The Quiz and Quill Published by THE QUIZ AND QUILL CLUB of Otterbein College
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THE STAFF
Editor-in-Chief ....................................... Shawnee Geeting
Business Managers ............................................Bob Pringle Dick Orndorff
Art Editors................................................................Pat Price Melinda Rickelman
Associate Editors ......................................... Rene Dellinger Natalie Bungard
Spring, 1965
Founded 1919
THE QUIZ AND QUILL CLUB - 1964-65 PresUlerU ..................................................................................................... Thalia Nikiiles Vice President ................................................................................. Rosemary Gorman Secretary-Treasurer ............................................................................................ .1^'’^ Scott faculty Sponsors ........................................................................................... John Coulter Norman C:haney Alumni Relations ....................................................................... Sarah Skaates Natalie Bungard Miriam Edgerly Shawnee Geeting Rosemary Gorman Charles Messmer Boh Pringle
Thalia Nikides Richard Orndorff Lynne I’ulerbaiigh Jtf'E Scott Diane Weaston
Linda /.immers Barbara Barnhouse Rene Dellinger Karen Hoerath Pat Price Melinda Rickelman
HONORARY MEMBERS Mrs. Hazel H. Price Dr. Robert Price
Dr. Harold Hancock Walter Jones
LITERARY AWARDS Quiz and Quill Poetry Contest Eirst Prize ..................................................................................................... Ginny Schott Second Prize ................................................................................................. Ginny .Schott Third Prize ....................... Baf’y Reid' Honorable Mention ........................................................................ Marilyn MacC.anon Barbara Baridiouse
Quiz and Quill Prose Contest Eirst Prize ...................... ....................................................................................... ■Second Prize .......................................................................................................... Third Prize ......................................................................................................... Pat Pdee Honorable Mention ............................................................................................ Jane Scott Jenifer Kelly Marilyn MatC'.anon
Quiz and Quill Short Story Contest Eirst Prize ...................................................................................................... Ginny Schott Second Prize 1 bird Prize ................................................................................................ Cheryl Goellner Honorable Mention ........................................................................ Paul D. Robinson
Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing Contest Eirst Prize ........................................................................................... Lynne Puterbatigh .Second Prize ........................................................................................ Marilyn MacC.anon 1 bird Prize ........................................................................................................... Rod Reed Honorable Mention ................................................................................ Karen Hoerath Melinda Rickelman
Roy A. Burkhart Religious Poetry Contest Eiist Prize ........................................................................................... Barbara Barnhouse Second Prize ...................................................................................... Barbara Barnhouse I'hird Prize ...................................................................................................... Verda Deeter Two
StuLeich
TABLE OF CONTENTS page Cherry Tree, Barbara Barnhnuse .................................................................................. 5 Introduction to Scatology, Rod Reed ........................................................................ 6 A Second Chance, Charles B. Williams ................................................................... 7 My Friend the Booh Tube, Karen Hoerath ......................................................... 9 Across the River. Robert Lome ...................................................................................... 10 Resilient Mourn, I.iiida Slempeck ................................................................................. 11 To a Cynic, I'erda Deeler ..... ........................................................................................ 12 Like the Snow, Cheryl Goellner ................................................................................. IS The Moment, Miriam Edgerly ....................................................................................... L'V Love, Sherry Payne ................................................................................................................16 Fall, Lynne Puterbaugh
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Panacea, Paul I). Robinson ............................................................................................. 17 Death, Caroline Pardoe ..................................................................................................... 20 Canticle Idr Kopernick, Ginny Schott ........................................................................21 Vignettes, Marilyn MacCanon .......................................................................................22 The Invalid Nation, Thalia Nikides .............................................................................23 A Modest Proposal, Lynne Puterbaugh ................................................................... 25 Palm Stindav Revisited, Verda Deeler ........................................................................ 26 Just a Pencil, Doris Carter ............................................................................................29 Essay, Jane Scott .................................................................................................................... 30 The Existential Wind, Stu l.eichter ............................................................................. 31 One of Three Characters From I'he Terminal, Barry Reich .......................... 32 The Late Mrs. Dwyer, Ginny Schott ......................................................................... 33 The Sucker Bet, Stu Leichler .......................................................................................35 Father, We T hatik Thee, Paul D. Robinson ...........................................................37 Vigil, Barbara Barnhouse .................................................................................................37 Night, Thalia IKiltides .......................................................................................................38 Bound To Live, Verda Deeler.......................................................................................... 39 Drifting, Emily Arlene Smith .......................................................................................39 Alone, Marilyn MacCanon .................................................................................................40 Grape Wine, Barbara Barnhouse ..................................................................................41 Image of .\inerica. Sherry Payne .................................................................................. 42 So?, Jenifer Kelly ............................................................................................................... 43 What Is A Roommate?, Melinda Rickelman ..........................................................45 Song for Sweeney, Ginny Schott ..................................................................................46 Someday, Someotic Will See Me, Cheryl Goellner ................................................47
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page Majapa, r. h. orndorjj .................................................................................................... 51 Monumental, Karen Hoerath ...................................................................................... 52 Our Willow Tree, Lynne Puterbaugh .................................................... ...................53 Summer Storm, Barbara Barnhouse .............................................................................53 Prose, Jane Scott .............................................................................................................. 54 Embarrassment, Jenifer Kelly ...................................................................................... 55 Time Was, Robert Pringle ...........................................................................................57 Helen, Patricia Price ......................................................................................................... 58 The Eternal Cycle, Paul D. Robinson ........................................................................61 Unhappy, Karen Hoerath ................................................................................................62 Tomorrow, Bonnie O'Leary ...........................................................................................62 Grandfather, Natalie Bungard ..................................................................................... .63 The Bok Toy Deal, Stu Leichter .......................................... ......................................64 Hal, Marilyn MacCanon .................................................................................
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Untitled, Melinda Rickelman ......................................................................................68 a crystal image, r. h. orndorff ......................................................................................69 The Price of Cynicism, Verda Deeter ...................................................... Last Exhibit, Robert Pringle ......................................................................................71
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The task of judging and selecting the winners is certainly a difficult and thankless one. The members and advisors of the Quiz and Quill Club would like to express their appreciation and special thanks to the judges of this year’s manuscripts.
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CHERRY TREE HV IIARIIARA liARNHOUSI-:
First Prize, Roy Burkhart Contest Weary with the journey, She rested beneath the high-branched cherry tree Sltinging with ripe I'riiit, sweet as perftime. Her htisband searched the pale road. Not seeing what was there. Seeing only his wife's swollen belly— His nntouthed wifel Soon to give birih to a thild not of his lineage. Not of tite bouse of David. His mouth was sour with hurt and anger. “Dear Joseph, Joseph mild, Wilt thou gather tne some cherries? lor I am heavy with child.” Then Joseph fleww in atiger. Spitting out his bitterness and pain, "Mary, ask tio thing of me. Let the father of the baby Gather cherries for thee.” Grass moaned and lay flat before the sudden dark wind, The fruit-laden branches swayed heavily. And Joseph fell to the nusleady ground. From witid and grass and sky came a voice, "Bow, how lowly down, cherry tree. Let the mother of my Son Gather cherries from thee.”
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INTRODUCTION TO SCATOLOGY 15^ ROD ri;i:d
Third Prize, Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing Contest reflect upon a plugged urinal looking like chicken stock with the deodorant bar at the base helpless to quench the reek upon the leak frothing at the peak shall you center your attention class you will analyze the subject from varying viewpoints and theorize as to its place in social circles discuss phallic symbol probe liidden meanings philosophize theologize and it
sion to present a brief definition cluof the term will conESOTERIC SCATOLOGY be your as is applicable here noting especially connotation disregarding all waste material found
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A SECOND CHANCE ItY CIIARl.I.S It. WIII IAMS
"Ready!” The word reverberated across the courtyard. The soldiers checked their weapons. It was a perfect day for an execution. The Premier had said so. Only a few minutes before, under his direct orders, the execution squad had marched into the courtyard. The dust from the red soil had settled slowly. It gave all the objects in the yard the same pale red tint. The bloodstains on the wall were less visible. A dozen people had gathered in the small entrance. Some morbid fascination had drawn them there to watch three men die. Two of the men were natives of the island. The other was a foreigner. He was capmred after many months of fighting. The humidity was beginning to rise. Even in the morning the heat of this small Caribbean island was nearly unbearable. Glistening sweat caught the red dust on the brows of the people in the courtyard. The inhabitants of the island could endure the oppressive climate. They could not endure the oppressive government. The island had been the scene of revolution. The courtyard and surrounding town reflected the influence of the island’s first Spanish settlers. The dreams and ambitions of these ex plorers had long ago been forgotten by the population. Mere existence was all they strived for on the island. Evidence of this kind of existence could be seen everywhere. The low adobe buildings crumbled from lack of repair. Many people were not concerned with the island or its government. Yet some were concerned. They had rebelled. They could see a good future for their island. But they had lost. The soldiers in the execution squad were influenced by the decay ing environment. Their uniforms were worn and dirty. TTie Premier thought weapons of war were more important than the necessities of life. The soldiers had seen much killing and hatred. These were the saviors of the Republic, loyal to a dictator as old and despotic as the government. These also were the men Gerhing, the foreigner, had been hired to kill. This was the island he had sworn to liberate. Those who were concerned had paid him to help save their island republic from crumbl ing under the desires of a dictator. They had lost and Gerhing had lost. Now the killer was going to be killed. The execution squad had formed a line facing the bullet shattered wall. The settling dust had not completely hidden the ominous red stains, stains which made it quite clear that others had been lined along rhe wall many times in the past. The convicted traitors now stood in front of that wall. Their wrists were tied. There were no blindfolds. They were forced to watch their exeaition. Gerhing knew that he was alone, that he had no friends, that he had lost. Always before he had been a winner. Always before he had had friends, friends to give him loyalty. He had no loyalties now. He was scared. Why had he helped these people? Why had he let them convince him? Standing in the suffocating heat Gerhing searched his mind for the answers. He really did not care who got hurt if he did Seven
not get hurt. Always before a winner. He could remember his work in Nazi Germany. There were no questions in his mind then. He knew what he was doing. Now even his own government had forsaken him. Death, in a country like this. Death, because he was a loser. He couldn’t face death like this. Another time, another chance just to live was all he wanted. "Ready!” The word jolted Gerhing. His leg involuntarily moved. His mouth was diy. His skin was dry. Even in the midmorning heat he felt cold. He spit at the ground in mixed fear and anger. He didn’t care if the men next to him died. But not him. The lieutenant commanding the execution squad raised his arm. Gerhing’s gaze darted from man to man. His thoughts became con fused, blurred by his hatred for his executioners, blurred by his fear of death. Gerhing cried for help. "Aim!” Aim? No. No. Not here.” Saliva dribbled down Gerhing’s chin. The soldiers raised their weapons. Panic overwhelmed Gerhing. The lieutenant s baton was pointed at the sky. The sound of an airplane could be heard over the city. Gerhing looked up. He heard the plane. His mind cleared. He saw the plane. It flew low over the north end of the town turning directly towards the courtyard. Its machine guns began firing. Bits of tile tumbled from the roofs. The soldiers ran. Gerhing fell to the ground twisting the ropes from his wrists. He could see the huge yellow and green banners of the revolution on the plane’s tail section. Here was his chance. He sprinted from the courtyard. His pleas for life in the courtyard were vague memories in his mind. The escape boat filled with food and guns was all he was thinking about. Freedom. He would still be a winner. The boat, hidden in a small bay, was only a mile south of the town. The rebels had hidden it there for just such an emergency. Getting through the town was not difficult. The most danger would be in crossing the cane fields. But Gerhing felt the real danger was over. He felt good luck was on his side again. Nothing would go wrong. He vowed to come back and make them pay for his humiliation. No soldiers tried to stop him in the town. The plane’s attack had been effective. The cane field did not slow his escape. Gething ran the length of a drainage ditch and followed a shallow stream to the bay. He could see the choppy waters of the Caribbean in the distance. He had almost reached safety. Only the boat had to be uncovered. After a few minutes rest he cleared the brush from around the boat. Within fifteen minutes he had the boat in the water with its engine running. His immediate plans were to sail to a small coral reef the rebels had used as a supply base. From there he could radio for help. He would make his escape. He was still a winner.... "Fire!” 'The lieutenant lowered his arm. A thick smoke filled the courtyard hiding the transport plane from the soldier’s view.
