. Ballard?” he asked, grinning.

"Hey,

Bob looked up, and Lisa saw him gesture with his thumb, "Out the door with him.” Arnie grinned even wider and closed the door softly.

★

★

★

ALLEGORY — HUMANITY NANCY ERTI'X '65

Allegory — Truth We arc funny people, you and I; We look for the heavens, and see the sky.

We seareh for a love. The Love, and find Clouds and sun block our view, and make us blind.

We are funny people, you and I; We look for the heavens, and see the sky.

Allegory — I.ife We are funny people, you and I; We seek to be loved, yet know not why.

We hope for a love, true love, secure.

Hut afraid to be hurt we pause, unsure.

We are funny people, you and I; We seek to live life, niullling love to a sigh.

Allegory — Death We are funny people, you and I; We say we believe, yet hope not to die.

We accept human love as Love, on earth.

And live as though death could bring no rebirth.

We are tunny people, you and I; We say we believe, yet still tear to die.

★

★

★ Thirty-one

MUDPUPPIES MARII.YN MACCANON ’67

Second Prize, Roy A. Burkhart, Religious Poetry Contest

Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your righteousnessl Kick off your piety and wade with us in the world (Ankledeep, waisthigh, up to your neck if you want) . . .

Don’t be standoffish— Splash with us in Sin’s stagnant puddles.

Come on in, the quicksand’s fine!

Oh, that’s right; be careful of your white gloves: We’re the untouchables, remember?

Shut your eyes when you pray And shut out the world crawling with our germs.

Mudpuppies squat in mudpuddlcs to keep warm When they have no hope.

Their hope has been uprooted from tfie ground And perched high on tops of steeples on roofs on churches Like china shelved high out of the reach of eager handprints.

Someday maybe a man or even the Man will come again.

Whose robe and sandals knew the dust of the road and the grime of ditches such as ours.

Although you paint Him in gleaming white.

He will soil His robe, bending to reach into our muck to show us how to make hricks with our mud With which we can learn to build temples.

He will tell us of His Father, Who made Adam out of clay.

UncleanI UncleanI Why wash us whiter than snow: It we are germs to you we would point out the lives saved by the bacteria Penicillium.

If we are grease to you we would show you the lubrication of the motors that beat the pulse of the nation.

If we are dirt to you, what about the dikes holding back the sea from the Netherlands?

But if we are nothing to yon, we would show you what God had to start with when He made the world.

Unclean! Why wash me whiter than snow? .Sanitary souls are confined to sterile cellophane wrappers Never coming in contact with air.

Unpolluted, boiled water in corked bottles.

Come join us in the current of the mudbottom river Flowing to the inevitable sea.

Mingle sands with ns at the delta, and we will together build A fortune of minerals and lifegiving wealth from which will grow algae, protozoa and life of all forms.

In turn giving life until it, too, is washed to the inevitable sea.

Then perhaps someday a man or even the Man Will thirst to fill His cup with us Turning us to wine.

We become a holy sacrament.

This is the cup of the new testament of my blood, which was shed for you.

—Do you drink yours bitter.

Or with sugar?

ir T hirty-two

ir

ir

THE COMING OF GENTLER WEATHER LINDA ZIMMF.RS ’66

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Prose Ned wriggled his sprawling body in the sagging armchair and turned upside down the book he had been reading. A gusty norther was rattling the frail farmhouse, and an especially cold current blew through the ill-fitting window and chilled his shoeless feet. Ned chewed his lip and stared blankly with dark, mysterious eyes at the solitary, frozen countryside.

Suddenly a strong draft of wintry air made him shiver all over.

Ned was pensively considering those around him. Why were they what they were? He had almost hated his family last Saturday at his sister Julie’s house. Ned and his toddling niece Sally had romped as blissfully as ever, but the grownups had been cross and sour. Julie wouldn’t stop whimpering, and her husband Jim had sat wordless and drunk in a sullen shell. Disregarding Dad’s signals to stop. Mom had kept volunteering advice for Julie and Jim’s marital problems; "Get some rest. Visit the doctor. You and Jim try harder and you’ll settle everything. Now let me take care of the baby for a couple of weeks....’’

"No, no. I don’t want you to keep Sally. We don’t want help,” Julie objected. "It will just have to go on and on like this!” And Julie, sobbing helplessly, had rushed out of the room.

The vision of that evening kept gnawing at Ned. Julie and Jim had once been light-hearted. Before their marriage and the baby, they had taken Ned and his other sister, Kay, bowling and car racing with them. Things were so different now. "Whatever it is that happens to people when they grow up,” mumbled Ned to himself, "I don’t want it to happen to me.”

He lowered his head into his lap. The wind howled around the house. He had been left alone today, but he was even alone when with his family. They thought he was too young to realize what he was seeing.

A tree limb scratched the window bitterly. Ned knew his mother loved him, but she never exhibited her affection. He was not aware of any love from his father, yet Father was not a bad man. And his sister Kay was far away at college. There was no one at home who could understand him.

Ned wanted loving parents and a loving family, but they did not even understand each other. He was absolutely alone. A tear or two dropped from his eyes. Then he lifted his head. ’Thinking was be­ ginning to be too painful.

Ned sighed, picked up The Carpetbaggers and tried to concen­ trate on his reading.

"Hey, isn’t anybody home, Ned?” Kay suddenly popped her head inside the door. She was home from college! What a surprise!

"Kay!” Ned jumped up and hugged his sister with all his might.

"Nobody here but me.” He was so glad to see Kay! Her whole body glowed with bright happiness. She was always so merry, but then she was so rarely at home even during vacations.

Thirty-three

"What have you been doing? What are you reading there, you little bookworm?” she asked.

Ned had forgotten about the book. She saw what it was before he could hide it.

"The Carpetbaggers!’’ Kay exclaimed. "That’s not a book for a thirteen-year-old!” Her tone of voice was refreshingly gentle.

"Well, I guess not,” admitted Ned. "It has lots of bad words.”

"I read it once, but I certainly didn’t feel like finishing it,” Kay asserted, sitting down with her brother. "It’s so long and monotonous.

Now isn’t it?”

They smiled at one another, and Ned had to agree with her.

Nevertheless, as soon as Kay went upstairs to change clothes, Ned picked up the book and obstinately began reading again. But how good it was to have Kay home even if she badgered him! The wind shifted and the chilling drafts from the window ceased.

When Kay returned, she again reproved him. "Books like The They’re just a bunch of disgusting words. Come on; put the book away,” she pleaded.

Carpetbaggers don’t give you any lasting values.

Ned grinned and thrust the book under his chair. He began telling about what his classmates were reading and how silly some were. Soon Ned and Kay were talking—talking about Seventhgraders, books, junior high school, college. They had what Kdy called a "bull session.” Tbey discussed almost everything with one obvious exception: Ned and Kay carefully avoided the dreadful subject of their parents or their sister.

It seemed to Ned that Kay was trying to see his thoughts with those searching looks she gave him.

At last she recommended that they do something besides talk.

Ned was intensely eager to go hiking or walk his trap line.

"Read poetry together! Are you kiddin’?” Ned sneered. "That’s the kind of silly junk old Otilla McGreevey makes us do at school! ” "Then you ought to be good at it. nounced confidently.

Let’s try it once,” Kay an­

He reluctantly consented. "Okay, you find some poems, and I’ll finish the first section of this book.” He stifled a snicker.

Kay gazed at him in mock seriousness, shrugged her shoulders resignedly, and started sorting books of verse.

Reading together turned out to be great fun. They giggled and read gleefully about the rabid dog who died from biting a man, the "barefoot boy with cheeks of tan,” and "vorpal” sword that went "snicker-snack.”

Ned and Kay had never been so close before—and now this kin­ ship of both blood ad spirit. It was an unspoken love and an aware­ ness of unity.

Kay sparkled and beamed when Ned suggested further pciems and additional recitative styles.

In fact, she listened attentively to every word he said. Ned knew that she understood a great deal about his inner troubles without his telling her. He was pleased that someone cared.

Thirty-four

Kay was a link to happiness and to help if he needed it. She would become his silent source of strength. "How relieved I am to find out that an older person can be happy,” thought Ned. "If I could only spread Kay’s enjoyment of living to others.”

When they had finished reading many poetry book and smiled rather sadly at Ned. she regretted that he was so soon forced to be all over. The cold was all on the other side

★

★

poems, Kay closed her She seemed to say that a man. Ned was warm of the window now.

★

SANTA SATAN’S SATURNALIA AMV (.MHI.STi:.\SE',i\ ’6,')

’Twas Halloween night, and I in my room, .Spoke not a word, while awaiting my doom.

I peeked out the window, and to my surprise.

What did I see but two cold yellow eyes. ’Twas a cat in the arms of a wicked old witch Who wiggled and giggled and waved her great switch.

Casting devilish spells here and there.

As black hats whistled through the dead air.

I shivered and shuddered for in my despair.

Devils and goblins were conjuring there.

Each dancing 'round a caldron bright.

Singing "Death to all who venture this night.”

Then off in the ilistance I heard a great roar, As Satan came thundering passed my front door.

In a chariot drawn by what once used to be.

Four great mastodons and one little flea.

And I heard him exclaim, as he tore through the night, “To Hell with you all and to all a mad nighti

★

★

★ Thirty-five

WIND AND THE EMPTY CADENCE (November 2S, 1963) DAVID STURCKS

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetry

Moan, moan, moaning, wind.

