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MOSAIC
I I
Illarist
college
arts
®
literary
Illagazine
Table of Contents
After Thoughts
2
Connie Buckley
A Word on Mother's
Up
&
Coming Marriage
3
Connie Buckley
Photo No. 1
4
Paul Nunziata
Photo No. 2
5
Paul Nunziata
The Library
6-11
Jane Sottile
Sketch No. 3
12
William Sweeney
Sketch No. 4
13
Wi
11
iam Sweeney
Drifter
14
Debbie Bowers
Beach Tides
15
Debbie Bowers
Occurance
16
-
17
Melinda Bowen
Photo No
.
5
18
Richard Barbara
Photo No. 6
19
Lark Landon
John Muir
20
Rich Stephens
Where has the Man
in Me Gone
21
Rich Stephens
Sketch No. 7
22
Kathy Butts
Sketch No. 8
23
Kathy Butts
Late March
24
John Witter
To Work
24
John Witter
3
/
16/78
25
John Witter
Mid-December
25
John Witter
Sketch 9
26
Dot Egerton
Sketch 10
27
Dot Egerton
Photo No. 11
28
Paul Nunziata
Photo No. 12
29
Paul Nunziata
Call Me Ishmael
30-33
Kathy Growney
Sketch No. 13
34
Kathy Butts
Sketch No. 14
35
Kathy Butts
Winged Fantasy
36
Pat Mason
Primavera
36
Pat Mason
Before Exit Signs
37
Pat Mason
Having Swept
38
Connie Buckley
Descent of Frost
39
Christopher Faille
Photo No. 15
40
Lark Landon
Photo No. 16
41
Rich Barbara
Memory Class
42-44
Melinda Bowen
Subway
45
Meryl Samuels
The Kiss
46
Meryl Samuels
Photo No. 17
47
Rich Barbara
Editorial Comments
48
cover photo by rich barbara
connie buckley
2
After thoughts
bring confusion
I am not the fighter
I am claimed to be.
The static
for all I know may well be the message.
My legs pitch forward
making
it
hard to stand my ground.
connie buckley
A Word on Mother's up and Coming Marriage
part I
Cutting through the park
to make the night pass in speed.
The library
stands
dark and unread.
Wednesdays
mother sat me
in the children's section.
Minutes later
I would be standing
beside her
in the adult book isle.
part II
The car lay wrecked
-
-
The children's doing.
The glass shattered - -
it held all reflections.
We are older now.
This is said as a statement
the bricks lay at our sides
motionless without reason.
The brass bed-pole
brought down
upon father's head
With all the violence
that our childhood reeked of.
part 111
My jealousy, fear
taking me back years;
mother holding
father's image
up as a cross,
shaking it
as if directing the wind.
My laughter, strength
as I laughed at father
thinking
he was all men.
part IV
Our God witheld no punishment.
Brash and bold
and in our own rite,
happiness is ours.
3
paul nunziata
4
paul nunziata
5
6
THE LIBRARY
by Jane Sottile
Lucy von Wagner opened the "p" drawer of the card catalogue. She leafed through the
cards: Profere, Peter
J.,
Proferral, Martha M.
"Damn," said Lucy.
She closed the drawer in disgust, and walked up to the librarian's desk.
"I can't find Marlene Profero in the catalogue," she said.
The librarian looked up. "Let me check," he said. He glanced at his check
-
out sheet.
"It's being used right now."
"Well, when can I have it?" she asked in annoyance.
"There's still two hours before it'll be cleared."
"Well, can I
reserve
it?"
"Yes, but there are two people ahead of you."
"Goddammit. What kind of library is this? Everytime I come in here, whoever I want
is out. Haven't you ever considered duplicates?"
The librarian reguarded her in silence. "You know as well as I, or you should, that
there can only be one of each card in use per sector, or else the effects are diluted. Then
everybody's cheated."
"Of coarse I know that," she snapped. "What do you think I am, stupid?"
The librarian chuckled to himself. "Do you want to be put on the list?"
Lucy considered. "No. It'll take too long. I'll find someone else." Lucy turned, and
started toward the catalogue room.
"Wait a minute," said the librarian. "Maybe I can help you. There's a new card that's
just come in. Maybe you'd like to try it.''
Lucy hesitated. "I don't know. I don't like those new one's. They're all so
bland.
People just don't have much personality any more."
He lowered his voice. "I feel the same way. The men in here are so damn insipid. I
must have gone through the whole library - sampled almost everything.''
Lucy looked at him in surprise. "But don't you have a certain psychological match?"