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MY FRIEND THE BOOB TUBE BV kari;n iioi ra i m
Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing Contest Since I bought my T.V. set, 1 rarely go outside Who needs fresh air and exercise? Just pass the I'.V. guide. No, my dear T. V. set, I need not go to church. I'll pray during (ommercials Right then my soul I'll search.
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Uecanse ol my '1 .V. set, I stay up late at night. Who needs a lot ol sleep and rest With the late late show in sight? Since 1 have my T.V. set. Why study hard at college? J'm getting smart right here at home. Just a diflerent kind of knowledge. My faithitti old l .V. set. It's (piite an innovation, littt 'til 1 get remote control. Why move to change the station? Sime 1 hotight my '1'. V. set, 1 tun uevei lonely, 1 guess vou'd tall iny friend the tube Mv s(|uiire-eved one and only.
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ACROSS THE RIVER BY ROBF.Rl LOWE
It was a cool, August evening when we crossed over the Ohio River and entered that notorious city of sin, Newport, Kentucky. We left my car on a dark side-street and walked toward the bright neon lights. We passed drunks staggering out of bars and the streetwalkers who were attempting to hustle them. One old colored hag tried to make us, and Butch jokingly asked her, "How’s business.^’’ She gave a toothless grin and replied, "Lousy, but you all could change that.” We walked on until we came to the Gayity Bar. We went in, sat down, and two bar girls came over. They sat down at our table and asked us to buy them drinks. I said, "Sure, if you want to drink beer.” They quickly got up and walked over to another table. We had a few beers, and then Butch mentioned that he knew a place on the other side of town where we could get good spare ribs for only a dollar. So we went and got the car. I drove along until Butch motioned me to pull in the next drive. As I drove down the steep drive and into the parking lot. Butch told me not to speak to anyone unless spoken to first. I soon found out why. The parking lot was located between a beer joint and the spare ribs place. The lot was almost full. Sitting in and on top of their cars were groups of two or three Negroes. They sat there drinking cheap booze out of paper cups. Some looked at us as if to say, "What are you doing down here, white boys.^” I parked the car next to a young colored boy and his girl. We got out and went to get the ribs. Next we went into the bar for some beer to wash down the ribs with. I ordered a beer to go and the bartender asked for I.D.s. The old man looked at mine and said, "But this says you’re only twenty.” "I know, but don’t you have 3-2?” He looked at me as if I was out of my mind and said, "You’re in Kentucky now, boy!” So Butch bought me a beer, and we went back to the car. We sat on the hood drinking and eating like animals, and Butch struck up a conversation with the couple next to us. "I see you’ve got a U.C. sticker. You go there?” "Yea, I do,” said the boy. "Sue here goes to Central State.” "We go to Otterbein and I think we play Central State this year in basketball.” "Yea, you do. What are you two doing down here anyway.” "We came down to see the sights.” "You’re taking a hellava chance with all the race riots that have been going on. Some of the drunks down here are just looking for trouble.” Ten
Well, by this time the beet was working on us, so we broke off the conservation and headed toward the bar. The colored boy said, "Wait up, I'll go along.” So the three of us went into the john. We took a leak and then headed toward the door. In front of us stood about eight or ten black boys with long greasy hair and flashy clothes. They were blocking the door and it did not look like they wete about to move. So we took a deep breath and started to elbow our way through. "Don’t feel alone,” the colored boy turned and whispered, "I'm scared too.” Except for the feeling that my heart was in my mouth, nothing happened. Not much was said on the way back to Cincinnati until Butch turned around suddenly and said, "My God, now I know how they feel.”
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RESILIENT MOURN Itv I.INOA .Sll'Ml’l f:K
Vast misunderstanding, total confusion. A loss of spirit, mind, and body. I'or you — because I needed and you came. Dishonestly unlimited and demise of heart. beliefs are shattered, and sorrow reigns. For you — because I wanted and you gave. A misled heart, so full of condecension. Desire uncontrolled, and faithfulness trusted. For you — because I pleaded and you fell. Affection not as strong, yet so unsure. Upset by other rights, hut not uncontrolled. For you — because I hated and you died.
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Eleven
TO A CYNIC in' VI RDA DI I I KR
^’oiir cynicism like a grapefruit Is better with a grain of salt. That yoitr bitterness lacks taste Is of course not yottr own fault. I take upon myself the blame, I'or not alone yottr caustic wit Could burn my wings with playful flame. Had I not flown so close to it, 1 would have jttst enjoyed the light, ■Admiring what seemed brilliant from afar; Bttt I can’t modify yottr sting. And so revile yon as yon are.
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LIKE THE SNOW BY ClIF.RYL GOia.I.NI'.R
Imagine what it is like to sit alone — surrounded by ten, twenty, fifty people, but still sitting alone. Waiting perhaps. Jerking every time the door opens or footsteps approach. Looking at every face, but never finding his. Your mind is haunted with a ghost, phantom of some lost world, his world. What can break the wall you have built? Nothing! Not even a smile can seep through the crevices to ease the mind. Sight blotted, figures whirling. Blankness! The heart is quite still in its vacuum. Its weak pulses mark only those imitations of life, those false impressions of existence, death covered with a sweetness that causes you to vomit. Is not happiness the filling of the void? 1 was happy when I met him; there was no void then. But he changed me, and my mouth rendered me helpless. He took me from life, and set me in a void. At first, blinded by love, I forgave him, but soon I realized I no longer had reason to exist. Now I merely sit in the cold and wait. It is snowing outside. A cruel wind is blowing, but what bother is it to me. Such petty things are lost in the blankness of my mind and body. I was always apart from the crowd. My friends were few, and even for that select group, I had little liking. Now I am compelled to stand among all of them. He forced me there, and then left me alone, left me in my void. Sometimes, I think because he pities me, he comes to console me. He stretches a strong, op>en hand to me. And I, the fool, the blank fool that I am, believe he has changed. I tell myself, "He has come to take you from your blankness, to fill you again with the warm blood of life, with laughter, sighing and love.” So I raise myself to take the hand that is offered, like a little child reaching for sweets. He lifts me up, up . . . until my feet can no longer touch the ground. Then with a brutality, only he can have, he thrusts me down. I weep. I weep hot tears, but my body shakes with cold. And he stands there and laughs. The wind laughs too. Even when the snow has stopped, the eternally cold wind laughs, I bury myself in the fallen snow; I, too, have fallen. I am empty like the white that encircles me. There is no pain, for I am numb with cold. I walk through the blankness of my existence, leaving no footprints in the snow, because we are like matter. Until the day he holds me in his arms, and the snow melts, I will walk in this cold void. He is my endless peace, my turmoil. He is good and evil, the object of my love and of my hate. He is like the perpetual evening star, yet he is like the night. He gives my void the illumination of the sun at high noon, but darkens it more than a rain cloud, the sky. Without him I am lost; with him I am lost forever!
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THE MOMENT BV MIRIAM F.DCKRLY
Crunch! Crunch! Crunch! The stillness echoes my footsteps sharply, as when I walk on tightly packed, very cold snow. But snow is not on the ground. Millions of crystals of ice cover the ground, compaaed and molded into a solid, slippery crust. This world is a fairyland; a shiny, white glass creation where all sounds echo clearly in the eerie atmosphere. Glimmering sheets of ice coat everything — trees, shrubs, bushes, poles, wires, the ground I walk on — nothing seems real. Branches hang twice as low as they normally do, bent over by the great weight of their glittering garb. Often the weight becomes too great and the limbs snap and fall to the ground with a heavy crash softened only by the tinkling ice. Where there are many trees, the ground looks like a cyclone’s path. Branches, large and small, lie everywhere. The setting sun breaks through the clouds and its rays are making prisms out of every little branch, bush, shrub, and tree covered with ice. Everywhere I turn, small bubbles of color are floating into the air as the sunbeams give their parting caresses to their icy realm. "Bong,” strikes the Towers bell. Five-thirty, and the single tone rings and lingers in the clear air. Not even the small scampering squirrels are scurrying around in this glass world. They are all snuggled up tightly in their warm, secure little nests in the trees, waiting for the world to return to normal again. The little child sliding gaily on the sidewalk ahead of me has created his own delightful, nonsensical fairytale in his mind to fit the mood and this glittering world where he plays. He runs, slides, laughs and chuckles gleefully; runs and slides some more. Forever and ever could he make-believe in this magic world of beauty and innocence. All of a sudden, a large, heavy limb snaps and crashes to the ground, its shell of ice cascading and twinkling brightly into a pool around it. Startled, the little boy jerks around, sees me, and suddenly begins crying. The air has changed now. It is getting warmer, and as I walk up to comfort the little fellow, a large drop of liquified ice splashes on my nose. Slowly, the world melts away, and nature returns to normal.
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LOVE BY SHERRY I’AYNE
Love is a cloud—a white, fluffy, cloud. That lies around in wait and surrounds you like a shroud Love is a cat with long, silky, fur. It rubs its back against your leg And wins you over with its purr. Love is a tree with arms instead of limbs. It surrounds you with its strength. And makes you cater to its whims. Love is warmth, a solid wall of heat. That hits you like a summer blast And leaves you worn and weak. Love is love, no more no less. And it gets us all sometime, I guess.
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FALL BY LYNNE I’UTERBAUC.H
A warmness across my face — a soothing caress — Then a soft whisper beckoned me To flee with him and be his love that day. Opening my eyes, I saw my love. The sun, stantling smiling down at me. His luminous hand took mine and led me running out across the lawn. Then down a winding path of swishing leaves. Then — I gasped — he’d turned the leaves to gold He pointed to a flaming tree Not satisfied, he blessed a little bird With a ray of his miraculous light. Then he turned all his thoughts to me And in joy I sank to the ground; Together we lay in the new fallen leaves, His loving touch penetrating my all.