Fall, fall, falling, snow.

Sing, laugli, give, spirit.

These times arc tears.

Sick, sick, sick, wc arc.

Weak, weak, weak, we are.

Taken, torn, tired, we arc.

The President is dead.

Slow, slow, slow, the train.

Soft, soft, soft, the tread.

Quick, quick, quick the heels.

Spats rise and fall.

Up, down, up, the hooves, On, on, on, the caisson.

Spoke by spoke, its wheels Winking in the sun.

Stark, silent, veiled, in black.

Gaunt, cold, strong, the wind.

Meek, hushed, fawn shrouded.

Walking as a queen.

Stop. Guns, prayers, sullenly.

One by one, they file Turn, look, turn away.

The flowers wilt and die.

Still, still, still, to mind.

Come, come, come, the drtims, Quiet, quiet, quiet, echoes.

Fading in the air.

Days, weeks, months, passing.

Gifts, wine, smiles, again.

Stores, clothes, streets, glistening.

But heavy hangs the charm.

•Songs, logs, fires, our warmth.

In, hushed, death, of winter.

Howl, storm 1 Howl again!

The flags still hang as rags of night.

★ Thirty-six

★

★

MISERY PAST MIDNIGHT LYNNE PUTERBAUnil '65

No one has had the full experience of college without at least one traditional "All-Nighter.” Each proceeds approximately the same.

After supper the typical victim wanders through the dormitory.

He stops to see his friends, especially those who have the same grue­ some, absolutely impossible test, in order to obtain the proper sym­ pathy. He carries at least two largish books for impact. This ele­ ment of sympathy is important for motivation.

Eventually he lands at his own room, by accident or because he’s hungry. Cold coke in hand, he decides it’s time to "crack the old books.” With a grim determination that would scare any textbook, no matter how large, he attacks. But soon a drink of water seems more pressing. Before he has built up enough enthusiasm to plunge in again, good friends George and Andy destroy the studious atmos­ phere and replace it with the intellecmal discussion of Susie and Nancy. Popcorn sounds good, so he goes to borrow corn and oil, still carrying at least one book. Time hurries on, and his desires for sympathy, friendship, and popcorn turn into a pure panic. He hasn’t even scratched the surface! Friends scatter, and with great drama he flings himself at his desk. Diligence pursues.

After one good solid hour, a refreshing shower seems in order.

Pajamas and a robe are more comfortable. With a cup of stimulat­ ing coffee, our victim settles down again. He looks quite studious and dignified sitting at his desk. But soon he slumps, he slithers down in his chair, he turns backwards in the chair, he sits on the desk itself, he twists, and finally he plops out on the floor with a book.

It’s no use; another coke is absolutely the only solution. As he walks down the halls, he glances under a few doors. No light shines from within. He begins to feel like a lone and lost soul in a cruel world.

His friends must have studied sooner; now they’ve deserted him.

Squares. Finks. Smart clods. The martyr instinct swells within him.

He struts back to his room, takes a huge gulp, chokes, and reassumes the great educational process.

'The chair becomes hard; even sitting on a pillow or leaning on a pillow is no help. But most of all he’s sleepy. His eyes ache and his lids swell with the anxiety to close. 'The whole world is foggy.

He begins to curse himself for being so far behind, to curse the sub­ ject for being so complicated, and to curse the professor for being so preposterous. He yanks up the window, hoping for a stiff breeze.

After half an hour of struggle he decides to try another refresh­ ing shower. He brushes his teeth. He would go for another candy bar except he doesn’t want to walk down that dim lonely corridor again. A drink of water will suffice. With a new spark of energy he begins once more.

Suddenly his head jerks. He realizes he has not been studying.

His eyes are full of sleep, and his left arm is cramped. He’s miser-

Thirty-seven

able. He s afraid to think how long he’s been sitting there uncon­ scious. He jumps up, weaves, and wanders around the room finding the necessity for a strong cup of black coffee. Maybe he could take just a little nap. He makes a deal with himself. If he has reached page 300 by 5:30 he may sleep for an hour. That’s inspiring.

By 3.00 his body is aching and he’s sure he’ll never be able to use his legs again. He limps around the 15’ x 12’ room, and with a burst of masculinity he runs down the hall and out the door. In the chilly air he runs around the dormitory, but he turns his ankle and sulks back to his room.

At 4:00 our victim takes a third shower. He figures at least he’ll die clean. At 4:30 he brushes his teeth again. His mouth tastes like last week’s chewing tobacco.

5:00 A.M., his oasis, finally comes. He’s on page 278. It’s a big decision. Should he cheat and take a quickie nap or should he plod onward? His sense of martyrdom returns, giving him the will­ power to keep digging. Besides, he probably couldn’t sleep now. His nerves are rattled, and the coffee was strong. But, just to be sure, he makes another large cup of the black bitterness.

Around 6:00 he glances out the window. 'Wince. Poets that write about beautiful sunrises must not have been up all night. Panic remrns, and with it comes diligence.

By the time his roommate crawls out of "heaven” in a disgustingly luxurious manner, our victim is beginning to feel physically ill. Break­ fast sounds ghastly.

As the 7:30 bell beckons, he takes a good stiff slug of Alka-Seltzer, mutters a brief prayer, and staggers off to face his hopeless doom.

★

★

★

EMPTY CANVAS F.I.IZABFTH BI'.I Zt.r.Y ’fiS

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetry .Soinclhing about an c'liiply canvas Makes me attack witli paint and Ibnsb and oil and color.

Something about ati empty canvas ^fakes me color and fill and ^^akc alive images of people and Plants and places I have known.

Sometbing about an empty canvas Cives me a world to explore and Conquer and Love.

Something about love \fakes me fill up an empty cativas With bright-colored pictures Of what I know it is like.

★ Thirty-eight

★

★

On Taking Communion PAM ANCLE ’Gfi

Thirty-nine

ON TAKING COMMUNION BARRY 1>. REICH

'67

First Prize, Roy A. Burkhart Religious Poetry Contest This rite before my eyes; the flasli of silver anti crimson through the flow of black robes, the heavy partaking of wheat and grape; all bear down with remembrante.

Another time’s spring, another place’s growth condensed for these hushed rows of participation, as though we crushed all our countryside for this one sip; this ritual flesh and blood standing apart from all its components.

In the cool heart of green life hangs most intense, and there is knowledge in this participation, a certainty beyond any next year’s spring, out of my crumbled flesh shall spring life more vivid than ever this bowed existence.

★

★

★

THE SEA AND A MAN ROSEMARY GORMAN

’65

Alone on the waterfront.

He looked steadily at the sea .And filled his chest With strong salt air And the sea’s immensity.

He stared—infinitesimal.

Companion to the sea.

Alone but part of everything— As only man can be.

He talked to the listening sea And his loneliness soon ceased, F’or the sea kissed his toes and said; — "You can always make love with me.

"If the land doesn’t want you.

Don’t weep—for I shall always be.

When you can’t stand the horrors Of loneliness.

You can always come to me."

★ Forty

★

★

BRIDGE BETWEEN TWO SEASONS cmcRYL ANN fJOl.I.I.NER

'07

Third Prize, Quiz and Quill Short Story The wind is blowing outside. I am cold. My head burns with fever, while my heart and soul are frozen. Life seems to be like the wind, passing by so swiftly and chilling all love.

Spring is not coming this year. Flowers may bloom; trees may bud—but spring will not come, not to me, not to those like me. I have lost all hope for spring. Like happiness, the winter of life has taken spring from me.

Dave and I were young and gay when we first started going to­ gether. We had a great love between us—Dave and me. I can re­ member so well the summer after we graduated from high school. We went to the country quite often for we both treasured the peace it offered us. This one time in particular, though . . .

We walked for a long time, not saying anything; this was our last time together before college started. We were going so far from each other: he to Yale, I to a small college in Ohio. The sun was hot and high, near noon, I would say. There was a small breeze, warm and reassuring—like his hand on mine. A sticky, sweet sniell of flowers surrounded us, and the dry grass was high. In the distance there was a soft, constant babbling of a brook. All was perfect.

We wandered to the top of a hill and stood for awhile, absorbing the splendor of which we were a part. Then he turned to rne and said, "You’ll wait for me, won’t you.>’’ I answered with a smile; of course I would wait. I loved him!

That day passed all too quickly. It was perfect, perfect for a good-by. We both promised to write; we both said we would miss each other. He drove me home, and as our time together neared its end, a still silence came between us. We would not be seeing each other for a long time. Both of us knew this. No matter how light we tried to make our conversation, we were thinking of that after­ noon, of what lay ahead, and of our promise to wait. He walked me to the door, as he always did, but instead of the usual warm smile and quick good-by, we stood for a long time staring at each other, looking into the future. And then, very, very softly, he kissed me.

Our first kiss—then a smile—and then—he was gone.

Hot tears ran down my cheeks; quiet sobs were uttered from my lips. 'That night was long and lonely for me. Sleep did not come, not even rest. As dawn slowly began the new day, and the chilling air of morning rushed through my window, my mother called.

A long day was starting, and all I had was the ache of my jaw and the burn of my eyes. He had already left for school; he was probably a hundred miles away. He was gone. And now I had to make the separation even greater; I too had to leave.