"Oh
that,"
he said. "I don't believe all that stuff. But listen, I know what your problem
is. And there's a sort of ... well, innovation I've come up with."
"What do you mean?"
"Wei I, it's characters."
"Huh?"
"You know, fictional characters.''
"But that's impossible. You're just trying to make fun of me," Lucy said indignantly.
"Well I'm not
that
gullible. I went to school too. Libraries can only handle real people,
whose lives are well known. Fictional characters are too ambiguous. There's too much
room for imagination and innovation. Not enough predictability.''
The librarian waved her to silence. "Yes. I've heard all that. But it's not true. It can be
done. The only thing is that Technicians don't want it to be done. There's not as much
control
over fictional characters. The complexities expand enormously. People might do
anything. But I've made up a few fiction cards in my spare time." He paused, and brushed
the hair out of his eyes. "Anyway, I've tried them. And they're great. None of that
blase mediocrity you were complaining about. These cards are vibrant. No letdown at
all."
"Really?" asked Lucy in excitement. "It sounds neat. Lately I haven't gotten any
enjoyment at all out of Tranference. Can I try it?"
The librarian smiled. "A recruit at long last. But are you sure about this? You might
not like going back to real people."
"Well I don't like them now."
"Okay then. But you'll have to wait a while. I'm on duty, and I have to adjust the
computer outlay before you can use the card."
"This isn't
illegal
or anything, is it?" asked Lucy.
"No," said the librarian. "At lease not yet. I'm off at ten. Meet me outside the Study
Room, okay?"
"Sure."
Lucy walked into her apartment, whistling a John Philip Sousa tune. A tall man in
a dark brown robe walked out of the bed room. He looked at her uncertainly. "Hi,"
he ventured.
"Hi Ralph," she said. "It's only me."
He relaxed. "Oh, I thought you were going to the library."
"I did. But I didn't get anything."
He looked surprised.
"Aren't
you feeling well?" he asked.
"Of
course
I am." She laughed. "Is there anything so terrible about being myself
in my leisure time?"
"No. In fact, I rather like you," he said.
"Well I should hope so. After all, you did marry me."
Ralph smiled. "I did, didn't I? But you're hardly ever yourself when I'm home. You're
usually what's her name? Profero?"
Lucy nodded.
"Well god, it's nice to have Lucy for an afternoon."
"Oh Ralph. You know as well as I do, that Library Transference saved marriage as
an institution. Now people don't get bored with each other. They have a virtually
unlimited supply of people-to-become and people-to-meet."
"People got by before," Ralph said.
7
8
"Sure, they got by. But they were barbaric, full of self-hate. You know what things
were like back then. With all that leisure time on their hands people became dissatisfied
with spectator sports and mass communication as entertainment. They wanted something
they could actively
participate
in. And the library provided them with an interesting
safe diversion. Now people don't have to be themselves all the time. It's 'the perfect
answer to boredom and inadequacy.' "
"Well I'm just glad you're yourself today. I don't like those other people in my home."
"God Ralph, I hope you don't talk like this to other people. Transference is almost
a social necessity."
"Well I can't help it. I'd rather be myself. And I'd rather you be you," he asserted.
"Okay, Ralph, no need to get so upset. You know, I think it would do you good to
take a vacation from yourself, you're getting too introspective."
"Goddammit Lucy, don't psychoanalyze me."
"I was only trying to help. You see? We always have an argument when we're our-
selves. What's the use?"
"That's because you never even think when you're 'vacationing.' 'Good use of leisure
time.' What a farse. You're too busy being someone else all the time to have any real
emotions
.
You're a goddamn parasite."
"Ralph,
please.
I don't care to discuss it. Personally I think you should see a Transference
Technician."
Ralph bristled with anger. He took a breath and controlled his voice. "Well, why
didn't you Transfer today?"
"Because the person I wanted was out. I'm going back tonight to try someth
i
ng new."
"Oh."
"Maybe you'd like to come with me?"
Ralph stared at her incredulously.
"Well I was only asking ... "
Lucy walked into the library, her steps quick and firm
.
The librarian was leaning
against the wall outside of the Study Room.
"It's all set," he said.
"Thank god. I'm so fed up with everything. My husband is so damn old fashioned.
He doesn't even believe in Transference."
The librarian looked shocked.
"That's right. He's only tried it once or twice, and then only at my insistence.''
"What is he, some sort of manic egoist?"
Lucy shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. But I don't seem to be able to cope
with him anymore."
r
"What does he do for relaxation, for leisure?"