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PANACEA BY PAUL D. ROBINSON
Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Short Story Contest Owen Wingate Drysdale looked up at the skyscrapers towering above him. It must have been the thousandth time he had done that that day. The majesty of those tremendous structures still did not fail to awe him. "Jesus Christ!" he whispered to himself. "To think that they are man-made and not growing from roots that touch the center of the earth.” His eyes began to fall from the heighth and purity of those points stabbing the sky. He noticed first the smokestacks filling the air with foul-smelling smoke. After the smokestacks would come the clothes hanging out on the fire escapes and balconies. Owen closed his eyes so he would not see them. He did not want to see the billboards advertising liquor and cigarettes; he did not want to see the flagpoles supporting the American flag; and last of all, he did not want to see the litterfilled street: the people, garbage and trash. But, Owen opened his eyes. He needed to see where he was going. After all, he was fresh out of college and in need of a good summer job. He laughed. " 'Tomorrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow/Creeps in this petty pace from day ro day ....’” he quoted softly. He saw a bench ahead. He made it his next goal. Walking toward it without looking from side to side, he could keep from looking at the faces of the other people on the street. The bench was in bad need of a paint job. The green paint on the backside of the bench was cracked and much of it was missing. The seat and backrest of the bench had no paint left at all. The gray, wearhered color of the wood was only broken by the dirty white of spilled popcorn caught between the boards and a scattering of brown peanut shells and red peanut hulls. An empty paper cup was rolling back and forth on the bench; blown by the wind. The wet sploch of spilled coca-cola covered most of the boards at one end of the bench. Droplets of coke were still falling between the cracks and splashing against the filthy sidewalk. Owen brushed aside the popcorn and peanut refuse and sat down. He watched a fat pigeon picking at someone’s discarded carmalpopcorn. At that moment, the earth began to shake. Ownen looked up and searched for a sign of a subway entrance nearby. The trembling began to increase. There was a hushed silence all along the street. Cars were stopped; there was no honking of horns. A fissure opened in the middle of the street and spread rapidly in either direction up and down the street. There were no screams yet. No one on the street moved. Then the skyscrapers shuddered and began to quaver. A million screams echoed against the walls and into the sky. It sounded like one great cry of pain and anguish at impending doom. People ran toward the basements and the open areas. A shower of debris from collapsing buildings fell upon the street. Men, women and children ran about seeking shelter. People were trampled to death. People were runover by vehicles driven by frantic drivers. More people were killed by other people than by falling debris. Seventeen
Owen did not move from where he sat. The scurrying people avoided his bench, passing on either side. Fire broke out and buildings began to blaze. The fire followed the mutilated gas lines back until the escaping gas was burning in the street. Throughout all this the earth continu^ to tremble. Finally, the skyscrapers, those man-built cedars, toppled, falling into themselves and onto the streets. Owen stayed on the bench unable to move, hardly believing what was happen ing before his eyes. A wall of water moving from the direction of the lake added its roar to the sound of falling buildings. Owen watched, fascinated, as the water engulfed ruin after ruin. The tidal wave bore down upon him. Immediately Owen found himself enveloped by a swirling mass of water, he held his breath and allowed the wave to take him where it would. He lost his shoes. That gave him the idea of stripping himself of his clothing, which he accomplished as quickly as possible. When his lungs were about to burst with the need to expel air and inhale again, Owen fought against the current. He attempted to swim to the surface, but the water would not relinquish its hold on him. As his struggles weakened and the desire to open his mouth and breathe became stronger than his will to stay alive, Owen felt himself drawn upward. He lost consciousness. . . . When Owen opened his eyes, he noticed he was lying in the bottom of a transparent sphere. He had a feeling of what it must be like within a soap bubble. Water stretched in every direction around the sphere, as far as the eye could see. Owen knew he was at the mercy of an ocean, going wherever the sea might take him—if anywhere. There was no wake about his refuge; he was floating as free as someone’s lost bobber in a private lake. Owen had surveyed his position: There was nothing he could do about it. He was so tired, so sleepy. He forced his eyes to stay open and looked at the sky for a sign of sea gulls. There was not a single bird.—The clouds looked nice.—Not even a flying fish or a porpoise out there, that he could see.—Are clouds soft like pillows?— Owen closed his eyes. It seemed only that an instant had passed before he reopened his eyes. He was looking out at the endless expanse of ocean again. He looked up. There were gulls gliding on the upper air currents. That should mean he was near land. He turned around. He was startled. There was land! He was but a few hundred yards from its shore. Owen watched the ocean charge up the sand and recede again. He wondered where he was. He could be anywhere. He shruggd his shoulders. It really didn’t matter where he was. The bubble lurched. It was caught up by the surf. He looked at the waves. The surf was rough; there would be a tremendous undertow. The bubble lurched again, harder. It was moving. A good sized wave had caught it right. He speeded on toward the shore in his curious craft. Owen was studying the land that must be his new home and did not notice that the bubble was heading straight toward some rocks. He did not realize the danger his craft was in until almost too late. The transparent sphere was practically on top of the rocks when Owen noticed his predicament and quickly fell to one side. His action caused
the bubble to roll, but it did not roll fast enough. A smoothened projeaion on a rock struck the sphere a glancing blow. The sphere shattered. Lines marked its surface into a million different shapes. The shattered bubble supported Owen for a moment before it came to pieces, spilling its passenger into the sea. The undertow pulled at Owen at once. He tore free from its grasp and swam to the surface. A wave caught him and carried him toward the shore. It died and Owen sank until his feet were touched by the undertow. He kicked his way to the surface and swam steadily toward the shore. Another wave picked him up and took him closer to the beach before it threw him down against the sandy bottom. The undertow gripped him by the waist and tried to pull him over back wards. Owen’s legs sank up to his knees in the sand as he braced himself against the strength of the undertow. A gigantic wave crashed down upon him and popped him out of the sand like a cork out of a pop gun. Owen was carried by the water to within twenty feet of escaping the perilous surf. He was brought to his knees by the water pulling at his feet and ankles. With the coming of the next wave, Owen ran up the beach and out of the water. Free of the ocean, Owen turned to look at the surf. It was a beautiful surf, a treacherous surf. Owen forced himself away from the hypnotic movement of the ocean. He entered the forest of tropical trees. A short distance from the beach, he saw a hillock covered with grass and hurried toward it. He lay down upon it, on his back. For a moment, Owen recalled the earthquake. "So much death and destruction!” he whispered to a blade of his mattress that brushed against his mouth when he turned his head to one side. He uttered the only words he thought would be consoling. " 'I am the grass, I cover all.’ ” he said with a catch in his voice where the middle punctuation would be. He shut his eyes tightly to help blot out the visions of people trampling other people. *
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Lorranne Banks made a sour face as she bit into an unripe grape. "Ugh!” she grimaced and a shiver ran down her spine. "I guess the grapes aren’t ripe yet!” she said to herself. It was pleasant to hear a voice, even if it were only her own; Lorranne thought aloud mote often than not. It was a habit she had developed during her four days alone on this unpopulated shore. Lorranne turned away from the grapes and walked toward the ocean she could see a short distance away. As she walked, she thought of that walk she was taking when the water came. She had been driving her car along a country road looking at the scenery when a violent earth tremot occurred. She had stopped the car and climbed out. After the earthquake was over, she had been about to drive on when she noticed a lone flower on a nearby hillside; one she had never recalled seeing before. She had walked up the hillside, keeping an eye on the flower. Lorranne had been bending down to examine the odd flower and had heard a curious noise. The noise had sounded somewhat like the gurgling of a draining bathtub. Surprised, she had looked around her Nineteen
and seen the water coming toward her. She had stood fascinated as it had rushed over her car and swallowed the hill she was on. In a moment it had pulled her off her feet. Her head had slammed into a tree trunk or something, and she remembered nothing more until. , . . "Until that bubble began to roll up and back, up and back with the surf at the water’s edge.” she reflected aloud. "I still can’t understand.” Her thoughts for the last three days had generally dealt with the significance of the wall of water, the bubble, and why she was where she was. As Lorranne walked around a mangrove, she saw a man lying on his back. Oh, where are my clothes! she thought. I just knew 1 shotdd have tried to make some. She stepped behind a root. She peeked out from behind her hiding place. He doesn’t move! She stepped out from behind the root. Is he alive? She walked timidly toward him. He has a good tan. 'The man didn’t move. She noticed his head was turned away from her. He had short, kinky black hair. He’s a Negro! She was standing above him. She couldn’t see him breathing. She touched his side with her big toe. The man sat up so suddenly she gasped. "Oh! ” The man looked at her with wide, surprised eyes. He saw a woman with blue eyes and straight blonde hair. He noticed her figure with the critical eye of any unmarried young man. "Venus de Milo, with arms!” he exclaimed. "Are you an angel?” he asked. The woman laughed. "Do I have wings?” The man was about to say, "My name is Owen Wingate Drysdale.” —but he didn’t. He said instead, as he looked at her in puzzlement, "I am Adam.” Lorranne smiled at this likeable man. "And I suppose that makes me Eve.” she said with that twinkle in her eye. Lorranne took his hand as he stood up.
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DEATH BY caroi.ini; pardok
A loved one dies, We cry, An answer seek. Why him? A man of greater stature he By most men seemed to he. Yet lesser men Still live on. Sorrow mixed with guilt o’ercomes Us. d'liose words we in haste did speak our minds Do plague and thoughts of unfulfilled deeds are A burden yet to us. And as the shock Of death begins to lessen, we recall His life remembering the good. His faults We then attribute to the weaknesses All humans posse.ss. Now while seeing him In stillness sleep, we treinhie as a vast Aloneness sweeps o’er us. He is gone. But it is not so! Death us separates But for awhile. Just like a ship to sea Does sail and is no longer seen, so souls Do find eternal bliss and are no more To us known when by Heaven they are claimed.
★ Twenty
★
★
CANTICLK FOR KOPI^RNICK HV (.l,\N\ SCIIOl I
Second Prize, Quiz and Quill Poetry Contest
They’ll bury Koperniik. He’s dead, Among the chips and out of red. Beyond the spate they’ll leave for him He waits now in the interim Of life and truth and laughs at those Who shadow in the "living” pose. They’ll carry Kopernick to tombs \Vith silver lawns and frozen rooms. Bishops, cardinals, pope, and kings Will btiry him with sterling rings Of words. But Kopernick will laugh ■At songs played on a phonograph.
They’ll bury Koircrnick. I know, Por I am he and tell you so. The things they’ll do I won’t impugn. But when they let the gardener prune So "Kopernick” can still be read. I’ll laugh from covers of the dead. Cause I'm in chips and out of red.
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Twenty-one
VIGNETTES liV MARILYN MAC CANON
Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetry Contest I.
Hero-worshipper
In one impulsive flying thurst She perched him up so very high Above herself a-pcdcstled, She grieved she popped the little ears Of her most recent little god. II.
Degenerate
Cobwebs and sparrows’ cries leave no room more For echoes to whistle and ring through the hole The dome of the abyss where his heart used to be. 111.
Rapport
We meet face to face But somehow we have met before Two centuries past In some dark, martyred catacomb Faith to faith. IV.
Popular
She would not bend nor give a pin To wing exclusive smiles to him For she’d give up her petty loves —Those ihousantl eyes of grand applause— To be a stranger to her club. V.
Illegitimate
The mother was a child But the eyes of her small son Were very old. VI.
Fanatics
riiey were so giddy with God Wc thought ourselves the sober ones I.abelcd their ravings uncouth And would not stoop to lake a sip. VII.
Outgrown
Soniftliing that flourished in A])rirs eyes Had long gone to seed in May’s, I saw. 'Fhc dregs in your cup and those in mine Were bitter and left behind. VIII.
Fool
Beside his ihousaiid tarnished, handled lamps He died, without. When all those long, discarded years He was himself that geni Whom he sought. IX.
Human
She thawed a boulder with her heart Anil flung her shadows worlds apart Then came back down to show her wounds To us, as pcndtiltims are doomed.