First semester passed quickly. We wrote to each other nearly every day—Dave and me. Life did not stop completely. But as win­ ter approached, I longed to see him; as cold winds blew and chilled me, I longed to feel the warmth of his hand and the gentle kiss we had shared.

Forty-one

Christmas vacation came. I looked forward with great anticipa­ tion to that time; Dave and I were to see each other once again.

When I arrived home, I asked if Dave had called yet.

"No, not yet.”

My heart sank; he was to have been home before me. "Well,” I said to myself, "Maybe his train is late, or he ran into an old friend or something.” After awhile I sat almost deadened to the world about me, waiting for the unmelodious ring of the phone that told me Dave was near. I sat waiting for one, two, three hours. Every time the phone rang, I leaped, my heart pounding, my breath caught and twisted within my throat. I was going to hear his voice—he was going to say, "You haven’t made any plans for tonight, have you?

Good! We can go to the country; it should be lovely and peaceful.”

It was going to be the most wonderful evening—being alone with him.

But each time the phone rang, and each time I answered, it was not Dave.

Midnight—and the house was still. My mother had not urged me to go to bed; she knew I must first hear from Dave. I waited six hours, and in that time, I thought about calling Dave a thousand times. Now I was afraid; now a tremendous fear overcame me. I looked with a passionate anxiety at the phone, and tears began to stream down my face. "Oh God,” I whispered, "Please let Dave call!

Please let him call me! Please, God please ...” I broke into silent sobs.

When I raised my head, it was three o’clock. I had to know what was wrong, and yet I felt I already knew. I slowly picked up the phone and dialed. LA 4 ... 1 could barely see the numbers, and my hands were trembling so very much. It had not rung long when someone answered. "Hello, who is this?” '"This is Bonnie.

Is Dave home yet?”

"Haven’t they told you?”

"Told me, told me what?” My voice was quivering, but so was the one on the other end of the line.

"They took him to a hospital; he was run over as he was leaving the station to catch a bus.

He’s been asking for you, but . . .”

"But what?”

I could hardly choke those words out.

"But he was so mangled; they were afraid to tell you . . .”

That other voice was hushed then. I could not move, nor speak, nor cry—1 just sat there, stilled and frozen. "Where?” I asked.

"The Community Hospital on Ridge Road.”

I hung up. Without taking time to reason where or why, I be­ gan to walk. The hospital was only a half hour’s walk from my home, but that night my walk was an eternity.

The air was frosty; there was a light snow on the ground. But I was unconscious of the cold, nor did I notice the snow crunching under my slippered feet. At first 1 walked fast, my eyes open, my heart racing madly. My thoughts? Only one question repeated over and over—Why, God? Why him? Why? And then a sudden calm came over me; I seemed to come back to the world. Tears flooded Forty-two

my eyes; my pace altered from a wild run to an insane slow. My mind was blank and yet overflowing with him, as I knew him, and as he must be at that moment.

The hospital lights came into sight, but the building, despite all its lights, seemed a massive grave; quiet, and yet screaming; empty, but still so full of pain and sorrow. I pushed through the door. Slow­ ly I walked to the desk. "Could you ...”

"Room 342.

No visitors though.”

"Please, I—I love him!”

"Wait one minute; I’ll ask the doctors.”

There was acomplete silence. Even her steps did not shatter that solid mass of silence, that maddening silence. I kept telling my­ self to keep calm; they would let me see him. They had to! "Ma’am, you can see him, if you wish. He’s been asking for you, but . . .”

I ran down rhe hall and up the steps. First, second, third floor— Room 342! I was panting heavily. "Control yourself! Don’t let him know you’re worried. Don’t!” I slowly opened the door. I knew my eyes were red and swollen; I knew I was trembling. I knew, and I tried to steady myself.

The light in the room was very dim. As I looked around, my eyes fell upon his mother. She was sitting in achair near his bed, her back toward me. I could see little of her face, but what I did see was ghastly. She was pale, ghostly pale. And the shadows, cast across her face by the dimness of the light, left the impression of a hideous portrait of death’s angel. His father stood near, his hand on her shoulder, trying so hard to comfort, yet giving no comfort.

Then I saw him. He was a blur to my eyes, empty and void, a mass bound in white, lying in perfect stillness. But as I moved closer, I made out his face, what was left of it. "Dave?—Can he hear me?”

"Yes.” "Dave, I’m here.”

His face mrned slowly toward me. Those lips which had so tenderly brushed mine now parted, "Wait for me?” I smiled; of course I would wait for him. I loved him!

All sight ran together into a huge whirling ball: all sound blended into a symphony of nothingness. I became unconscious of all that was around me. Only the vision of him as he looked at me four months before loomed before me. I could not see him as he was now, lying pale and void; I could only imagine him full of vigor, rose in his cheeks, his smile reaching the full width of his face, brightness in his eyes. My life was based on what I saw in those eyes, and what I knew must be behind them. Now it was like an obsessed nightmare!

Wild fantasy! He was not there! Only a small part—but the rest would return. I must wait. . .

When I regained consciousness, I too was in a room with white walls and ceiling. I was swimming in a pool of white. A nurse entered quietly and looked at me solemnly. She tried hard to smile.

"Feeling better?”

Forty-three

At first I was dazed, but quickly it came to me. Dave was there! He was in an accident. "I’ve got to see how Dave is!”

"No.” "But you don’t understand.

I have to see him!”

He was hurt, and he called for me!

"You did see him. Remember? you before he died. Remember?”

He looked at you and talked to

"Dead?” He had died. I did not realize he had died then. No, maybe I had—NO! "No! He told me to wait. He’s not dead! He’s not dead!”

I’m seventy-six now. Spring still has not come. Not since I last saw Dave. I’m waiting—but not in vain. Soon I will see him; soon we will meet again. Only now I am cold; now I have little hope for spring. Now I just live my life, working and existing.

Sometimes I dream, like now. I don’t know why I should bother you with my story. Maybe it is because you remind me of someone!

Dave? Dave! I’ve waited!

★

★

★

IN THE DAYS OF YOUTH VERDA DEETER

’67

Third Prize, Quiz and Quill Poetry in (lays of youth we ran looking for some shapeless Something seeking some faceless Someone for wc had lost that Thing which we never owned and had forgotten that One whom wc never knew and as we ran, we cried, “Why am I alive?” and the mocking answer echoed through our hollow selves, “Simply because you’ve never died!” so never having died we live running, looking seeking, and at the end we fali exhausted and in our anguish cry, “So never having lived WE DIEI” •k

forty-four

if

-k

SANDSTONE SONATA RUTH LACKKY

’64

Second Prize, Quiz and Quill Poetry High on a hill is a facing of rock, A bare ledge of crumbled gray, Slashed by a dark cavity That mars the weathered sandstone.

I’ve seen it.

And it stirs half-forgotten memories.

Romantic musings, if you wish, Of biting, roaring wind Cutting up the long valley to my hill.

Gouging, seeking, missing me In my warm cave.

My man is with me and my child.

Tucked in the curve of my arm.

Wrapped in two rabbit pelts.

The fire is licking up remains Of winter-starved branches.

And the sand around it is mellow And warm to cold hands.

In summer the green valley Spreads out beneath us As gentle and smooth As the large-eyed doe That drinks from the fern-lined stream.

And we feel vital, then.

As springy and green As the young sapling my man Rends to snare long-eared gray shadows.

Then we do not worry that winter comes.

Rut now we are here, relaxed.

Sleepy, full of the great-eared rabbit.

The trees are bare And their white-tipped branches Point knowing fingers to the sky.

Where dwells our summer lord, the Sun. The time will come When I will be no more as I am.

I'he day will brighten When my cave-home will crumble Like the sand around the ants’ home.

That day will take part of me Never to be recaptured.

To be wrenched away Leaving only an insatiable hunger For warm darkness.

ir

ir

ir Forty-five

JUSTICE’S HELPER CHARM’S MESSMER ’66

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Short Story Dear Jerry, You seemed so confused and disappointed today when you came to visit me that I decided that I should tell you the whole truth about these last few weeks, but please don t ever tell anyone about it.

When I was thirteen years old, a friend and I were playing in a cave which was in a heavily wooded area three or four miles from any civilization. We were having the time of our lives when suddenly we heard a loud, low roar that seemed to come from just beside us.

Naturally we ran out of there as fast as we could, but I wasn’t fast enough. Just as I reached the mouth of the cave, I was knocked soundly to the ground. I looked up terrified! A big, black bear was ready to pounce on me! I couldn’t move a muscle. But just then, from the bushes to my left, a human figure moved in and met the bear face-to-face. It was a boy of about eighteen, I thought, though I’d certainly never seen him before. He had a large hunting knife, but I was afraid the bear would overpower him. Now they were rolling on the ground, the bear tearing at the boy’s left arm with one huge paw and two rows of large, pointed teeth; the boy stabbing at the bear’s neck with quick thrusts of the knife in his right hand. Blood was flying everywhere! Finally the bear collapsed, and releasing his grip on the boy’s arm, fell dead. Without a word the boy stood up, gave me a quick smiling stare, and ran off the way he had come, al­ most literally carrying his mangled left arm.

I was still in a shock, I think, but at last I got up and staggered home. I went straight to my room, wanting just to be alone with my thoughts.