"He reads."
"What?"
"Yea, he's got a whole bunch of old monographs and microfilms."
"I think he needs counselling."
"So do
I."
"Did you ever
consider
bringing Freud home?"
"I don't dare. You should have seen how upset he got when I mentioned that he
should see a Technician."
"Well maybe he'll come around." The librarian glanced at his watch. "We better
get started. Would you mind if I Transferred with you?"
"Do you mean it?" Lucy asked excitedly. "I haven't done that in ages."
"Sure, come on."
The librarian unlocked the door to the Transference Room. He took two index cards
out of his inside pocket.
"Tonight you'll be Rose Cotton, and I'll be Sam Gamgee."
"Who are they?"
"Oh just two characters in some obscure twentieth century novel. But what's important
is our freedom of movement. Our (or their) ability to ad-lib."
"I really don't get all that 'freedom' stuff. Why is this going to be so different?"
"Well look, all the cards in here are real people, a myriad of talents, ideologies, and
physical makeups. But the major point is that all these people have existed, and their
lives are well documented. What each person did in real life, in response to real stimuli,
are used (by the computer) to extrapolate what actions and emotions that person wi 11
have now, in response to our stimuli. And the most popular cards allow the Transferee
(vis-a-vis the library patron) maximum leverage in handling new situations, all within
a predetermined margin of action.
"But fictional characters lives are never wholly known. Authors hint many times at
incidents and relationships which are never fully developed. Thus, the extrapolations
are too complex to be dealt with safely for mass usage. But fictional characters would-
and do-afford the best kind of Transference, because the very spontaneity involved
yields less stereotyped emotional responses."
"I see. So the Technicians, to insure everyone's safety, have to know within reasonable
limits what each Transferee might do at each moment, knowing that thousands of other
Transferences are going on at the same time."
"Exactly."
"So isn't what we're doing going to ruin the scheme?"
9
10
The librarian shrugged. "Two people? Out of all of those thousands? I don't think so.
What the Technicians are really afraid of is if everyone starts doing fiction. Then there
would be chaos. But for us it's safe. You ready?"
Lucy nodded.
When Lucy woke up, her husband was bent over her, his face lined with worry.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
Lucy sat up. She nodded her head slowly. "God, was that some Transference."
"I should say so," said a man sitting behind a long oakwood desk. "Just what did you
mean by taking that trip?"
Lucy started. "Who are you?"
"He's a Technician," said Ralph. "He's the one who helped get you back."
The Technician looked down at a report on his desk. "You're lucky to be back here
at all. As it was, your husband had to recall you. It seems your character didn't want to
let go."
"I don't know about that, but what a fantastic transference!" I've never felt such
emotions before."
The Technician leaned forward. "Are you aware of the consequences of this type of
Transference?"
Lucy shrugged her shoulders.
"Don't you know why fiction isn't used in Transference?"
"Because of the complexities involved in predicting mass behavior."
"That's part of it. But the major thing is that these characters grab hold of you."
"Huh?" Lucy asked puzzledly.
"They capture your imagination. You become so absorbed in the character's emotional
responses and attitudes that you become submerged."
"I don't quite ... "
"Look," said Ralph impatiently, "What you term a good Transference is one where
you, Lucy, are at a maximum distance
-
a spectator. You feel, hear and see through
your Transferee. But with a fictional character (especially one who presents an unfamiliar
perspective) you can become
lost."
"But I wasn't aware of anything like that happening."
"Of course you weren't," said the Technician. "But you were Transferred for almost
five days before we found you."
"Oh, but I hardly think I was in any danger. I was having a great time. I never had
such a complete Transference. I think you're just trying to scare me."
"The trouble with you," said Ralph, "is that you don't
care.
You're all to anxious
to become somebody else. To submerge yourself in someone else's psyche. You should
try exploring your own emotions sometime. You might get off on it."
1"
"You should talk, Ralph. You're too caught up in yourself to even try Transferring."
Ralph stood up
.
"See if you can talk to her," he said to the Technician. "I'm going
out for a walk."
"Well," said Lucy, after Ralph had left, "what are you going to do? Throw me in jail?"
The Technician laughed. "No. But now I hope you're aware of the real danger of
fiction. In the future, restrict yourself to the library catalogues for Transference. You
came dangerously close to losing yourself
.
"
"What happened to Sam ... I mean the librarian?"
"Oh he's being briefed too. But I'm afraid he's lost h
i
s job
.