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Twenty-two
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THE INVALID NATION BY THALIA NIKIDKS
On entering a typical American home, I would undoubtedly find both adults and children huddled about the ingenious talking-picmre, the television — eating those infamous garbage delights, the T.V. dinners — and listening attentively to the heart-breaking, liver-curdling ordeals of "Ben Casey” or "The Nurses.” Not very often would I witness a switch of the channel to "Madame Butterfly” or "Chet Huntley Reports,” because most people generally have the tendency to feel that those programs are too "far-out,” sophisticated, or down-right "egg-headish.” They are content instead to relax in a non-thinking atmosphere and allow the veil of machine-dictatorship to envelope and control their one reigning gift — rhe ability to think and grow spiritually, intellec tually, and emotionally. While the world exists confronted with the threat of annihilation brought about by the nuclear age, the United States has been beseiged by a far worse enemy — an enemy destined to destroy the internal body of America. It is disease which plagues our country — the disease of decay. Its components include the syndromes of superiority, apathy, corruption. Carried by the germs of conformity, laziness, and ignorance, this sickness has infected scores of American citizens — becoming a malignant growth and contaminating the ideals and pride this country once aspired to. The most tragic symptom of superiority — apathy — corruption occurs when men and women become oblivious to concern, interest, or participation in the affairs of country, state, and community. It is far more serious when countries of the world see the American pregnant with egotism and infestuous materialism. "Yankee go home,” and the "ugly American” are familiar specimens of bacteria which are innoculated into the American system. The epidemic rages and the wards of America grow delirious with fever. The fever manifests itself into shocking national events which call forth the attention of the world. Let me take you on a short trip around America and witness with me the slow death of the "Colossus of the North.” Little Rock, Arkansas — 1955 A high school stands deserted except for approximately fifty National Guardsmen posted around the school. Off in the distance a young Negro boy accompanied by his mother moves quickly towards the school. It is 7:00 a.m. School doesn’t commence until 8:05, but they move with strained apprehensive steps as though the boy is late. Sud denly a group of whites descend upon mother and son like vultures. The whites curse, rip, mangle until the prey shrivles upon the ground unable to move or speak. The damage is done. The group cheers. The Guardsmen help to revive the Negro mother and son. Columbus, Ohio — 1963 A banner is towed by an airplane over crowds at the Ohio State vs. Indiana football game — "Impeach Warren!” Recently Dwight Eisenhower and both the late President Kennedy and Mrs. Franklin Roosevelt were accused of being Communists. The John Birch Society, headed by Robert Welch, adds another confusing symptom to the world’s diagnosis of the American disease. The world Twenty-three
listens and watches as these damaging accusations destroy trust and cultivate more cynicism. Reputations are slandered while the miasma of revolution hovers over the nation ready to descend and infect. Washington, D.C. — September, 1963 Astonishment, horror flashes from each Congressman. Bobby Baker has been caught. His case is simple. Over a million dollars rests in the bank account of the Democratic Majority Secretary. The blackmails, the bribes, the deals somewhat subside in the Senate and House until the American people begin to forget. Then the lobbyists, the polluted politicians can begin anew destroying "the government of the people, for the people, and by the people,” with their bacteria of greed and prejudice. And the overworked words of integrity, honesty, the good of the people somehow lose their meaning and become defamations of their original purpose. Dallas, Texas — November, 1963 The nation is stunned by the assassination. The people try the sterile mask of tears and blank looks, but soon this pose gives way to chaos and hysteria. Cries for the blood of the merciless killer echo and rhe second body is sacrificed. The animal spirit revives in each American soul and demands are heard that the body be drawn and quartered — hung by the heels. So the contest continues. Two men are killed and for what? For an Ideology? For patriotism? Or for just plain hate? Our trip does not end here. The places visited were only the results, the ends. The instances which were related were not created by the Supreme Court decision, rhe John Birchers, Bobby Baker, or Lee Oswald. They arose from the stagnancy of a nation and the extremes of complacency and mob rebellion. America’s decay is perhaps the most overpowering problem plaguing this country. Often it is a problem which is temporarily solved by pxitriotic speeches. We do become inoculated with idealistic slogans and inspirational doctrines which are designed to motivate action, yet we remain enthusiastic and determined only for a short time and then just forget. For example. President Johnson could stand for hours reciting the dilemmas and challenges we face in Viet Nam, in Berlin, in Cuba, but his words would be in vain, for those dangers, those conflicts, are far removed from our comfortable homes and luxurious living. It is only when we are struck down with a personal crisis that there is any indication of action. Nineteen of the greatest civilizations throughout the ages have failed according to historian Arnold Toynbee, through what could be described as the eternal cycle: from bondage, to spiritual faith, to great courage, to liberty, to abundance, to selfishness, to complacency, to apathy, to dependency, and again to bondage. The cycle is near completion in the United States, but can be reversed if men and women begin now to reconstruct the body of democratic idealism which lived two centuries ago. Senator Eugene McCarthy points out that, "Democracy, when the hard choice must be made, must run the risk of being betrayed or destroyed by its own people rather than itself become their betrayer and destroyer.” There remain only two questions. What does it take for men to face squarely a nationd danger or crisis? What does it take for men Twenty-four
to act and act reasonably, intellectually with progressive attitudes? What will exist in the future is not for you or me ro say, but what each of us will do in the times to come can be predicted. Our identification of complacency and corruption, cynicism and conformity can evolve only through the strength of our individual actions and efforts. The time one takes to become informed, to discuss, to analyze is time which for the present decade is being wasted. Your government, church, and community are here — only waiting to be used. Will you help heal the wounds of democracy?
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A MODEST PROPOSAL BY LYNNK I'Url'.RBAlKill
First Prize, Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing Contest Come live with me and be my love; And we will all llie pleasures prove That leisure, riches, fame, and pride. Comfort, fun, and sport provide. I’m young and charming — debonair; My eyes are blue, my locks are fair. I’m strong and clever — quite carefree. Oh, it’s so easy to love me! Top company man I’ll soon be — Cause I don’t care for honesty. And then I’ll give to yoti, my love. Gifts from Elysian Fields above. Parties we’ll have ’most every night .And the wine’ll flow ’til we’re all tight. If thoughts or care might interfere. We’ll drink more wine — they’ll disappear. We’ll visit far off lands of bliss; No gaiety or joy rve’ll miss. You’ll live in castles, dress in fur. Of diamonds be a connoisseur. Your luck, my power, all will heed — To satisfy each want and need. If these delights thy mind may move Then live with me and be my love.
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■Ar Twenty-five
PALM SUNDAY REVISITED BY VERDA DEETER
Third Prize, Roy Burkhart Contest He goes now unattended without benefit of palm branches. The stones along the way that would have praised him now tear and bruise his feet. No robes of ehildrcn arc flung down where he may walk on them. No untried colt awaits his touch. He goes alone . . . The silent crowd draws back as a curtain drawn by an unseen hand to let him pass on . . . alone . . . But one in that crowd saw his eyes, remembered his unselfish life. That look, that memory plantetl the seed of Love in one man's heart, where, fed with the smallest kindnesses shown to others, wateied with the joy of giving, and pruned by shared sorrows, it sprouted and grew, a graceful palm with many branches. So large it was that one man's heart could not contain it. Then the people standing near him in the crowd began to break off bramhes of this palm and to wave them, praising the man from whose heart it had sprung. "Oh, no!” "You must give me no praise for this tree. “Come, I will show you the Love that planted it. "Did you not see the scetls of it in his eyes as he passed?” "AVho?” "Where is this Love?” “Where is he?” cried the multitude. “What," asked the man with Love in his heart, “you did not sec him go this way? “But come, follow me! “We must find him.” So, waving palm branches, they ran in search of him. They were too late in .searching, though; when they found him. he was hanging on a cross.
★ Twenty-six
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Twenty-seven
Tiuenty-eight
JUST A PENCIL BV DORIS CAR I I R
"Did my pencil come back there?” a little girl asked as she turned around in her seat. "Here.” A second child quietly picked it up off the floor and handed it to her. "Must have fallen through the crack in the seat.” "Train always jiggles. Can’t keep anything on the seat,” the first child said, dusting her pencil with her handkerchief. "Grandma gave it to me last year for Christmas.” She held the pencil up and looked at it. "It’s a mechanical pencil. See? I don’t have to sharpen it,” she said, turning it back and forth so that the lead went in and out. She smiled and put the pencil in her lap, looking at the child behind her. "What’s your name?” she asked, touching her pencil with her fingers. "Alice. Just Alice.” Alice sat up straight and put her hands in her lap. "You must have a nice grandma. Giving you a pencil like that.” She stole a glance at the object. "Wish I had a pencil. Wish I could write like white people.” "Uh-huh. Me, too.” The first child stretched one leg out across the aisle and began to swing it. "Grandma says when I go to school I can learn to write like she does. Next year, whenever that comes. But I can draw a car. Want to see me?” "I want a pencil,” Alice said. Her voice was low. She stared at the floor. "Just one pencil to write my name. Big. Like white people.” "I’m white. See?” The white girl smiled and stretched her pallid arm out in front of her. "Have to grow up first. That’s what Grandma says.” "Wish I had a pencil,” Alice said. "I never drew a cat. Just always wanted to but never could.” She looked straight ahead of her. "In the dirt. You could draw it in the dirt,” the white child said. "With a stick. My brother does because I won’t give him my pencil. He’d break it anyway.” "I wouldn’t break it. Can I draw a cat with it? Please? Just one cat?” Alice said, looking from the girl to the pencil and then back to the girl. "You don’t have any paper.” "But I want to draw a cat. Then I’ll learn to write. Like white people. Be as good as they are then. Mommy says.” "Good as who? Who’s good?” The child put the pencil on the seat without smiling or swinging her leg anymore. She glanced across the aisle at a man reading a newspaper. She touched her pencil to make sure it was still beside her. "White people,” Alice said. "You. You’re white. You’re good.” "Let’s play something. You want to play a game?” The child stopped smiling. She picked up her pencil and put it in her pocket. "I want a pencil,” Alice said, gazing at the crease that the pencil made in the white girl’s pocket. "No. Let’s play a game,” the first child urged, squirming in her seat. "A game looking out the window.”
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★ Twenty-nine
ESSAY iJV JANr. SCOTT
On a late night television show recently, the emcee remarked that the majority of college students are just free-loading, easy-living, Greekaffiliated, good-time Charlies and Charlenes who goldbrick their various ways through the great institution of higher learning. Being a Greekaffiliated college student who likes good times and easy living, and does her share of free loading, I should not have been offended — but, I was. I had just finished a "week that was,’ as they say. It included two theme papers, a speech, a chemistry experiment, two biology tests, five meetings, a bridal shower, a fight with my boyfriend, classes, blemishes, and fatigue. That was just on Monday! You can imagine how eager I was for Tuesday! Needless to say, I countered the emcee's contention by switching channels, but my thoughts were now tuned in on the subject of college students, their trials and tribulations. I was especially concerned with my own trials and tribulations. Studying has never been easy for me. This hindrance is not due to my lack of intelligence, but, more so, to my unceasing quest to "find better things to do.” I have always found it difficult to concentrate on such things as equations and sentence structure when the television and the refrigerator have so much more to offer. I have even declined to the point where I pick fights with my younger brother just to put off the agony of academics. I have always held out hope that, before I graduate, some kind soul will invent the Instant Educator. I imagine it would be a com plicated looking machine which would be attached to the brain via electrodes. The proper reading of B.S., B.A., or B.S. in Educ., would be set, the switch thrown, and immediately four years of facts, figures, and goodies would be programmed into the awaiting abyss. There would have to be various programs, of course, to avoid conformity. These programs could probably be classified as Intellectual, Know-It-All, Average-Joe or Josephine, and Physical Education Major. I have only a year to go before graduation and hopes of my dream machine being built before that time are quickly fading. I still have many hurdles to overcome, not to mention the senior girls’ annual diamond rush. Not the least of these hurdles is finals, which our school paper so correctly defines as "education’s answer to the rack.” The actual week of final exams is not so bad. It is the preceding weeks which get me down. It is rumored that the profs of our noble institution have a point system. The pedagogue who piles the most work on his victims the week before exams gets a gold star and lunch at the President’s house. It is obvious that the competition is tough, because the number of cases of mono always increases during that time. There is some consolation, however, for those being examed are allowed to dress according to their individual moods. These moods are always bad and, consequently, so is the mode of dress, but it seems to promote an atmosphere of martyrdom. Thirty
College does have its merits, however. For one thing, there is always something to complain about — food, convocation, profs, house mothers, rival Greek groups, dating, homework, money, and so forth. The really "in” collegians have an attitude of contempt and can com plain about anything. I am not "in”, I never understand jokes quickly, and, consequently, I have not enjoyed my years of obtaining a higher education, I suppose. Anyway, I disagree with that emcee.
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THE EXISTENTIAL WIND BY STU LI ICIITFR
Can you hear it whistle through the wood With mystery mostly quite misunderstood? Or do you hear the rustle of the leaves Which is the which the scientist believes? Psychologists and psysicists agree On very little; for example, take the tree That falls when not a single soul’s around: The mind men say there’s nothing near a sound. Sir Isaac’s men maintain when something’s moved A noise occurs (although it can’t be proved). But those two lovers lying by that tree. While in their passion, seem to think they see Revolving springs together, fall to fall. Tsk, tsk. They never hear the wind at all.