I read in the paper the next day that a boy named Tom Jenkins, a resident of Montana but in this area visiting his grandparents, had been admitted to General Hospital with a badly lacerated left arm, the result, it said, of a hunting accident. As I read on, I was amazed to find that this Tom Jenkins had told about fighting the bear but had not mentioned saving my life. His modesty overwhelmed me.

I wondered at his "secret,” but deciding he might have some reason for it, I began thinking about other things and soon forgot the inci­ dent. I didn’t think I would ever see Tom Jenkins again.

You and I never met until nine years later, but you will discover in a few minutes why I told you this story. By the time we did meet, my life was already one of boredom, as you probably remember. I wasn’t interested in my job, my wife and I were no longer in love with each other, and I couldn’t get enthusiastic about the world situa­ tion, hobbies, or anything else that might intrigue me. In short, I was a "vegetable.”

If it weren’t for our friendship, I probably would have collapsed long ago. ’Thanks to your sympathy, understanding, and encourage­ ment, I have been able to struggle along these past seven years. But remember what two things I always said I was trying to find? A challenge to my intelligence and a purpose in life. It was not until last May that I found these goals. I know you’ve kept up with the sforv in the newspapers, but let me tell you the real truth, as only I can.

Forty-six

On May 16, a man named Tom Jenkins reluctantly accepted an invitation to dinner at the home of his employer, Paul Warren. Every­ one at Sano-Tax Incorporated knew that Tom hated Mr. Warren be­ cause of the latter’s unethical business dealings with his clientele, his competitors, and even his employees. Mr. Warren also knew this and probably wanted to try to bring Tom, a very bright person, over to his way of thinking.

About ten o’clock that night the sound of a shot woke Mrs. Warren who had gone to bed half an hour earlier. When she came downstairs, she found her husband dead. The front door was open, but there was no sign of anyone outside. Controlling her shock very well, Mrs. Warren called the police, and within minutes the house was full of people speaking in hushed tones. A photographer took pictures all around. A doctor stated that Warren had died of a gun­ shot wound in the head. The coroner’s staff began to move the body to the morgue. Three officers searched the house for any signs of disturbance. And most important, two detectives questioned Mrs. Warren.

She told about Tom Jenkins’ coming to dinner, about the air of hard feelings that filled the whole evening, and about how loud argu­ ments between the two men had forced her to go to bed, lest she get involved.

One of the detectives called headquarters to start a search for Tom. 'Tliey caught him as he returned to his home about three hours later, so drunk rhat he could hardly walk and so depressed that he didn’t care. ’They interrogated Tom for two days, barely stopping long enough to eat or sleep, but his story never varied. He told again and again that after arguing rhe whole evening, he finally told Mr. Warren he was quitting his job. He stomped out of the house, walked the back streets of town for a while, and then went to the E & E Cafe and began drinking heavily. He stayed there until he could drink no more and then staggered home into the waiting arms of the three plain­ clothes men who had "staked out” his residence. Tom swore again and again that when he left, the only thing wrong with Mr. Warren was that he was very angry, just as Tom was.

This is where I come into the story. I read in the next day’s paper about this murder, apparently at the hand of one Tom Jenkins.

Tom Jenkins—^Tom Jenkins—the name hammered at my brain. At last I remembered what it was: that was the name of the boy who had saved my life when I was just a youngster! Right then and there a new spirit took hold of me. "If this would happen to be the same Tom Jenkins,” I told myself, "I will save his life just as he saved mine.

I don’t know exactly how just yet, but I will!” Paying this debt would certainly give my life some purpose. But Tom looked very guilty to most people. Could I prove him innocent.^ Here, then, was the challenge to my intelligence.

"Could this be the same Tom Jenkins?” I kept asking myself.

After some deliberation, I came up with a plan for finding out with­ out having anyone find out why I wanted to know. I went down to

Forty-seven

the police station and asked if I could see the physician’s report on the new prisoner.

"Why?” asked the desk sergeant.

"Is it any of your business?”

"I once knew a man named Tom Jenkins. I just wanted to see if this was the same man. The Jenkins I knew had been in a fire once and his left leg was burned. If this is the same man, the leg will still have scars from the burns.”

The sergeant gave me a cold star and then went into another office. He returned minutes later, the same expression in his eyes.

"This is not your Tom Jenkins,” he said with authority. "The pris­ oner’s left arm is badly scarred, but his legs are in good condition—no marks at all.”

I thanked him and walked out of the building, pleased at my cleverness in finding out if this was the right Tom Jenkins, and even more pleased with the fact that it was. But soon more serious feel­ ings dominated my mind. I sat down on a park bench and looked up into a cloudy sky, trying to organi2e the jumbled thoughts that seemed to make my head spin. In a few minutes, the sun popped out from behind a huge cloud, and as if this were a signal, a new calm came over me and a dominant idea took hold of me.

I began my plan by going to Sano-Tax Incorporated. I talked to Tom’s fellow employees. I talked to Mr. Warren’s fellow execu­ tives. I talked to secretaries and night watchmen. I talked to anyone who could tell me anything about either of the two men.

I began to know the character of each man. Tom was a good, smart worker, but several people told that he had, on several occasions shown fits of temper that bordered on insanity. Though most of the people liked Tom, I could tell they thought he was guilty of the murder.

Warren had been very unpopular with most of his employees and associates. I gave up trying to find out who would like to see him dead because it seemed that almost everyone hated him that much.

I did, however, conclude that of all the employees, Tom had the most feeling against him; and that of all his competitors, a man named David Blackman had most reason to despise him.

On numerous occasions, Warren had stolen business away from Blackman by using most underhanded tactics. Just recently Warren had grabbed a very good customer from right under Blackman’s nose.

I learned other things about Blackman. He was sometimes un­ ethical himself, but not too many people knew of this. Thus he was widely respected by most of the people of the community. He was fairly wealthy, but his love for money drove him on and on in his business dealings. The reason Warren often got the best of him was not because Warren was more money-hungry; he was just smarter.

Things began to fall into place. I thought things over for three or four days before I made up my mind on a plan. When my scheme was complete in my mind, I had to laugh. It was a very good plan, and I knew it. One thought kept zipping through my mind: "Justice will be done, one way or the other."

About eleven o’clock the next night I walked to Blackman’s house.

I wasn’t at all nervous, even when I felt the hunting knife in my

Forty-eight

pocket. Sneaking up to a window, I saw Blackman watching tele­ vision as I thought he would be. I knew he wasn’t married and hoped he was alone. I waited there several minutes, going over de­ tails one last time, and finally, convinced that he was by himself, I walked around front and knocked on the door.

He answered my first with a polite "Yes?” "Are you David Blackman?” I asked.

"Yes.” "I’d like to talk to you if I may.”

He looked at me hard, probably trying to remember if he had ever seen me before. Finally he held the door open. "Come in.”

I got straight to the point: "Did you know Paul Warren?”

"Yes I did.”

"Where were you on the night he was killed?”

"I was at a party from about eight o’clock until about two o’clock in the morning.”

'This answer was the key to my whole scheme. I was sure now that this man had killed Warren. Three things made me so confident: (1) an innocent man might have asked why I wanted to know; (2) an innocent man would probably not remember so quickly where he had been that night; and (3) Blackman sounded as though this party were an unpenetrable alibi, and he seemed already on the defensive.

I plunged right into the crucial part of my plan. I pulled out the knife and held it very close to him, forcing him over to the tele­ phone. "Blackman, I know you killed Warren, and I can shoot your alibi full of holes,” I lied. "I can easily prove that you are the mur­ derer, but I don’t necessarily have to. I am nearly broke; you are filthy rich. For ten thousand dollars. I’ll keep my mouth shut. Other­ wise you can keep your eye on my knife while I call the police to in­ vite them to come here right now to hear my story!”

I thought he had been frightened when I drew the knife, but it was nothing compared with the near panic he showed when I men­ tioned calling the police. He sat down heavily on a chair. "Where did I go wrong?” he asked. '"Think back,” I said, "to just before the killing.”

His eyes told me he was trying to remember. "I told several people at the party that I felt sick and went into the bathroom. I climbed out the window, sprinted the three blocks to Warren’s house, shot him, ran out, and then walked briskly back to my friend’s house.

I climbed back through the bathroom window and after a few sec­ onds went back out to the party. I thought no one at the party suspeaed anything because the bathroom door was still locked. I was sure no one had seen me outside the whole time. I didn’t see a single person except Warren from the time I left until I walked back into the party.

"I was quite suprised when this Tom Jenkins was accused. I hadn’t known anything about his dinner date with Warren. But when he looked so circumstantially guilty, I began to worry less and less about being caught.”

Forty-nint

As he told his story, he paused often to think about how in reality he had gone wrong. When he had finished his story, he stared at me a long time before saying, "I don’t think you can prove me guilty. You know I am the murderer because I just told you the whole story, but I don’t think you can make the 'cops’ believe it.

I’m calling your bluff!”