It's too sensitive a position
to a
l
low him to remain there. He's being placed elsewhere in the library, in the History
and Restoring section I believe
.
Well you can go now. If you have any further problems,
come see me."
"Thanks," said Lucy, "I will. Goodbye."
"Bye now."
During the following weeks Lucy frequented the library, taking out Ghandi, Jong,
Le Guin, Sexton, trying desperately to recapture her "trip". But nothing worked. She
found all the Transferences dull and trite in comparison. On her husbnad's urging, she
even tried it "Straight" for a while, just being herself.
Lucy sighed, then got up from the couch. "I'm going out for a walk, Ralph," she said.
"Oh, you want some company?"
"No. I
'
d like to be alone - to think."
Ralph smiled. "You know I'm really glad you stopped using the library. You've
started becoming a person again, instead of some unthinking receptacle."
"Well it does take getting used to."
"I know it does. But stick with it."
"Sure honey. See you later."
Lucy stepped outside and onto the sidewalk. She walked aimlessly at first, but soon
found herself outside the library. She hesitated briefly, then walked inside. In the basement
she found a small door marked "History and Restoration." She knocked.
"Come in," a voice called.
Lucy entered the room
.
The librarian was seated behind a metal desk. He looked up,
and seeing Lucy, smiled self-consciously.
"Oh, hi! Are you okay?" he asked.
"
Yea, sure. That was a neat Transference we had."
"Sorry I got you in trouble
.
"
Lucy shrugged. "Oh hell, it was worth it." She paused
.
"Listen, do you have any
of those fiction cards left?"
11
12
13
debbie bowers
14
Drifter
She untangled her long legs
And sat straight up on the bed
Visions of Antony and Ceaser
Danced in her head
She said, "Don't take it that way.
The places I've been,
I've done nothing
Except try to win."
Silently her words fell
Like darkened drops
On the walls of the bedroom
Or the streets in the dark.
Softly, with ease,
The girl moves away.
Lost for eternity?
No
,
only a day
.
She closes the novel
And sits straight up in the chair
.
Delilah murdered Samson
But he really wasn't there.
Surrounded by sorrow
Of the days gone by.
What's left to do?
Only
l
augh and cry.
She untangled her long legs
And danced up a storm
With all the street men - - -
Keeping them warm.
She said, "Don't take me that way.
With whatever I've done,
Nothing more or less
Than try to have fun."
..
debbie bowers
Beach Tides
You say the sun has bleached your hair
And sand is in your shoe
You act as if there's nothing new.
Your life should have some meaning
Something you can be
My love, is your sun sinking into the sea?
I ask that you remember
Al I you've ever done
California's settled
Not in you, but everyone.
You say that rain is seldom
And it never comes at night
You say you feel you did it right.
Left when all the signs said stay
In someone you didn't need.
Set yourself free
.
I ask that you conceive of
What has yet to come
California's settling
In you and everyone.
15
16
THE OCCURRENCE
by
Melinda Bowen
I found the answer to my question among the dust-ladden shelves of a library in the
village of Kermonk
.
I had asked myself over and over agin, "Was what we saw that night
real? Did it ever happen?" There in the library among the local area history, lay a sallow
colored journal holding my answer. The journal held a brief account of the sudden
unexplained death of Polly Hooker. It was reported by a forthright fellow puritan named
Samuel Simons who had found her, merely by chance, on a morning walk. It is dated
November 1, 1676, and he speaks of finding her after morning prayers. It reads:
"Taking my morning leave from the temperance house I passed the waterfalls
in order to better understand God's will in bringing us to such wilderness.
There in the small alcove, I spied little Polly Hooker, just married this past
year to young Cain Hooker, floating in the pool beneath the cascades. Up
until that moment, the cascades had always seemed like a piece of Eden
God had allowed to remain after the unpardonable sin. I took the limp form
of gentle Polly back to the temperance house. The rest of the day was spent
in prayer with the other good people of our modest congregation.
In my own mind, though, I have not said this to the others, I wonder how
a gentle godly creature like Polly received the bruises and scratches that appear
on her face and arms. In my own mind I wonder If some misdeed has not
befallen so innocent a creature. Yet I know God, in his wisdom, had reason
to call Polly forth unto his Kingdom. She was a good Christian
,
and I am
sure God has seen to it that she is in a better world. I am happy for her. I
pray that God may be as merciful to me when called forth on Judgement day."
This is where the story of young Polly Hooker ends. Or does it? Six months ago, after
the incident first happened, I thought it to be the wine acting in my system. Had my
friends not been there to see what I had, I doubt I would have mentioned it to anyone.