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Thirty-one
ONE OF THREE CHARACTERS FROM THE TERMINAL BY BARRY RlilCH
Third Prize, Quiz and Quill Poetry Contest She was young and had with her high lieels and long purse even that unmistakable Quaker look as il her plain dressed mama held her hand in a guiding gesture
my friend said that it was probably the inner light but she was over six feet tall and that was what made her religious
She kept talking about how awful the brownies were that she bought in Pittsburgh and all of the good Quaker kids who are now either Episcopalians, Presbyterians, or just gone to Hell in no particular fashion
My friend spoke again he said that children shotild be kids first and religious after they are too old to play but I know better there is always a boy in the graduating class who is four-foot-three and a girl who is six-foot-two, and they are the ones who win Bibles every Palm Sunday ★
Thirty-two
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THE LATE MRS. DWYER HV r.lNNV SCHOTT
First Prize, Quiz and Quill Short Story Contest Everyone agreed it was quite fitting that Molly Dwyer died in an avalanche at the city dump. She had always been the town character, and it would have been heartbreaking to find she had kicked off in a conventional manner. I was twelve when it happened. 1 can still remember my sister Jane rushing home to tell me. It seemed that a woman on one had ever seen before (and, it later developed, would never see again) had charged into Brownie’s Market w'ith the story that she had just seen two men pulling the body of an old lady out from under a huge pile of refuse in the dump. Brownie didn’t have to be psychic to know who the "old lady” was. Molly was rather notorious for her forays into the dump in search of what she called "usables,” junk that nobody but a confused old woman could find a use for. Brownie gave the news flash to each of his customers who came in that morning, and each one had shaken his head and smiled grimly. Molly would be missed. Well, the Civil War cannon that stood in the park would be missed if it disappeared suddenly, too. Molly was that kind of nonproductive institution. When Sarah Hamilton heard about it, she was more upset than the others had been. Sarah was a spinster and lived alone, and Molly lived on her block. Sarah tried calling Molly’s granddaughter, a somewhat addled girl who lived in the next town, but the girl wasn t home, SO Sarah did the next best thing; she called Asa Corey s funeral parlor. Asa, she felt, should be among the first to know. It wasn’t that Asa had actually been dogging Molly’s steps these past few years, but he was slightly annoyed by the fact that she seemed to have deter mined to live past eighty-five just to spite him. Every time she walked by the parlor, pulling her red wagon behind her, she would look up, and, if she saw Asa, she would grin toothlessly with self-satisfaction. However, it was rumored that Molly was wealthy, and a wealthy client, no matter how eccentric or old, was a client. At any rate, Asa hurried over to Sarah’s right after her call. When he goc there, quite a little group had gathered to decide what should be done about Molly. My father was there, and I. ’The rest of the group was primarily the local spinsters. Father could have been called Molly’s lawyer, I suppose, since whenever she had a legal problem, she would come to our back door, draw Father out on the porch, and buttonhole him until she got an answer. She never paid him, except, perhaps, in the amusement she gave him. Her body hadn’t materialized at any one of the local doctor’s, yet, or at the medical center, so it was assumed that it had been taken to the morgue in Masonville. Asa wanted to begin planning the funeral right away, but Father wanted to wait until they had the body to make any plans. The spinsters had already started making their plans. They wanted to start cleaning out Molly’s house. Just about everyone of them stood to inherit something of Molly’s, according to what she had led them to believe, and they wanted to find out exactly what she had to leave. Father said it was breaking and entering, but they said it was only doing the "right thing” by an old neighbor. They knew Father Thirty-three
wouldn’t call the law on them even if he wouldn’t help them, so they went over to Molly’s house over his protests. Father was so mad he forgot about me, and I tagged along after the ladies. I suppose I should have been ashamed, but my curiosity got the better of me. Molly’s house was like Molly, a grey shambles. It was a tall, thin building, all shuttered up, with great piles of wood and bricks and other trash leaned up against all the doors but the side one. Her dog and all her cats milled around the steps as we came up, and they began to bark and meow somewhat ferociously. The door wasn’t lock ed, but it took a good deal of pushing to get it open. I thought it strange that the door wasn’t locked. Molly had always seemed such a frightened creature. I remember, once, seeing her pulling her cart up the street, stopping every now and then to pick up twigs and stones and load them into the cart. I started to say hello to her just as she was trying to load a large branch into the cart. She had jumped as if I were a policeman about to arrest her for stealing from a tree. She spooked easily. The kitchen was the first room we wentinto. It was filled with empty dog-food cans and other litter and the floor was covered with old-yellowing newspapers. We went through the house from bottom to top. It was the weirdest experience I’ve ever had. Each room was filled with litter of one kind or another surrounding the outer rim of the room with only a tiny space in the center of the room anda narrow path to the doors. In one room we found one whole wall obscured by a mountain of old newspapers, in another a pile of various tin and aluminum foils from the size of a chewing-gum wrapper to a piece large enough to wrap a crate in. Here and there were balls of string, crates of old books, stacks of wood, and empty cans. It was a night mare’s delight. But it was in an old desk in what appeared to be her bedroom that we found Molly’s treasure, her bankbooks. Books! There were at least twelve or thirteen of them, all different, and all with fantastic sums recorded in them. I liked money but the spinsters’ joy was a little revolting. They fingered each book gently as if wondering if one would be willed to each of them. Then they put them back. By now it was getting quite dark, and, since no one could find a light switch in all the rubble, the spinsters’ decided with a great deal of reluctance that they had better be getting home. But none of them wanted without the rest of them going at the same time. They were jealous of their new-found wealth. They began to argue over who was going to get what. I was bored by that time. I had hoped to find some great, secret world, and 1 had been disappointed. The cats and the dog were even louder by the time I got downstairs, so I opened some of the cans that were hidden in the corner of the kitchen counter and fed them. I hand’t realized how many there were. One of the cats I recognized as having belonged to the Eaton’s who had moved out of the block a few weeks before. Molly had been pretty upset over them taking the cat with them, and then one night the cat vanished altogether from the Eaton’s front porch and hadn’t been found before they left. Now I knew why. Thirly-four
As I opened the back door to leave, I saw Asa standing out at the end of the walk. He had been afraid of breaking the law, but he was not too virtuous to wait for the ladies to break it or to profit by their trespassing. I could hear the spinsters coming down the stairs at last, having decided that if they all went at once, they would protect their inherit ances. I was halfway through the door when I saw a sight that left me both flabbergasted and delighted. Coming up the street pulling her red wagon was Molly Dwyer. There was no mistaking the fact that it was she. She wore a long, gray coat that reached her ankles and a hat pull ed down over her ears. The outfit was finished perfectly by the man s galoshes she wore on her feet. I ran to meet her and ask her where she had been. She had been, she said, down to the city dump. Some trash fell over on her when she was trying to pull a car fender from the bottom of the heap, and a couple of young men had pulled her out. And what, might she ask, were people doing in her house.^ 1 told her about the woman s version of the dump story. When I had finished. Molly was silent, but there was a strangely humorous flicker in her eye. The spinsters were first shocked, then ashamed, and then downright angry that Molly had returned, as it were, from the dead. But Molly said nothing. She never mentioned it again. Molly died the second time a few years later in a manner not half so interesting as the first time she died. It really came as no surprise to anyone that she left all her money to a home for wayward cats, but it did seem to some an act of petulance to have left strict orders that she did not want to be Asa Corey’s client.
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THE SUCKER BET BY .SIU LiaCllll.R I knew a lad some lime ago, Who was my iricnd, llicy sa;. He cherished me. bul could I know What way to him repay? He offered me some mighty sums; A stupid sucker, and yet, The money goes, the money comes: Such sums he would forget! He died one day, right over here; I said, “Too bad you’re poor,” He told me, as I dro|)ped a tear, “That’s just what fiiends are for!”
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Thirty-five
Thirty six
FATHER, WE THANK THEE IlY I'AUI. I). ROillNSON
O God, we tliank you now, this day. For all the things that come man’s way. We tliank yon lor the hate and sin Always in the minds of men. We thank you for the pain and death rhat follows us from our first breath. We thank you for the selfishness 'I hat stifles growth of godliness. We thank you for all these wonderful things And ask tenfold of the blessings each brings.
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VIGIL 1!V KARIIARA HARN I lOtlSf.
Second Prize, Roy Burkhart Contest Alone in blue light of frozen stars The church called .St. Paul’s, I5arracks-like, white and ugly. A wind-shadow, or a gypsy-thought, or One of a hundred homeless things, I hear the blackness whisper and I answer. In the warm darkness Ice-tempered starspears shatters eye of amethyst Bhie, and holy red, and one square crystal. The stone altar slab sees Its shadow dancing on the floor In a candle’s smoky light. Long hours pierce the brittle stars As I watch Then, with high-arched doors, I time-seal the shadow-dark breath Of new morning alone again. Altar and candle and God.
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Thirty-seven
NIGHT BY THALIA NIKIDLS
Words of wisdom and encouragment flow through my mine, Seeking admittance to the core of my solitnde. But inward glances into the soul are tiresome, Depression heats a tune too ironic for words. All that there remains is the hope to escape The timeless order of places, people, and things. These patterns become designs — fitting each Into an organized life, a planned existence. I long now to be free — To run with the wind and feel the chill of the ocean caressing these limbs with each tide. To touch the cheek of a child To cry in the quiet of night.
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BOUND TO LIVE BY VERDA DEETER
An earthworm bound with a golden chain I held at my command; but beiore a day of slavery done, he was from dust to dust set free: the chain hung empty in my hand. A snail I then chose for my slave And with a silver thread 1 bound him, but again emancipation struck; to earth the freed returned when dead. So bound I other mortal things: a dove, a mare, a tree, and so they all escaped by death and were from dust to dust set free; Thus they did all from me depart Until I found a man’s immortal heart.
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DRIFTING BY EMILY ARLENE SMITH
Wlicreas before My faith was near the shore— No, not firmly planted on it — Just there in the shallows. Now it has drifted out to sea; And here I flounder— A lost me Caught up in the logic Of a new-found creed As yet too much to comprehend. Not wholly satisfied But unable to turn back, I cling to any floating log That may perhaps Take me to the shore.
ALONE BY MARILYN MAC CANON
Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Prose Contest Who can say what makes a wall, or what is a stone fence? And what decides whether it is a child or man who builds a well around himself? Are walls built for the love of stones, or is it in fear of them that they enclose a yard, a home, perhaps a mind? The yard within the wall was a jungle. Woods clambered over weeds to rustle as he wandered kneehigh to the old house. A small bird fluttered to the air from the grass at his feet and flew with a cry past the stone fence to the meadow. Caterpillars that were really burrs climbed over his socks. He stopped to blow a dandelion, but the wind beat him to it: the fluff flew like dust off an old book. He made his way to the shade of the building, where a bush still rained dew when he brushed against it. Crouching in a shallow windowwell, he leaned against the cool, mossy bricks of the foundation and pulled a sandwich from his paper bag. Carefully, he tore off the cmst and put pieces of it in the path of a frantic, limping box elder bug who made his home in the bricks. The rest of the sandwich he flattened between his palms and ate it slowly, taking bites around the outside in a circle until the middle was no longer there. He climbed out, stretched, hid his sack behind a bush and crept around back to the cellar door. It was open a crack as if, if you asked it, it might share a secret. When he pushed it open, it whined, then banged against the wall, and billows of dust turned golden in the sunlight. He could see only a little ways past the light. Sawdust covered the floor. In the corner was the shadow of a staircase. He stepped into the doorway — halfway in and halfway out. The warm sun on his back and the coolness meeting his face were strange to feel at the same moment, just as the cellar’s musty smell was a surprise after the clover-sweetened smell outside. He threw the door against the wall again, to scare away the silence. Wide-eyed he lunged into the middle of the room and blinked there in the interrupted gloom. Only the doorway was not a part of the living shadow all around him. The cold and the dtimpness chilled him. He swerved around, his heart pounding. The silence seemed to wrap itself around him, the darkness was monstrous. He went to the rotting staircase, which broke beneath his steps as he climbed, afraid to look back down at the hungry hole below. He put his knee over the top of the stairs and lifted himself onto the landing, in a deeper darkness. Huddled in the corner, he listened, trembling. The stillness was of a much larger room. The air was much harder to breathe because it was dustier and hot. Some cool air rose from the stairway. Soon he could find traces of objects in the darkness, and small sunbeam leaking through cracks. He could hear very faintly the sounds outside; birds in nearby trees, a train in the distance, and — he tried to imagine — the shouts and laughter of children playing, calling someone’s name. Forty
He stood and braced himself against the wall, his shirt catching on the rough wood. Testing his steps, he moved slowly to a boarded window through which a little light crept, and put his eye up to a crack. The light hurt at first, but soon he could see the yard. Past the yard, the meadow, the creek, there was the picnic — and he was not there.
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GRAPE WINE liv
BARBARA BARNIIOIISF,
When (handpa called ns lioin our ehildisli play I'o help hint pick the grapes In make sweet wine, ■Septenihcr's snn enlieed ns yet to stay, ■Mthongh we knew we had to strip the vine. "The grapes are ripe — tomorrow they’ll be gone; Von know we have to pick them at their prime." But still we played and danced upon Ihe lawn Anl begged and pleaded for a little time. "It’s early yet — Ihe sun’s not halfway down. Oh, can’t we play for just a moment more?” He Inrned and left, upon his face a frown. "We’ll pick the grapes tomorrow,” we all swore. No grapes were picked; the white frost killed them all. No wine was made — and Orandpa died that fall.