I wasn’t at all surprised when he said this. I knew that if he was as smart as I thought he was, he would not totally collapse be­ cause of my accusation. And he was right: I wouldn’t have a prayer of proving him guilty or even making him look guilty, especially since most people were convinced that Tom Jenkins was the killer. There­ fore, without hesitation I went on with my plan I walked over to his chair, raised the knife, and drove it deep in his chest. The one stab killed him, I felt sure. I smeared some of his blood on my hand and shirt and ran out the door. I threw the knife into some bushes, tried to compose myself, and, after a few sec­ onds, walked downtown. I went into a dimly lit bar. I began order­ ing straight whiskey, and pretended I didn’t know the bartender was watching me. I acted very nervous, though I like to think I was really very composed. It was only about fifteen minutes before the bartender called the police to report a blood-smeared, nerve-shattered man drinking as if his life depended upon it. Three quarters of an hour after I had killed Blackman, I was sitting in the police station, trying to answer questions. My answers didn’t satisfy them, and they were suspicious, especially of my ignorance to where the blood came from; thus, they decided to keep me in jail overnight.

Blackman’s body was not found until the next morning. 'The milkman, upon finding Blackman’s door open and hearing the television at six o’clock in the morning, glanced in and saw the corpse. He im­ mediately called the police, and I presume that in a few minutes there was a scene at Blackman’s house much like the one there had been at Warren’s.

One smart detective came straight to my cell. He questioned me about the murder. I acted nervous, and it was easy to make my alibi inconsistent. Soon they matched the blood on my shirt with Black­ man’s blood: same type. Before noon they had found the knife and had taken two good fingerprints from the handle. 'Tliey compared them with my fingerprints: identical. By early afternoon I had con­ fessed.

When asked why I had committed the crime, I said only that I hated the way Blackman took advantage of so many people, and had decided to take matters into my own hands. I knew this motive would be hard for them to swallow, but my confession would make it much easier. If a man confesses to a murder, they would reason, he would have nothing to lose if he told his real motive.

All during the interrogation I kept had first thought of me as Blackman’s was troubling his mind. At last I saw you know about the Warren murder?” he

Fifty

my eyes on the detective who murderer. I knew something his eyes light up. "What do asked.

"Nothing,” I said uneasily.

"Did you know Paul Warren?”

I didn’t answer. I refused to answer any more questions the rest of the afternoon and evening. Finally, they let me eat supper and go to bed. As I lay down, I smiled to myself. Things were going perfect, and I knew that the next day I could finish my scheme.

The next morning the story and my picture were in the paper.

After that, things happened fast. At three different times, three dif­ ferent employees of Sano-Tax Incorporated came running into the police station to say that they recognized my picture as a man who had been asking all sorts of questions about the Warren murder case.

With new confidence, the detectives began questioning me about Warren’s murder. Before long I "confessed” to the crime, using the same motive I had used for killing Blackburn.

They released Tom Jenkins immediately. He stopped to talk to me before he left the building. "I don’t know anything about these crimes, and I have nothing against you,” he said, "but I’m glad you got caught. They were really convinced that I was guilty. I was petrified!”

"I’m sorry you had to spend this time in jail, Tom,” I said. "Of course I regret that I was careless enough to get caught, but I’m cer­ tainly glad for your sake. Good luck!” 1 extended my hand.

"Thanks,” he said, and shook my hand.

When he walked out of the building, I was as happy as I’d ever been in my whole life. I had done what I had set out to do!

Look at it this way, Jerry: justice was done. Tom Jenkins saved my life long ago; I saved his now. David Blackman killed a man; and now he is dead. I also killed a man; so I also must die.

The end of my life will come tomorrow in the electric chair. I hope you will understand that 1 will die happy. Please don’t feel sorry for me. You have been the closest friend I’ve ever had, and that is why I am telling you the truth now. I’m sorry that I had to let you think that I was a heartless killer, but I didn’t want you to spoil my plan.

Take care of yourself, Jerry.

Sincerely, Dan

★

★

★

Fifty-one

CYNTHIA DONNELL

’63

THE GLORY OF WAR REGGIE FARRELL

'67

As I rose slowly to my saddle, I could not help wondering why Pete, my unpredictable boss, would pick me for such an awkward assignment. I had been on the newspaper staff for only a month, and now I was being sent to one of the Northern Army camps to report on the living conditions there. Pete had done some stupid things, but this was certainly the most idiotic one I had ever heard.

"Why me?” I wondered. "Maybe it’s because I’m the youngest.

The five-mile ride is definitely not an easy one. Oh, well! If I must, I must.”

I pulled my coat tightly around myself, for the frosty wind was rushing violently against my body. As I rode, I convinced myself that the trip would be worth it. Pete had told me that he had con­ tacted General Brite at the camp and had told him that I was coming.

I could just imagine my arrival. I would ride into the camp very slowly. The soldiers, standing at attention in strict formation, would be dressed in their finest uniforms. Upon my arrival, the drums would peal out a welcoming fanfare. Oh! What a royal welcome!

The trip from Fairtown to General Brite’s camp on the north­ western bank of the Ohio River was made practically unbearable by the bitter wind and crude trails. The low-hanging tree branches along the trail were always forcing me to slow down. Every moment of the ride seemed like hours. But, finally, from the top of a small, barren hill, I could see the fires of the camp. I stopped there to wipe the dirt from my face and to straighten my coat. I decided to ride slowly from this point, thus giving the troops plenty of time to as­ semble for my greeting.

As I neared the camp, my stomach became rather uneasy. I could feel my heart beating faster and faster as I reached the entrance. My moment was here!

Fifty-two

Arriving at the entrance to the camp, I was not greeted by a full dress parade and drum rolls. Instead there were only men, dressed in filthy rags, sitting on the ground by their tents. To add to my surprise, my only fanfare was the muffled groans of pain which seemed to come from throughout the camp.

The campsite was bordered by small, undecorated huts. Follow­ ing these huts were endless rows of tents, extremely ragged and dirty, which were used as shelters for the majority of the eleven hundred men stationed there. In front of each of these tents, fires flickered as the only means of cooking for the men.

I continued my slow journey through the camp, utterly shocked by what I saw. I noticed a few men looking at me. liieir faces were thin and pale. Most of the men were poorly clad in worn, threadbare uniforms. Some men, wirh their faces, hands, and feet naked and exposed to the cold, stared at me as though I were an angel of mercy, granting death as a relief from agony and torture. I saw men huddled together, sharing the heat of their bodies as an escape from the zero weather.

Finally, after a two-minute ride that seemed to last ten eternities, I reached the core of the camp. There, a supernatural feeling forced me to dismount and to look with awe upon the sight before me. The flag, ripped and mangled by past battles, was waving proudly in the icy breeze. Below the flag were scores of graves, noticeable only by slightly elevated piles of dirt. This was the final resting place for those who had died during battle. There were no markers on the graves. The only memorials left for the dead were those men, still alive, who had seen them die so bravely.

Suddenly I heard someone stop behind me. I turned and saw an officer wearing a uniform that was in no better condition than the others I saw. This man was about five-feet-two. His face was old and wrinkled. His eyes squinted as he looked at me.

'Tm General Brite,” he said in a weak, but firm voice.

'Tm . . . I’m ...” I could scarcely talk. Before me was the General, the General whom I had pictured as a very tall and young man.

'Tm Jeff Foil,” I continued.

'Tm the reporter from Fairtown.”

"Oh, yes!” exclaimed General Brite. around.”

"Come.

Let me show you

General Brite guided me throughout the camp. I shall never forget that tour. Some men, many without proper shoes, were drill­ ing. I saw what the General called their hospital tent. It was not much more than a piece of canvas thrown over some supports. The two beds inside were made up of twigs covered with old pieces of cloth. The General told me that they didn’t have enough supplies to treat the wounded.

I had seen enough. I made my excuse to the General saying that I had to get back to the paper before nightfall. He thanked me for coming and told me to write in my article that the men were doing the best they could. I could not help noticing the look on the Gen­ eral’s face. It was as though he had no hope. No hope at all.

Fifty-three

brought my horse and I mounted and began my ride out. As I left, those same men who had hardly noticed my arrival stood and began to follow me. I can still hear their yells: "Say hello to the folks back home!” ' W^e will fight to the end!” "Remember us in your prayers!” The echoes of these messages were my thoughts as I rode back to the town.

As I dismounted in front of the newspaper office, Pete came out to greet me. He wanted to know all about my visit.

As we sat in the office, I told Pete about how wonderful the trip was. (I couldnt tell him the truth because the truth wouldn’t make a good story. The people wanted to read about the glory of war, not the true plight of the men.) I told Pete how the men had greeted me just as I had imagined. I told him of the singing around the campfires, of the general good health of the men and of the precision drilling.

Good work, Jeff,” he said with a very pleased look on his face.

Go home now and rest. Write your story tomorrow and we will place it on the front page of the Sunday edition.”

I walked out of the office. How could I ever forget what I really saw.’ How could I? Oh! The glory of war is so horrifying in truth.

The glory of war .... I would write a wonderful article, but I would never forget the truth.

★

★

★

ONCE UPON A FRIDAY NIGHT DAVID S. CALIIIAN ’66

A telephone rings.

"Hello.’”

"May I speak to Scott, please?”

"Yes, just a moment.

Scott, it’s for you.

Alan, I think.”

"Hello?”

"Good evening, good sir.” '”rhat’s open to question.”

"Oh? Really? Well! What is the element so distasteful to your good humor’s delicate palate?”

Fifty-four

"Need you ask?”

"Shot down?”

"You guessed her, Chester.”

"Ummmm . . . Well, I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you.”

"Why not?”

"Why?” "Kicks. Why not?”

"You’re hopeless. Do you realize that? Absolutely and for­ lornly hopeless. You are, without a doubt, the most . . . ."

"So what else is new?”

"The moon.”

"Don’t put me on. It’s the same one we had two months ago.”

"Curses. I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

"You lose.”

"Tell me; what variety of physical activity had you chosen to assist you to pass more agreeably the lethargic hours of this April dusk?”

"Huh?” "Whatchya doin’ tonight?”

"Nothin’ What you doin’?”

"Nothin. Whatchya wanna do?”

"I dunno. What you wanna do?”

"I suggest we get into some kind of trouble.”

"Capital idea, Alan! Capital! But what, ho! What light in yonder winder shines? Is it placed there by my own true love . . . .”

"But you haven’t got a true love!”

"Stop interrupting! The fact that she doesn’t know it yet is quite beside the point! Where was I....” "'... placed there by ...’ ” ". . . my own true love, or is it the reflection of a cop-car’s cherrylantern, reminding us that trouble means jail and jail means no more job and no more job means no more gas-money and no more gas-money means no more car and no more car means—shuddering horrors!”

"This is true, I think. But should such hearty fellows as our­ selves be deterred from our chosen line of temporary endeavor by a mere luminary effect?”

"We should indeed. Who’s driving?”

"I think I can get the VW tonight.”

"Fabulous. Anybody else coming?”

"Lowell just called me a few minutes ago.”

"Okay. About fifteen minutes?”

"Quite. But I say, should I fail to get the VW ....”

"Then we’ll take my car. Your Plymouth is a fink.”

"Ummmm .... Well, it does its best, you know.”

"Just get the VW!” "Yes, Commander!”

"And don’t you forget it!”

"No, Commander! And now we must part for a time. think our telephone cord will reach as far as your house.”

"Have you ever tried it?”

"No, but I shall sometime. Next Easter, perhaps.”

I don’t

Fifty-five

"Would you stop yapping and get over here?”

"Ummmm .... ’Til then ....”

"Til then ....”

"Farewell.”

"Farewell.”

"Buenos dias.”

"Buenos notions.”

"Notions? Oh, gawd!” Three quick, quiet wheezes followed by a pathetic gasp for air. It was a sort of laughter.

"Now what do you want?”

"You haven’t got it!”

"Oh. I’m sorry. Will you accept a substitute?”

"Does it have 21% fewer cavities?”

"Its test results aren’t in yet.”

"I quit.”

"You should.”

"Brah.” A word for any meaning.

"Brah.” The same word.

The telephone conneaion is broken.

A meeting takes place. One party has a car. The other party gets in the car, too, and starts a conversation. Meanwhile, the car is made to function in the normal fashion.

"Nice guy, Alan. You said fifteen minutes. It’s been twentyfive. I’m disappointed in you.”

"Please, Scottie, try to understand. I couldn’t help it. My little sister was in the bathroom.”

"So what? You’ve got two of them.”

"No I don’t. Janet is the only girl-child bestowed upon . . . .”

"Two bathrooms.”

"Oh. But the other one is all the way downstairs! ” "That’s different. Remind me to belt your sister for keeping me waiting.”

"I did it for you already.”

"Thanks. Hey! You waxed this thing! Looks nice.”

"My illustrious, industrious big brother did it last night. I think he planned on driving ir tonight. He’s got a date with that blonde goodie who sits between you two in English.”

"So how come you’re driving it?”

"He was still asleep when I left.”

"You better hope he doesn’t wake up for a long while. Hi, Scottie.”

"Well, hiya, Lowell. I thought you were a dirty ol’ rug rolled up back there in the back seat.”

"I was, sorta. I had a dirty ol’ blanket pulled over dirty ol’ me.

I was asleep, too, sorta.”

"What were you sleeping for now?”

"I dunno, Scottie. It just seemed like the thing to do. I hope you don’t mind or anything.”

"No, that’s okay. The way you manage to save your strength is one of the things I like about you. Hey, Alan. What’s your brother

Fifty-six

carrying a blanket around back there for?”

"I don’t know. I think he sometimes wraps up a picnic in it for when he goes to drive-ins.”

"Sounds reasonable.”

"Ummmm .... Where do you people want to go tonight?”

"Who cares? I’m very happy right back here with your brother’s dirty ol’ blanket.

"I care—I’m driving.”

"Why don’t you make a right turn up here a little ways?”

"Why? Where will that take us?”

"That, my friend, is where the road goes.”

"By Jove! So it does!”

"I say, Alan, that was a very nice turn you just made. Hey, gang, how about the Tree tonight?”

"Thank you, Scott. I’ve been practicing.”

"Where did he say? I was folding the blanket and it made a lot of noise.”

"He suggested the Tree.”

"What is he? Some kind of monkey or something?”

"It’s an espresso house on the other side of town. Pseudo, but interesting. They’ve got folk singers and two-bit tables and candles and beards and about twenty kinds of tea and like that.”

"In this town, Alan?”

"Sure. Why not?”

"I dunno. I just never heard of it, that’s all.”

"You haven’t lived here very long.”

"Scottie, that’s right! Maybe that’s why I never heard of it.”

"Maybe. 'There’s a dollar cover-charge, too.”

"Hey! I don’t want to go there. I won’t have any money left to buy beer!" "’That shouldn’t bother you—you aren’t old enough anyway.”

"What’s that got to do with it? I just tell the guys I forgot my identification or else I make like I didn’t hear them ask for it.

"Does it work?”

"No, not very often.”

"How many times have you tried it?”

"About fifteen, I guess.”

"How many times has it worked?”

"None, yet, but maybe tonight it will.”

"That’s the spirit—you fool.”

"Scottie, I didn’t think that was very nice.”

"I didn’t either. Will you forgive me?”

"I guess. You’re right, though. Anyhow, it’s fun to try. You don’t have anything against funsies, do you?”

"I do hate to interrupt you chaps, but shall we go to the Tree, or shall we not?”

"I wanna get some beer, Alan. Do they have any beer in the Tree?”

"Unfortunately not. Look. I share in your general ambition, but can’t we wait awhile?”

Fifty-seven

Help stamp out debate, democraqr, and swilling! I want to go to the Tree and to the Tree were going. Stamp, stamp, stamp. Gogoing, going. Babble, babble.”

"Yes, Commander!”

"Who.?”

Commander. That’s his name tonight.”

Commander.? I thought it was Scottie.”

"Babble, babble, babble ..

"Would you care to mutiny.?” ' I don’t know. I think so. He sounds like he’s going out of his nut.”

"Babble, babble, babble ..

He’s been under great emotional strain lately. him.”

Be gentle with

"Babble, babble, babble ..

"Huh.?”

"He’s got a problem.”

"Oh. Hey, you aren’t kidding!"

"Bobble, babble, Bonnie, babble ...

"Ahah! Did you catch it, Lowell?”

"What?”

"His problem. Again, please, for our friend.”

"Babble, gerf, babble, babble, Bonnie, gerf, babble . . .

"Bonnie?”

"Gerf, vavavoom, yip, yip, babble, babble, Bonnie, babble . . .

"Shhhh! Not so loud!”

"I’m sorry. Is he mad at her or something?”

"Not exactly. He believes himself attracted to her.”

"Hey! She must be pretty tough! Do I know her?”

"You probably do. I see you talking to her a couple times a week or so.”

"Oh, that one. She ain’t bad, but what’s this ’Babble’ jazz?”

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

"What’s that got to do with anything?”

"I’ll explain it to you some time.”

"Gee. I sure hope so. Hey! This 'Babble, babble’ isn’t catch­ ing, is it?”

"Probably not in your case.”

"Gee. I’m glad. It does look sorta fun, though.”

"Ummmm ...

Time passes. Not much, though. The car arrives at the Tree.

So do its occupants. They get out of it after it is parked and walk up to the front of the building. Lowell is puzzled: "Gee. It looks closed-up. Did we come all the way out here for nothing? If we did. I’m gonna be ....”

"It always looks dark like this.”

"Even when it’s open?”

"Yep.” "Gee, Scottie, what’s it look like when it’s closed?”

"Darker. Besides, what else did you have to do?”

Fifty-eight

"We coulda got some beer.”

"Alan, I don’t think I want to go in. Do you?”

"Well, it was your idea in the first place.”

"I changed my mind. Anyhow, I don’t want to lose a dollar be­ fore I even sit down. At least not with your company. Nothing personal, of course.”

"Ummmm .. . . I’m not exactly flush myself. Well, now what?”

"Let’s get some beer, fellas.”

"I wish I had a date tonight.”

"Why don’t ya?”

"She said she couldn’t.”

"Who? Babble?”

"Yeah. Hey, Alan, let’s do some calisthentics!”

"Here?”

"Better we should go across the street? Jumping jacks—ready, go! One, two, three, four, one ....”

"Cheez-susl” Wheeze, gasp, wheeze, wheeze.

"Come on. Get with it! ” "Go to hell!” More wheezing.

"Will you (Two!) come (Four!) with (Two!) me (Four!)?”

A sigh of despair. "Look! I’m not going to do any calisthentics on the sidewalk in front of a coffee house at 9:30 at night!”

"It’s not my fault we didn’t get here sooner! Okay, touch your toes. One, two, one, two, one ....”

"Lowell, have you got a dime?”