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Forty-one
IMAGE OF AMERICA in siii.RRV I’AVNi:
1 am an American. I have seen the growing of a Great Nation And felt pride in the raising of tile .American flag. I have witnessed the wars we have fought lor I reedom .And experienced the joy of Victory. I am an American. 1 have known the tight lo be my own Man. And 1 have heaid Opportunity knock and have answered. I have listened to Great Men speak .And have heard VAdsdom pour forth with (ireat linderstanding. 1 am an .American. I have seen and heard the American Spirit. I have felt the joy, pride, and giealness of the American I.ife. I liave listened to Ihe beat of the American Heart. I liave known the sweetness of American Feeling. I am an American. I am black. Yet I have known this America for what it truly is— my life, my joy, my hope for tomorrow.
★ Forty-two
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so? HV Jl \MI Kk Kiaxv
Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Prose Contest Sputnik, the first major victory in the conquest of space. Possibly the beginning of die end for the Uniired States. Assuredly the be ginning of the beginning for the Soviet Union. Nations were smnned; people were frightened; I was indifferent. I was ten when the Soviet Union delivered its first brainchild to the world. That afternoon I had been outside playing football. When my mother called me in for supper I stomper and stalked into the house. I was furious at the boys with whom I had been playing, be cause they wouldn’t tackle me because I was a girl. I formed a dark cloud of wrath which hung over the table and which I kept poking to let my fury rain down on my two brothers, who had been a part of the team who had refused ro' tackle me. Then suddenly thunder struck! Mother told me that I couldn’t go back outside that evening because of my nasty behavior during supper. I tried sulking around the kitchen for a wihile until it was obvious to me that I wasn’t getting anywhere bur closer to a smack on the rear, so I went upstairs and turned on my older brother s radio. I was turning the dial to find the station I wanted (I think I was looking for Big John and Sparky), when in the midst of all that garbled sound I heard the word "Sputnik. ” I ran downstairs to ask Mother about it. "Mom, what’s a Sputnik?” ’Til bite,” she answered probably thinking it was a riddle, "what is a Sputnik?” Just then my dad came into the room, and Mother said, "Wait, ask this one to Daddy,” I had my mouth in gear to go, but Dad was all excited about some news that he had just heard on television. "The Russians have just launched a satellite called Sputnik!” Then there was some excited adult conversation which didn’t interest me in the least, so I went back upstairs to play jacks. I was confused. Now I had the word satellite to contend with, too. The next time I heard those two words was the following after noon, Saturday. I had been waiting for the past month to see a special program about how the Lone Ranger got to be lone, but the rest of the family was watching a special program about this Sputnik. They hadn’t even heard of Sputnik until yesterday, and I had been watching the Lone Ranger for years. What kind of justice is that in a free world?
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Forty-jour
WHAT IS A ROOMMATE? BY MI.I.INDA RICKKLMAN
Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing Contest Between the innocence of freshman orientation and the superior ity of graduation, a college girl is exposed at some length to that en dearing stranger called a roommate. Roommates come in all sizes, shapes, and backgrounds, but the dean of women somehow manages to select just the right one for you. She is Beauty with cold cream on her face and rollers in her hair. Tolerance with cotton in her ears. Scholarship with a comic book, and Sophistication in white Levis. She is the one person in in your newly-adopted world who will bring you breakfast when you’re sick, listen to your jokes, problems, and English themes, and tell you when your skirt really is too short She can yell at, defend, and cheer you better than anyone else. She will advise you about how to wear your hair, which biology professor to get, and whether to ask George to your sorority formal — but only if you ask her to. To the decor of the room she will be happy to contribute one iron with a frayed cord, six 3’ x 2’ color posters of cities she would like to visit, bedspreads, and all her art work for the walls in exchange for the use of your typewriter, half a semester’s supply of soap powder, three-fourths of the book shelf, curtains, and a little praise for the art work. She is especially fond of Ion? formal gowns, spring vacation, your clothes, hot fudge sundaes (which she convinces you are not really fattening), fraternity parties, and receiving flowers for no special oc casion. She doesn’t care much for certain professors, unannounced quizzes, most of her clothes, making her bed, your favorite records, room inspection, or the food in the dining hall. She is her most obnoxious when you introduce her to your friends from back home, her most hilarious during those allnight ses sions when you simply must study for tomorrow’s exam, and her most stubborn when you want jour bed beside the window this semester. Buit when your world turns upside down and you just know Tom won’t ask vou to homecoming, she invites her cousin who plays quarterback for State, and she’s come through again. Before the four-year hitch has ended, you will know how to tell what she’s thinking before she says it, how her Aunt Mildred cans spinach, and why she hated her second-grade teacher. She will have learned your recipe for peanut butter souffle, how many boys you have kissed, and how to determine whether you want to discuss it or would rather be left alone for awhile. No one else is so patient when you keep the lights on till three in the morning, so dependable in a fire drill, or so lively in your new red dress. Of all the friends you make at college, she is the one whom you will recognize across the restaurant twenty years from now by that familiar smile — the one who will be maid of honor at your wedding — the one you will never forget.
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★ Forty-five
SONG FOR SWEENEY BY CHINNY SCHOTT
First Prize, Quiz and Quill Poetry Contest
I remember ome wlieii I was young That Sweeney sang for m.e Anil gave me shells that he hail foiinil Reside the silent sea.
d'he songs he sang blow ripples now That widen in my mind Like threads of claret tossed into A whirlpool of the wind.
-And all I have of Sweeney is The lovely voiceless shells. I strung them on a golden chain •And found no parallels
In beauty, which was all I asked From things found on the shore W hil l) sweep up from the long, black tide That drags the ocean floor.
Btit, Sweeney, iheie are moments when 1 hear your music still, â– And then your love tomes back to me, .And, though against niy will,
I run to where the melody Bides and keeps its swell, Btit only find the golden chain With whispers and a shell.
SOMEDAY, SOMEONE WILL SEE ME IlY CUKRM. (;()] l.I./NKR
Third Prize, Quiz and Quill Short Story Contest "Oooh — time to get up, Marina.” She slipped out of bed and glanced into a full-length mirror, quickly examining her slender, lithe bcxJy. "Boy, you sure look bad!” She stumbled over to the sink and began the washing ritual. She took a towel from the rack. "Hum — some improvement.” She walked to the window and pulled the shade. It rattled when it hit the top, a peculiar noise that still belonged to the silence of the room. Outside, a light morning drizzle was at its end. The light from the window gave the room a dull grey appearance. It was depressing. Marina automatically looked about the room while she dressed. There was the broken vase (holding her prize bouquet of faded, arti ficial flowers) sitting on the window sill. There was the window sill. There was the chipped paint around the single overhead light, and the massive chair that badly needed reupholstering. "You sure live in a dump, Marina. Maybe someday you’ll make good. You’ll live in New York’s best area, and have a summer house in England or South Amer ica. Someday, someone important will see you dance; you’ll get a chance at success!” She began putting on her make-up. "What good are you now, Marina?” She blotted her lipstick. "What if your chance never comes? Are you going to continue living in this dump, always hoping, wait ing?” Time did not allow her to continue. Soon she was on the stteet, rushing to the studio. It was a good walk from the apartment to the .studio, but walking was cheaper than taking a bus or the subway; and because it passed through a small park, it was tefreshing. Especially today! It was early May, and in the center of the park, a small lilac bush had begun to bloom. Marina could not resist pausing a moment to pick a blossom. The fragrance of the flowers delighted her so! She wanted to dance! Swan Lake and lilacs! Oh, sometimes life was so wonderful! A gust of wind blew up the street, whirling about papers and dust — and all was calm. Marina entered a tall, red-brick building. It was old, rather dilapidated. The hallway was a dingy brown, and plaster was falling from the ceiling. "I’m always so happy to enter this building. It tells me that soon I’ll be dancing; soon I’ll be living!” She pressed the elevator button . . . 4-3-2-1 . . . The door clanged open; she entered. The elevator was old, almost as old as the building. She pressed four; the door shut. Thete was a slight jolt; her face beamed. All her thoughts were focused on what she was about to do. She left the elevator and stood outside a door marked "Madamn Petrogofskich’s Studio of Dance.” She grasped the familiar knob— The first class was in session; the dressing room was crowded as usual. Marina went to her favorite bench and began to cliange. "Umm— the smell in here. The resin’s so strong, the sweat— and those horrid salami sandwiches Erica brings. 'What wonderful smells to be with,” thought Marina. The girls were talking about "this dress” and "that class,” but Marina was late. She had time only to catch a word or two. Fort\-seven
"Bilgie's not here today.” "Someone new taking his place?” "I hear he is not coming back!” 'Oh, I think he will . . . he’s too good for them to let him go.” "Who’s giving the lesson today?” The bell rang; talking ceased. Well trained, the girls filed into the huge, musty practice room, and took their places at the bar. The piano began to beat out the rhythm for exercises. A slight, but well-formed man, clad in dance uniform and red Russian dance boots, went to the front of the class and began the lesson. Mariana had never experienced such a workout before; yet she felt elated rather than tired. She had worked her very hardest, had given it her all. Boy, he ran us way overtime. We hardly have time to eat before character class.” ’’You know, if he keeps working like that, he’ll soon be ousted.” "He was awfully good though!’ The dressing room door opened, and plump Miss Dauder, the studio’s secretary peered in. She adjusted her glasses and glanced around until she spotted Marina. "Throw something on and come into the office, Marina. Better fix your hair a little too!” What could they want? ’Marina straightened her skirt and walked into the office. There sat Madamn Petrogofskich and the new instructor. Marina, this is Darminsky. As you probably have read in the papers, he is looking for a new partner. He’s found your work most commendable, and has decided, provided you are willing, to give you a trial period as his partner.” Marina flushed. "Can it be?” she thought. "I’m finally getting my chance — to dance with Darminsky!” I would be most willing to work by hardest. It is truly an honor to be selected to work with you, Mr. Darminsky.” "It was a rough rehearsal today, Marina. I’m sorry I had to work you so hard.” Darminsky took a shawl from the piano bench and threw it around Marina s shoulders. He turned her around, and gently brushed a wisp of hair from her face. Marina blushed. "I’m very tired Hugo. Won’t you take me home.” The apartment was the same as it was three months previous, except a dozen red roses stood where rhe artificial flowers had once been. They were a present from Hugo. When Marina opened the door and snapped on the light, rhe roses caught her eye. "He’s so kind to you Marina,” she thought. "He’s so kind; he loves you. And you love him, totj. Don’t you?” She went to her bed and lay down. Her eyes scanned the dirty, cracked ceiling. She ran her hand across her waist and began to massage her aching, raw sides. And she thought, not of the tiring rehearsal, but of Hugo and herself. "Why did it have to come this way? Why couldn’t we have been good partners, separating completely our dancing and living? Why did we have to fall in love?” She sat up and began turning her head in a circle. "Dancers just can’t fall in love; it’s against the rules. It ruins your act! Who wants to see a married couple dance a romance? Nobody! It just can’t be!” She bent over, her head between her knees. Hot tears streaked her cheeks, and an empty pain gnawed at her heart. "Tomorrow we will Forly-ciglit
make our debut, Darminsky and Slosvakovich. Tomorrow will be the beginning of all my dreams come true. They will applaud, and I will take many bows. They will throw flowers, and I kisses. 1 will capmre their hearts, and they will make me famous. 1 will . . .” Marina looked up, her eyes gleaming. "1 will let nothing come between me and my dancing. My life is my dancing!” Morning rehearsal began exceptionally early. There was much work to do before the evening’s performance; everything had to be perfect. A debut must always be perfect! "Marina, pick that foot up higher; you look like a lame duck! Wait—” Darminsky stopped the pianist went to where Marina stood. "Little 'dorogoi', I don’t mean to yell at you.” He put his arms around her shoulders. His voice was soft as he continued, "I shall make you the most beautiful star in the sky tonight. 1 shall m^ake you famous. Because I love you, 1 shall give you everything.” Chills ran up Marina’s back. She wanted so to yield, to show him how much she could love. "No,” something kept saying. "It is impos sible; it can’t be. Don’t let it happen!" "I’ll try harder, Hugo. It will be perfect tonight.” "All right — let’s try the second divertissement from the waltz tempo." The music began. "Pirouette, two three — now leap Marina. The glasses clinked, and Darminsky laughed. ' To our debut tonight.” Marina suddenly felt sick, nauseated. Lunch no longer appealed to her. She lowered her glass and looked deeply into its red contents. "Hugo, we can’t let this — this feeling get carried away.” Hugo took her hand and squeezed it. " ’Dorogoi,’ all I know is that I love you, more than anything else.” "More than dance.^” He .sat pensively for a moment. Then, with a sigh he said, You worry so much for one so young.” The meal was bland; it had lost all taste. Marina was in some far world, alone and cold, her mind a confusion of conflicting desires. She wanted to give her life to dance; she wanted to give it to Hugo. She wanted both, yet knew she could only have one. Marina stood at the resin box behind stage. As she ground her toe into it, she couldn’t help thinking how fast the day had gone. Here she was, Marina Slosvakovich, making her debut with Hugo Darminsky. And out there, beyond that curtain, sat everyone important — and she was going to dance. "Are you nervous, my 'dorogoi’.^” "No Hugo, excited.” "Do your best,” he said as he caressed her. "Do you best, and we will be beauty together.” Marina heard the orchestra begin to tune. She walked to the wing and stood very still. As the lights dimmed, Hugo walked to her, took her hand in his and kissed it. The music of the overture swelled. Marina turned from him, and listened for her que. The curtain opened; her body tensed. She took a deep, excited breath — pirrouette, two, three, leap. "You’re dancing, Marina!” And everyone is seeing you. This is your world — live!”
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★ Forty-nine
, . . MAJAPA . . . BY
r. li. oindorfC
she walks iiilo ihc low of (iiiict valleys loiuhing my thoughts with smiling teats
she runs to kiss and to clasp the warm rushing wind that passes so near to me
she lies in flashes hot and wet and flotving — her movements melting with tentlcr ways upon the shallow of broken leaves
she loves surrotinded by the slow snap of sky cold and rusty eyes staring fiom the high of quiet mountains
MONUMENTAL BY KARBN IIOI-RAIII
A pile of old shoes in your eloset All bill one pair, iinessemial. In slow, niechanieal steps your life goes lor each worn-out pair means one more layer Entompassed in red plastic tInner Enmeshed in a web of appointments Enerusicd with longstanding habits Yet you mareh on slowly, in cadence Even now wearing out one more layer.
A trunkful of clothes packed in mothballs Not even the moths can enjoy them. The whole but a perishing monument Each layer means “one year hehind you” One year of gelling up every morning Strangled with new toys and trinkets Nailed in a casket of clocks Smothered by mildewed ideas Yet you pack away last year’s new clothing .\s a tree each year adds one more layer.
Another day finds you with dead men Wearing new shoes, a new hat and suit Waiting for Time to call the meeting to order Lost in your swamp of little goals Lost among the tin cans and plastic Lost forever your immortal beginning. You will have red plastic roses As your life's most pernuuient mouument.
OUR WILLOW TREE liV LVNM', riril RllAlK.II
A great old grandfather was Our Willow tree. His many long and spindley arms llent down .And tucked us in a secret hideaway; Or a lone firm arm reached down ,\nd scooped us up unto him, .And he held us firmly In the crook of his mighty form. We nestled there above the threat Of the world running below. Then tired and wigglcy to go He lifted us out with a gentle swing — Over the bramble bushes — ■fhen safely hack to ground.
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SUMMER STORM BY BARBAR.Y BAR.\ 1 lOl'SK
Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetry Contest In the northwestern sky Storm-mountains swell and grow ink-dark, Bloated with rain; f.ightniug laces the hloody shioud of the sunset; The distant thunder slides round the horizon; .Sharp-edged swords of the winds lunge tear slash 1 he hlackness growing like a cancer. The heavy drops potmd the long grass flat and deail .And raise puffs of dust from the road; The aspen's taireietl leaves turn upward, Silver-white, To catch the rain; With soft whisper to the wet winds. The willow sways its silken .skirts. Sighing with the summer storm.
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Fifty-three
PROSE BY
JANK
SCO I
r
Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Prose Contest "Shhhh’.” "Here they come.” Immediately our nineteen pairs of eyes focused on the cloakroom door. Rodney came out first. He was hold ing his head waydown, trying to keep his lower lip from quivering too much. He slid into his seat real easy, not looking at anyone, propped his head up with his hands, and started staring at his geography book. We’d already had geography that morning, but I guess he had to look at something. She came out then and stood behind her desk, looking at all of us, one at a time. I scooted over in my seat, trying to hide behind the person in front of me so that I wouldn’t get her evil eye. Everyone kinda relaxed when she put the paddle down, but we all snapped back when she spoke. "Anyone else who thinks they don’t have to obey the rules can just step up and teuu me so.” Boy, would I like to. She’s just plain mean. Sure wish I had Mrs. Nutt for homeroom. The kids in her class have a lot of fun, but not us. "Take out your spellers and write the reading words ten times each to hand in.” At recess, we talked about it. Rodney was going to tell his dad and he would have her fired. "She didn’t have any right to do that. I was just asking Mike a question. I wasn’t trying to copy any answers.” Everyone was real quiet the rest of the day. So was she. I guess she knew that we were mad at her. Nothing euse like that happened for a while, but she was still real strict. Every morning we had to stand and say the Pledge of Allegi ance and a prayer. The other homeroom didn’t. She was all the time saying that discipline and honestly would make us good people and stuff like that. She was just plain mean. When Halloween came around, it was only natural for us to choose her house to spook first. We were real careful about it, too. We slunk over the back fence by her garden just like cats because we saw a light on in the front of the house and we couldn’t take any chances of getting caught by her! Charlie and Ned coated the windows with paraffin. It’s better than soap. John and Jerry dumped garbage all over the yard. I was supposed to tie the screen door shut and so I snuck up on the back porch. I peeked in the window to make sure the coast was clear and to see what sort of house she lived in. There were more books than I’d ever seen and all kinds of potted flowers sitting on those doily things she was always teaching the girls to make. There were pictures, too. Lots of them. Some of them looked like old-fashioned pictures with funny clothes and haircuts, but they were all pictures of kids. Who would ever give her a picture of himself? Some dope. I almost had the door tied shut when, suddenly, someone turned on the back light. I took off like a burning cat, falling twice on the garbage. The worst part was trying to get back over the fence. I made it too, except for a sleeve and the seat of my p>ants. Next morning, I asked Mom to let me stay home sick, but she was awful mad about my clothes, so she made me go. Fifly-lonr
I kept waiting all morning for her to start yelling at us and ask who did it, demanding that they be man enough to step up and con fess. She didn’t though. Recess came and I was trying to scoot out, but she called me back. I was scared. She was big and old and didn't like kids, and if she had recognized me last night I was in real trouble. She handed me a brown sack and said to put it in my desk for now, and give it to my mom when 1 got home. She didn’t yell or anything, but just turned back to the papers on her desk. I didn’t even peek into that sack all day, but as soon as I was out of sight of the sohool, I kx)ked. It was my sleeve and the ragged piece from my pants. I thought about it for a while. I knew I’d have to apologize now. She’d probably yell and give me one of her speeches about being truthfully and stuff. She was mean, just plain mean.
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hMBARRASSMENT in
iKNiriK
Ki
i.i.v
Spring in her iinpatienee rushed in and fell flat on her face in a snowdrift.
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fifty-five
TIME WAS BY BOB PRINCl.F
Time was when everyone lived Life like it was the dessert with whipped eream or one big gold fish bowl or a huge tube of tooth paste and All the grown ups prayed on sehednle after following kids the with but anymore a fella he can hear the Saint’s footsteps like he got up one morning and found no more Gleem.
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Fifty-seven
HELEN BY PATRICIA PRICE
"Hi. Anybody lookin’ for me yet?” Helen’s low, softly hoarse voice came slowly over the phone. "No, it’s early.” I glanced at my watch. Only 8:45. "How are you this morning?” "Kinda ’iffy’,” she replied. "Iffy” was her own word, yet I knew exactly what she meant. "What time did you go to bed this morning?” I said deliberately. She didn’t answer. I could picture her shouldering the phone, reach ing for a cigarette. I heard the faint click of her lighter, a slight pause, and our conversation resumed. "Those layouts ate ready for the printer,” she said in answer to my question. I doubted that she had slipped between the sheets all night. Last evening when I had been ready to leave the Advertising Department — I worked the conventional hours, eight to five — Helen was ready to begin work on the drawings. The layouts had to be sent to the printer today, the absolutely final deadline, and Helen had made it. She always did. The trouble was Helen never had time to bask in the glory of a victory such as this: other deadlines loomed perpetually in the not-ttxt-distant future. "You’re remarkable,” I said. "Anything in particular you want me to do before you come in?” I was hoping she would let me clean the choking cupboard near her desk. It was one of the last monu ments to the chaos that had prevailed two months ago when I came to work for Helen in the Advertising Department. Helen was manager of the department. As a matter of fact, she was the department. I had been hired for the summer with the idea that my making steady progress in cleaning up the one-room oWice and taking care of routine items would free Helen to devote her time to the specialized end of advertising and to catching up. I don’t suppose shell ever catch up, or that she’d really want to, deep down inside. But in theory that was our goal. "Oh,” she said, "I don’t know.” And then, as if reading my thoughts:’ "Just don’t go near the cupboard ’til I get there!” I had to laugh. I could remember the first morning she came in after I had been hired. It was a few minutes after 9:00. The previous hour I had spent cleaning the shelves behind her desk, carefully saving and arranging a few things I felt she’d want to keep, and tossing out __ without any qualms whatsoever — all the rest. Those shelves must have contained at least ten years’ accumulation of junk and semi-junk, and I could hardly wait to see her delight at this small display of order in a room where disorder prevailed! The elevator hummed up to the second floor and made its customary halting thud. Bang! The door opened wide, and Helen emerged. Or was it Helen? I wasn’t certin at first. I was later to become accustomed to the absurd picture she presented most mornings Fifty-eight
on her arrival. Because she took work home nightly, each a.m. she returned carrying a bulky assortment of poster boards, paintboxes, various anonymous bundles, a lunch bag, and a large purse. Such a load would have proven cumbersome for a halfback, but Helen was average in height, small boned, and in her early fifties. Her shoulders, permanently humped from years at a drawing board, hovered over the packages, while her head tilted sharply back to prevent her glasses from sliding all the wiay down her nose. Her thick, wiry black hair, splashed with gray, used to be worn in a bun at the top of her head. But now, cut short and subject to no restraints, it was in com plete disarray. Into the room she trudged with a breathless "Good morning.” She dropped most of her burden on her already over-laden desk, and I went into the hall to close the elevator door, returning just in time to see her quick, blue eyes flash in the direction of the shelves. "Oh my God, what’ve you done with my stuff!” She actually jumped back in mock horror. Rather, 1 thought it was mock horror. In a moment I discovered to my complete surprise that it was genuine. I was made to understand — in no uncertain terms — that while she was just as eager as I to see the office neat and tidy, I would have to accept the fact that she felt a great attachment for many of the things which I considered to be component parts of the clutter. Thereafter, progress was not as rapid as I would have preferred. I continued to throw away articles that were obviously useless, but I checked with her on many items, usually prefacing my inquiry with, "Surely you don’t want this any more, do you?” When her answer was "No”, she grinned as if aware of the pleasure it gave me. When her answer was "Yes,” however, she most often tried to look stern in an effort to discourage any questioning of her motives. So, she wanted to be there when I started rummaging in the cupboard. "All right,” I said, having to smile a little, "I won’t touch the thing ’til you’re here. Incidentally, when will you be here?” "Oh, I’ll be there shortly. If H. A. asks where I am, tell him I’m at the printer’s having his damn signs made . . . No, I guess you can’t tell him that. Anyway, that’s where I’ll be. You just keep the fires burning.” "Oh, Helen,” I sad quickly, afraid she might hang up, "How about your roses. Any new blooms?” "Don’t worry, I checked ’em this morning. Two pink ones right here in front of me,” and she began describing for me their exquisite beauty. Her voice had a thrilling quality whenever she talked about living, growing things — plants and flowers and her granddaughter especially. I knew that while she was telling me about the roses, she was undoubtedly gesturing broadly with her long hands, her tired eyese were probably a little wider, and her upper lip was dabbed with tiny beads of prespiration as it always was when she was intense about something. "I’m glad you thought of them. The ones in the vase now look pretty tired.” I noticed the vase on her desk. It stood in a cleared area about the size of a cookbook amidst untouched stacks of who-knowsFillv-niiie
what and contained only remnants of roses, while the petals were strewn at its base. "See you later.” I hung up just in time to face a questioning office boy from downstairs. "Isn’t Helen in yet?” he demanded. "No, she’ll be in very soon, though. She had to stop at the printer’s.” "Uh-huh.” He sauntered out, giving me what he thought was an all-knowing smirk. "Must be nice to have to work for a living.