"Yeah, Alan, here. Whatch ya gonna do?”

"Make a telephone call. Keep an eye on him.”

"Hey! You’re not going to leave me alone with him are you?”

"No—I’ll be right over there in that telephone booth.”

"I heard that! Such talk!”

"Hey, Alan! He came back from the Twilight Zone again!”

"Ummmm .... Good for him. Uh, hello? Is Marge at home?

Okay. Thanks anyway.”

"Who was that, ol’ buddy?”

"That, my dear Commander, wasn’t Marge.”

"Who’s Marge?”

"A girl I know who lives around here.”

"Hey, you’ve got ’em stashed all over the place, don’t ya, Alan?

Has her father got some beer, maybe?”

"I rather doubt it. Say, Scottie, do you know why you didn't get a date with you-know-who tonight?”

"Uh, uh. You know how she can be sometimes.”

"Ummmm .... Want to call her and ask her?”

"What?!! Are you aazy?” '"There has been some evidence of that, yes. Want to or not?”

"But those things just aren’t done! You know her number, don’t you?”

"I think so. Lowell, another dime, please.”

"Are we gonna get some beer tonight or not?”

"Give him a dime!”

Fifty-nine

"These goddam phone calls are breakln’ me up!”

"Hello, Babble ... uh ... Bonnie? This is Alan. How are you?”

The booth door is closed. Scott and Lowell do some calisthentics.

People passing them on the sidewalk think they are juvenile delin­ quents and move away very quickly. Alan is enjoying his telephone conversation. He is gasping and wheezing at a fast clip. He hangs up and steps outside.

"Wha’dshesay? Wha’dshesay?”

"Well, you know how she can be sometimes.”

That’s what I figured. Let’s get some beer. Okay if I drive?”

"I suppose so.”

Scott drives. Alan is nervous because Scott has never driven a Volkswagen before, so he sits in the front, too. Lowell gets in tlie back seat and unfolds the dirty ol’ blanket. He is happy because soon he is going to get some beer.

Scott drives to a near-by carry-out store he knows of. He and Lowell go inside. Neither have proper identification to buy beer.

This is because neither is old enough to have proper identification.

(Good reason.) The nice man asks for identification. Lowell doesn’t seem to hear him. The nice man asks again. Lowell says he forgot it. The nice man laughs. Scott laughs. Alan is sitting in the car watching everything. He wheezes and gasps. Lowell doesn’t care.

He is having fun. They are all having fun. Babble, babble, babble.

They go to another carry-out. Scott and Lowell go in again. The nice man there wants their money, so he doesn’t care how old they are.

Lowell gets his beer. They remrn to the car.

"Did you get it?”

"Heck, yeah, we got it. Two whole quarts! ” "Cheez-sus! Let’s get out of here before he decides to take it back! ” Alan is wheezing again. He is happy,too.

"You guys want to just ride around Landers while you finish that stuff off?”

"What’s landers, Scottie?”

"Landers, my newly-moved-in friend, is a delightful little suburb of our fair city. It has narrow streets, rich-type houses, steep hills, big trees, not many patrol-cops at this time of night, and many stuck-up inhabitants.”

"Gee. Sounds like a great place to go drinking in. Is it far from here?”

"We’re in it now.”

"Gee. Hey, you want any beer, Scottie? Alan’d probably let you have some of his. Mine isn’t going to last too long.”

"Lowell! Get that bottle down! That car behind us might be a cop!”

"Gee. How the hell am I supposed to drink it without getting the bottle up? You got any straws?”

"As a matter of fact...

"Never mind. I’ll wait. He’s passed—is it okay now? It wasn’t a cop anyway!”

"I know. It was the vice-mayor.”

Sixty

"Huh?” "Nothing. Go ahead. Chug it, why don’t you?”

"Okay! Hey, Alan, you ready? Alan?”

"Can’t a man drink in peace? Go ahead; I’m watching.”

Lowell chugs all but the first few gulps of the quart. He will be somewhat drunk in a few minutes. A very few minutes. The car hits a bump. Lowell inadvertently expels much of the air trapped in his stomach.

"Cheez-sus!” Alan is impressed. He wheezes, too.

"Gee! ” Lowell is surprised, but satisfied.

"Open the windows!” Scott is discomforted.

They arrive at a deserted residential intersection. In the middle is an island with a few hedge-bushes on it.

"Hey, Alan. How high would you say that curb around that island is?”

"About six inches, or more.”

"How high off the ground is this car’s undercarriage?”

"High enough.”

"Bon-zai!”

'The compact sedan bounces over the curb and onto the island, almost misses a petunia plant, brushes a hedge, spins out over the curb, and plops down on the pavement on the other side of the course, leaving beautiful tire marks on the grass. An excellent example of competent driving and automobile control. Alan has hit his head on the ceiling and spilled some of his beer. Lowell has gotten tangled up in the dirty ol’ blanket. Scott is turning the car around to try it again. All three are in hysterics.

"No, Scottie . . . not . . . not a . . . again . . .” Alan is unable to communicate fluently at this point.

"Why not?”

"Tliis is a rugged little car, but let’s make sure there’s enough left of it to get us home! ” "Good thinking. I’ve got another idea anyway. See that little street over there?”

"You mean that alley?”

"Lowell, in this part of town, those are called rustic thruways.

That one is about a quarter-mile long. It’s laid out in a semi-circle with seven turns on the forty degree way up, five on the twenty-five degree way down, one lane most of the way, and there is a hairpin curve at the top. Hang on.”

They hang. It doesn’t do much good.

"Gee, Scottie, I think you hit about forty on the way down! That was a gasser! ” "Oh, gawd!”

"Forty what? Mailboxes?”

"No. Miles per mour .... I mean hour.”

"Forty, huh? I didn’t have a chance to check it. I’m getting better.”

"Commander?”

"Yeah, pops.”

Sixly-one

"Let’s try to find a nice big house with a nice big lawn and some nice big Rolls Royces and some nice big white pillars m front.

"Preferably not lit up like a fireplace?”

"This is a major consideration, yes.”

"How about this place?”

"It’ll do, I think. Stop the car.”

"Alan, you’re not going to ...

"Oh, yes I am.”

"For shame, for shame.

"I must.”

"Hey, guys!

Me too!

Must you?”

Lemme out!”

"By all means, you too.”

"Alan, you’re going to give this boy bad habits.

"Me!

You got him the beer!”

"Yeah, but....”

"Lowell, I think it would be fitting if we were to mark this spot for the references of our posterity.”

"Hey, Scottie, what the hell did he just say?”

"He said he thought it would be fitting if you were to mark this spot for the references of your posterity.”

"Oh. Hey, Alan, what the hell did he just say?”

"Never mind. Go fetch me a couple of sticks.”

"What do you think I am? A birddog, or something?

"Ah, the insolence of the younger generation! I believe these driveway markers will suffice anyway. So!” "Alan, I’d say you were drunk But on one lousy quart?

"I wouldn’t say that I was drunk, Scottie. Rather, were I so inclined to pass such information along to society at all, I believe I would instead climb on the top of the car and shout it. However, in deference to the many small babes who are hereabouts sleeping, I shan’t. And as to the comparatively limited amount of brew, I would imagine that my condition is due, in part at least, to the fact that I haven’t had a drop of anything intoxicating for three or four weeks; I’ve been on a diet.

"Oh. Good man.”

"Quite. Now. if I may have my car back ....”

"Do you think you can see past the dashboard?”

"Of course I can. I can even see the headlight cowling. I think that’s what I see. Are you in, Lowell?”

"Yeah. But my shoes are still outside.”

"What are they doing out there?”

"Just sitting there, I guess. My feet started to hurt, so I took ’em off while Alan was marking the spot for our prosperity.”

"Your feet?”

"No, my shoes. Gee, you guys are awful dumb! ” "Lowell, I’ve got a little poem for you.”

"Okay, Scottie. I like poems.”

"Roses are red, violets are blue, you’d better get your shoes quick or we’re going to leave without them.”

Sixty-two

"Gee. That one doesn’t even rhyme. so I can get my shoes before we go?”

Hey, will you let me out

"That’s a good idea isn’t it, Alan?”

"Okay, guys, I got ’em.

Let’s go.”

'They go. They go very far. After another pass over the island and through the alley, and after a few quick drag races (in a Volks­ wagen?), they go home. Lowell is the first one home.

"Hey, Lowell, your parents are waiting up. for a sermon.”

I’ll bet you’re in

"Gee. I doubt it. They probably just left the light on in the living room for the dogs.”

"The dogs?”

"Yeah.

They’re afraid of the dark.

'The dogs, I mean.

'Night.”

’The next stop is at Scottie’s house.

"Scottie, your mom seems to be waiting up for you.”

"She always does, almost.

She’s watching the late movie on T.V.”

"What are you going to tell her you’ve been doing?”

"Everything I’ve been doing. tomorrow?”

"Ummmm .... We’ll see.

She’ll never believe it.

Call me

Probably.”

"Babble, babble.”

"I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you.”

"You’re a liar.”

"Ummmm .... Brah.”

"Brah.”

Alan goes home. His brother will probably be waiting for him.

His brother will probably be angry. Alan probably won’t care very much. Alan will probably still be feeling his beer. His brother will probably yell very loudly. Alan will probably go to bed. Goodnight, Alan.

"Brah.

★

★

★

Sixty-three

NAGOBI FIOSKMAR^' (.ORMAN ’Or)

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Short Story Contest Under the opalescent skies warming the still ocean lay the island of Nagobi. Completely surrounded by a chain of neighbors, it could claim size as its only outstanding feature, for this was the smallest of the Hawaiian group. But Nagobi was also the happiest of islands, and the sons of Nagobi the happiest of men. Such were the thoughts of Ma-Paul as he watched the distant island of Maui rise and fade in the warm haze of an April day. He tried vainly to shake off the feel­ ing of sadness that had been with him since early morning, when he had risen hurriedly from his mat and run down to the beach only to find that instead of wanting to swim, he wished but to lay his bronzed body against the red sand and gaze aimlessly into the distance.

A loud splash called his attention from pale Laui to the closer blue-green waters and the graceful figure of Kuan, his friend.

"It’s too early, Ma-Paul, to sit so still. to the end of the cliff.”

Come in and we’ll race

Ma-Paul watched as Kuan’s lithe figure disappeared beneath the water, leaving visible only a circle of bubbling motion. Then laughing he dived into the warm water. And the friendly sea rose about him in clouds of foam.

Later, arm in arm, the two men made their way back to the huts to prepare for the day’s work in the farmlands, heavy work to be per­ formed under the scorching sun.

Meanwhile, an important conference was being held in the hut of Kalo, new chieftain of Nagobi. Since the death of Noba, his pre­ decessor, Kalo had put off the choice of his own successor. It would be the duty of the new officer to establish contact with the neighboring islands anej to learn the duties of a future chieftain. All the islanders were waiting anxiously to hear the decision. Unlike past times, there were now two men with the desire and the ability to rule. Many sug­ gested that Kalo ignore both Ma-Paul and Kuan and choose a third.

For they feared rivalry between the two friends so evenly matched.

Some said, "Trouble will come upon Nagobi because of these two.”

Others, more hopeful, said, "One of these men was born out of time and evil will come into his life.”

So the meeting continued with the heads of families giving coun­ sel, knowing in their hearts that it would not be heeded. It was the duty of Kalo to choose a man who could protect his people and en­ force the customs and isolation which had kept them free from the evil of other islands. For such evil only one in all Nagobi was al­ lowed to know. F.xcept between the chieftains and their emissaries all intercourse between the islands was forbidden, instant banishment being the price demanded for an infringement of the rule. Throughout the afternoon mellow words flittered back and forth. Then Kalo turn­ ed his back on the assemblage and spoke, "I have made my decision.”

Sixty-four

The people reverently drew aside as their chief left the hut and walked alone out into the fields. For two miles he walked, followed only by a select group from the assembly. At length he reached the narrow acres of Ma-Paul. Standing before the slender youth, he mo­ tioned for those about to stop working. He bowed twice and then in solemn voice, "Ma-Paul, you have been chosen.”

Ma-Paul knelt and touched the ground with his head, signifying his acceptance.

"Do you promise to maintain this island as it was given to us by our fathers.^ Will you enforce our laws and protect our people by keeping strangers from our land?” Kalo’s folded arms remained un­ relaxed and his eyes never shifted from the youth s lean face.

Will you teach the people contentment on this, our island?"

Ma-Paul made the promises and turned to go back to his work.

He did not look up when Kalo moved toward his hut. To Ma-Paul the ceremony was complete.

All eyes were then turned on Kuan. Eyebrows were lifted in surprise that he raised none of the expected objections. Rather, Kuan seemed more cheerful than the future chieftain himself. The coun­ sellors gazed down at the knife caught at his waist in a brightly printed band. His hands were not fingering it. Then they feared more for their future ruler and decided within themselves to keep a close watch on Ma-Paul, for they thought that here surely must be an enemy, a person who could smile in the time of hatred.

Of all the islanders, only Ma-Paul had no misgiving about his friend. He and Kuan had made a pact long before that each would be friend to the other for life. Now he glanced around the assembly and in that second realized how he needed the assurance of friendship to guide him. Since they had been children, Kuan was his teacher, who alone knew of the fear Ma-Paul once felt for the water. He alone held the secret that his friend to this day had not overcome the phantom fear of Death. The sacrifices to the gods of the island, the elaborate funeral ceremonies were alike repulsive to the swift-footed youth. They filled his imagination with fantastic images which mocked him for days. Kuan was his leader and under Kuan’s guidance, to­ gether they had explored the island and learned to know all its possi­ bilities of defense, and, more, to love its beauty and peace. At such times the sadness would lift from the heart of Ma-Paul. For, when he caught the eyes of his friend, he knew that together they would sometime rule the island well.

So things stood with Ma-Paul and Kuan. But the people of Nagobi grew more and more suspicious as the two who should be rivals continued in the companionship they had known before. One day, standing before Kalo, a group of the young natives offered their plea.

"For the future good of the island we demand the death of the traitor Kuan.” All manifested their agreement. Then Ma-Paul was called in to pass sentence as the people had given it. But this he could not do.

"My friends, you have no cause to send an innocent man to his death.”

He stood over them and raised his arms for silence, "It grieves me to Sixty-five

think that you should put this evil deed upon me.” But the anger against Kuan only became more burning, though less open. The peo­ ple would not be satisfied. Then heaviness returned to the heart of Ma-Paul and this time would not lift.

Kuan, will you go with me to the beach tomorrow, for it is then that I must leave for Maui.”

Kuan smiled at his friend, "Do not forget anything you see, since in our pact we have promised to share all things good, and for long we have been curious about the distant shores.”

Ma-Paul turned to his friend, "I could almost wish that our ban was lifted, that together we might explore the new land and bring back what is good to our people and save them from evil. For I realize more and more that you are the one who should be going and I the one who should wait.” He had not meant to speak so plainly.

It was not befitting the future chieftain of Nagobi, and it hurt his friend. But Ma-Paul could not understand the blindness of his people in recognizing that Kuan was the true leader and that both he and Kuan could rule together.

The next morning the two friends together watched the island of Maui rise out of the mist, and without exchanging words, Ma-Paul moved towards the water. He turned to his friend and smiled. Then he looked on his beloved Nagobi for a last time, for as he gazed, he knew that the duty of a true chieftain was to put first the good of his people. Ma-Paul placed his knife in his teeth and prepared for the long swim.

Two months went by and the future leader did not remrn. Ac­ cording to the rule of Nagobi he could never return now; he was ban­ ished forever from the island. The chieftain Kalo was called upon to choose a new successor and his choice now fell upon the griefstricken Kuan. But the people did not abide by this decision. In­ stead, Kuan was knifed to a tree on the shores of Nagobi for the murder of Ma-Paul. And his body was thrown into the warm ocean where he joined his friend that together they might explore the new land. And the island was troubled by the evil these two friends had brought upon it, and the peace of Nagobi was broken and could not be mended.

★

Sixly-six

★

★

GUEST POET The Quiz and Quill Club is privil­ eged to have Mr. Lloyd Kropp as Guest Poet for the 1964 edition of the maga­ zine. Mr. Kropp, a former instructor of English at Otterhein College, at­ tained his B.A. and M.A. degrees at the University of Pittsburgh. He is cur­ rently working on his doctorate at the Ohio State University. His general lit­ erary interests lie in the field of nine­ teenth century literature. Mr. Kropp’s poem, "Pteranodons," was awarded a first prize by the Ohio Poetry Associa­ tion.

ROr.ER SHIPLEY

’64

Sixty-seven

PTERANODONS Ptcranodons are slrange and dark: Observe the bone spikes that point backward on their skulls And see the river-wide batwings, the elaws, The yellow leering eyes ot the nightmare, Trapped, you thought, in the slow sediments ot geologic memory You will not find them in your western bird-book Or in the hands of children playing In the heyday mornings of the mind. \ on see them in the elemental shadows of another forest.

Dark in the slant of the afternoon.

A mystery among the elms and maples.

They perch and gape amid the fronds ot ancient Cycads; You do not forget the clusters ot grinning yellow beaks The black primordial wings, unfoldable.

That point like dark moons into the sky.

They make no sound, but their Mesozoic silence Is fiercer than the hawking of simple birds.

Last week I saw one fly over Boston.

No one looked up, but on Washington Avenue at four o’clock 1 he grey merchants and blue stenographers in glass cages Were silent in the shadow of his giant wings.

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THE RUN TO MURMANSK: 1942 The shipmen of those naked, desperate voyages Spoke of death and useless cargoes rattling in the hold.

Cargoes wasted on the lost winter armies of a haunted year.

Wasted in the blind disasters of a world on fire.

But they held on into the North Sea, crossed the .Arctic Circle, Brittle hulls pointing to Murmansk, frozen in the snow.

They were bitter even when the luck was good.

There was no vision in the sailing of these frail ships.

No joy for the Dutchmen cursed in this shuttle of absurdity.

And if not this time, why then the next.

An easy mark for the lean marauders.

The blackjack hunters of the North Atlantic.

And for a time their numirers ebbed, the lines snapped.

And they were haunted by the slow weight of their own ships, And by the recurring dream of fire, pillars of fire in the night, And the tinfoil rustle of compartments breaking underwater.

And all, they thought, for guns and boots To nurse a wounded giant through the howling white wastes Of the last Russian winter.

if Sixty-eight

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