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THE ETERNAL CYCLE in’ I'Aiii, I). itoniNsoN
Man is a swaggering, Boistrous creature. When all is well, The harvest good, He laughs at Ciod And the thought o£ Hell. He asks, “Is there a God? Who needs a God! I am strong! 1 have everything!’’ Man is a weak. Sniveling creature When all is poor. And the harvest nil. Now he wants God And believes in Hell. He prays, “My God! My God! My God Deliver me from famine! Save me from this pestilence! Then, I will ever serve yoti!”
Man is a swaggering, Boistrous creature. When all is well. The harvest good. He laughs at God And tlie tliotight of Hell!
UNHAPPY. . . BY KARKN llOKRATH
lJnliai)py with myself, I need to crush innocence. As a child lings a kitten Crushing it with love, ■So do I lurn to him With pointed hurting words A voice of splintered glass.
d'hen, just as the kitteti I’rotests with a pitiltil meow, The hurt comes in his eyes. And I comfort him To soothe my own crushed .self.
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TOMORROW BY BONMt o’l.KARY
Tomorrow, how often we wish for it. Tomorrow, how often we hope for it. Tomorrow, how often we plan for it. Tomorrow, how often we pray for it. Tomorrow, how often we forget that today makes it.
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Sixly-lxoo
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GRANDFATHER ISV NATAI.IK lUINC.ARD
The sky was blue, the ceiling white. The grass brown, anti the rug grey. The air was somehow artificial— It was July.
I walked alone across the large, heavy room— Thinkingi Suddenly the trance was broken When my eyes fell on forgotten petals— Live were from red roses. Seven were white chrysanthemum strands. Separated from the whole They were limp and lifele.ss .... Tragic figuies.
The while strands, how like the color of his hair. Red rose petals — his very favorite; I think betause red was a bright and happy color And he en joyed life so. You see, he’s dead. The sun was setting pink licliind mauve clouds. And me? Well . . . I am of another generation.
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THE BOK TOY DEAL BY sl u Lr.icini'R
Second Prize, Quiz and Quill Short Story Contest Everything seemed gloomy. It was raining, and a vibrating grumble came from the sky. It was hard to see outside the windows; the rain was streaming down the panes as if in a race. From an open window the faint rattles of a distant trolley were heard. Every thing seemed gray. Somebody was unhappy. Inside, it was very warm. The humidity hung. The house smelled from the wet dust on the window sills. The drapes and curtains were motionless in front of the open windows. It was light and dark. Some one was not happy. He came downstairs slowly. His head was pounding at the temples. There was sorrow and torment on his face, and he trembled, almost in spasms. He walked into the study and dialed the telephone. "Is Raymond there?” he asked. He wished that he had a stick of gum or a life-saver; his mouth felt hot and dry. A voice came over the phone. "Hello?" "Raymond? This is Frank. I have to talk to you. It’s about your deal.” Frank bit off a pencil eraser and began chewing it. "Where do you want to meet, Frank?” "I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Anywhere.” "Over here?” "No. I’d rather not.” "How about China Lee’s? We’ll have dinner.” "It doesn’t matter. O.K.” 'About sevenish?” "Fine, Raymond. Goodbye.” Frank replaced the receiver and spit the eraser bits into the wastebasket. There was a picture of him and his wife on rhe desk. He noticed it but did not actually look at it. He walked into the living room and pulled back the drapes from the window and looked at the rain on rhe glass. He made mental bets with himself, choosing two streams of the water, to see which would reach bottom first. Always the same pattern, he thought; the paths were grooved. He laughed when he thought that the raindrops were also in a rut . . . Rain, rain, go away . . . He could hear the television upstairs in their bedroom. More jewelry, he thought, Jean wants more jewelry. Jean Jean Jean Jean . . . Cold . . . frigid? ... no, she’s changed . . . every night the same coldness . . . fear . . . vanity . . . fear of pregnancy . . . children . . . her precious figure . . . verrucose veins, social slow down, less time, no Miami Beach, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera! It’s her choice tonight. I’ve tried eveything. Too cold in here. No wonder; all these windows open. Frank walked to the closet, put on his raincoat, and left. From upstairs, Jean heard the door. slam. She got up from the bed and walked to the window. Where is he going in this weather? she wondered. She lit a cigarette and sat down. It’s probably my fault again, Jean began thinking. He’s always so right; and so wrong. I’m too young, damn it! Too young to have children! Is that all he can ever think about? There’s more to marriage than — that. Her shoulders drooped and her chin fell against her chest. "Oh, Frank,” she sighed, "please understand. Please.” Sixly-foiir
Frank arrived at China Lee’s a little after seven. He hung up his raincoat and walked to the booth where Raymond was sitting. They shook hands and Frank asked, "How long have you been waiting? "I just got here a few minutes ago,” Raymond answered. Still raining?” he asked. "Yes. It’s prettly ugly outside. Raining all day. The waiter took their order. Raymond spoke: "I can’t remember the last time it rained this much, except maybe — remember, Frank? Sure you do! It rained like this when you and Jean were —” Frank cut him off. "Let’s talk, Raymond, O.K.?” "Sure, kid.” "Did you see the accountants and everyone yet? ’ Frank asked. Raymond opened his attache case and handed Frank a series of balance sheets and statements. While he looked at them, the waiter brought the soup. . "Raymond, I have to get away from this town, from this life, from everything. You don’t know what Jean means to me Raymond, you don’t. "Oh, I have a pretty good idea, Frank. After all, not too tnany men would give up a thriving business for the sake of a marriage, Raymond said. He sipped at his soup. "Is it still that bad?” he asked. "You can’t imagine. She fears me at night. I can sense it; a real fear.” "And by your quitting the business she’ll no longer fear you? Wake up, Frank. She’s vain; pieriod.” "I know; but I thought that if I moved away, away from all this bigness, she might change.” "And you’re willing to take that chance?” "She’s my whole life.” "You know why, don’t you?” "No, Raymond, you’re wrong,” Frank began replying. He moved his napkin over his lipis and continued. "Jean doesn’t hold sex over my head and reign with it. Gtxl only knows what went wrong these last few months, but Jean knows that it’s a serious problem. We just can’t agree on a solution.” "Frank, listen to me. There is no solution unless Jean changes her attitude. If she sees that you’ve tltrown away a fabulous career for her sake, and she’ll know damn well what’s behind it all, she’ll lead you far beyond any point of recovery.” "I have to do it.” The waiter brought their food. Frank portioned the food to Raymond and himself and replaced the steel lids on the dishes. "What are you going to do when you leave?” Raymond asked. "I’ve been offered a position to teach at Amherst. It’s quiet, Ray mond; quiet and interesting. I’m getting tired of all this running. I don’t need a heart attack.” Raymond reached for the soy sauce and began dousing his food with it. He stopped and looked at Frank. "You know I mean it when I say I’ll miss you. Never mind the business. You meant a lot to me, that’s all. Good God! How did I let you talk me into ordering Bok Toy? It’s awful!” Sixty-five
Frank laughed. "Too much soy sauce, Raymond.” Jean sat at the dressing table brushing her short, dark hair. She stopped, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Am I to blame? she thought. Am I actually the way he makes me out to be? He is right about one thing; I do have pretty rotten friends. It’s our money, I guess. Which reminds me, I need a new dress for the Jensens’ next month, and I hope Frank gets that diamond brace let I asked for. Maybe I should get him something. I should try some of those pills. No! He’d kill me if he ever found out! That wretch! Comparing me to Scarlett O’hara. As if he’s sweet. Oh, I’m sorry, Frank. "Oh, God, I’m so sorry!” She covered her face and began crying, then she burst into uncon trollable sobs, her shoulders heaving with each breath. She cried out, "Frank! I want you, Frank! Now! Oh, dear God, now!” The phone was ringing for nearly half a minute before Jean pick ed it up. "Hello?” she asked, still whimpering. "Jean? This is Raymond. Is Frank home yet?” "No,” Jean replied, a little puzzled. "Is there a message?” "I forgot to tell him that we’re signing the releases tomorrow morning at eight.” Jean was getting worried. "Releases?” she asked. "What releases? What are you talking about, Raymond?” "Oh, no. I blew it,” Raymond mumbled. Jean became frantic. "What releases, Raymond?” "I honestly thought you knew, Jean. Frank asked me to buy him out,” Raymond answered, trying to conceal his embarrassment. "What do you mean, 'buy him out’? Oh, the releases.” Jean was silent. "I didn’t mean for you to find out like this. Jean? are you still there?” "It’s not your fault, Raymond.” Her eyes were watering. "He’s tired. He’s worked long and hard. He needs a rest. Will you have him call me when he gets home?” "Yes. I will. Goodnight, Raymond.” Jean put down the receiver and walked to the window. She looked out, across the river, to the city. She watched the streams of red lights curling along the express way. She looked at the buildings, all clustered together, the near ones dwarfing most of the others. As the river caught the reflections of the lights, they seemed to blink on and off in the mild waves. On and off. She turned and walked downstairs. It had stopped raining when Frank came home. Jean was waiting for him in the living room when he arrived. They exchanged routine greetings and Frank sat down next to her. "Raymond called a little while ago. He wants you to call him back.” Jean told him without looking at him. Her cheeks were streaked with mascara. He gave her a strange look, then got up and walked towards the study. Jean followed and grabbed his arm. "Don’t, Frank; don’t call him,” she pleaded. "Why not?” he demanded. Sixly-six
"I found out from Raymond what you’re doing.” "Jean, I’m not going to argue with you. This city and this life is ruining us, and I’m leaving. I have to; we have to.” He turned and walked intO' the study. She remained expressionless when Frank came out of the room. He walked over to her and took her hand. "I’m tired,” he said softly. "I’m going up to bed. Coming?” "I’ll be up in a little while, Frank.” "O.K. I’ll wait up. Don’t forget to turn off the lights.” Jean’s eyes followed him as he walked away. He looked back and smiled, and she returned the smile as he started upstairs. She walked over to the window and looked out to the city again, standing there for a few minutes. Then she mrned and slowly walked to the couch and lay down. "I’ll be up in a minute, Frank,” she whisp ered. "I just want to rest my eyes. Just for a minute. I’m . . . soi . . . tired . . .”
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HA! BY MARII.YN MAC CANON
Second Prize, Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing Contest
A last revenge: My I.ifebook has An asterisk Besitle your name Rut no footnote.
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UNTITLED BY MIXINDA RICKELMAN
Over this deep, black caveness of cliaos, This blind-while bliz/ard of ignorance, This bottomless hatred-pit of prejudice. This ocean width of absurdity. The shadow of a distant dream Wanders through the eternity of tomorrow Waiting to become the reality of now.
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. . . A CRYSTAL IMAGE . . . liv r. Ii. onidorlf
through the wind darkly a bright starred diamond reflects the purple hands of a lone and wandering god
a blue splintered glass is uplifted by the melting echo of his steps on the floor of shimmering light — and as a quiet cold crashes into the forgotten depth of tracks and time along the path of the wandering got!
the son of man plays on white rocks greened and the ash of ages is blown darkly through the wind of a bright starred diamond.
THE PRICE OF CYNICISM BY VEKDA DEETER
The price of cynicism is now cheap, Tor petty bitterness is common cash: Inflated, overused, not fit to keep; litit spent with haste before it turns to trash.
In market places of our daily speech The cynic’s merchandise is bargain priced. ‘You get, for one sarcastic comment each. These Iticious grapes of wrath.” So thus enticed
A worthless flood of bitter currency N oting cynics from their shallow purses jrour. They boast that they have bought profundity; Now they will taste a depth not known before.
With greed they grasp the fruit they would devour. But tasting it, complain: "These grapes are sour!”
. . . LAST EXHIBIT . . . liV ROBliRT I'RINGLE
Sunken glower by deep shriven slot /\l)Soibs
tliose sdnlillian waves,
Polarized thru anthropos’ breathe and gest.
Titrate begins tlie manifold latboin, Held np against household hahit With distal, proximal phases regarded, Thilke.
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