Now, after months of constant searching, I have found this reference in a journal as a
clue to my strange sighting.
The night of the occurrence itself had a certain cryptic quality to it. It was All Hallow's
Eve, the air was crisp and biting, the moon, an unoticed sad, full face. A handful! of
adventurers and myself, had driven up to a secluded spot in the Catskill Mountains known
as High Falls. The falls can only be found by following a pathway through a densely
wooded area for approximately
.
a quarter of a mile, at which point the stream, at the
right side of the path, opens to a fifteen foot waterfall. The water cascades down into
a pool which, in parts I have been told, is some twelve feet deep.
Upon arrival at our destination each traveler stood for the first few seconds aghast.
The falls had taken on an appalling irradiance. We could see through to the far wall
of the horseshoe-shaped alcove, yet there was a glow to the water that fell, almost as if
you were looking at it through a soft lense of a camera
.
Quickly explaining away our fears, we laughed at being so easily shaken by such a
trivial thing as the reflection of the moon
.
Sitting down upon the rocks next to the
pool's edge, we pulled out the warmed May Wine and set about our business of seeing
who could tell the most frightening stories. We had decided earlier that whoever told
the best story was a free dinner out, paid for by the rest of the participants. The winner
of the most unusual tale, however, was never taken to dinner.
It was about half way through the second bottle of wine that our little group of story-
tellers heard a scream come from the top of the falls. The May wine, we later decided
must have deadened our nerves, for we merely lifted our heads in the direction of the
cry. There before us, stood what appeared to be a young couple struggling with each
other. From where I sat I could barely make out the form of a young girl no more than
twenty years old, in a floor length print dress, with white petticoats underneath. Her
hair was tightly bound to the back of her head, and from where I sat her facial features
seemed drawn and taunt. Yet they were not of a sterile, prim nature, but rather had
the tinness of frame that comes with youth.
"NO! NO!" I heard her screech, "No Cain, please leave me go, I have done nothing
wrong. As God as my witness I have not!"
After this I saw a form from behind her clasp her arms and hands tightly, as before she
seemed to have been fending him off. He looked to be a young man also in his twenties.
His hair was long yet in an outmoded style. His style of dress was that of a farm hand,
yet the material seemed much more coarse than what workers use today. The only pre-
dominent feature I could see in his face from where I stood, were his eyes. They were
dark, forbidding eyes that seemed to pierce everything they focused on, specifically the
woman he now grappled with. He slapped her two or three times open-handedly acrossed
the face, afterwhich I heard his deep resolute voice say authoritatively:
"YES! YES! You have Polly. I heard it from God on high. He came to me in a vision.
My wife hath laid down by another."
At this he became raving as if in some delirious fever.
"Now I'm going to purge you of your sins. God has shown me the way!" Lifting up
his head he screamed to her: "Look up high unto the heavens and pray God will be
merciful with your unworthy soul." He wrenched her head upward towards the sky.
Then suddenly looking down he added in a resounding voice, "Now look down unto that
black murky deep water which is the pit of hell!"With his last statement he grabed her
tighter to make her look down the fifteen feet to the pool, at the bottom of the falls.
She squirmed. He lost his footing. His grab seemed more like a push. The woman, already
battered, lost her precarious balance and fell over the falls. As she did so the silhouette
of her body seemed to fade away until it became part of the water. When our eyes
looked
to the spot where the falls and the pool met, all we saw was the irradiant glow around
the water, a three hundred year old halo of forgiveness.
Now in the saftey of daylight, I have found the little passage from Samuel Simons
Journal. Until now I have questioned my own stability. Everyone I have mentioned this
occurrence to has rationalized my question away. They have said it could have been
just the effect of the night, or the wine, the stories told before the occurrence, or a
combination of all of these things. However, it's strange that the one possibility no one
has allowed to enter into their mind is that it might have been
true.
17
richard barbara
18
I
i
1
lark landon
19
rich stephens
20
"John Muir"
The creek runs smoothly in the morning sun
Just moving in a slow, lazy pace that sparkles
while the river runs.
And next to this watery
line
runs its cousin
The one made up of broken dirt and rocks that
roughen it up, toughen it up
Making it a rather difficult road to walk
But because it is there and I am here
I have no choice but to walk its way
It winds and rolls-up and over the hills
Talking all the while
Bluejays cry, rocks ramble, and the trees
grow higher and higher
Crowning the woods in a deep and scenter green
Throwing rocks over and into the river
Seeing them skip-3-4-5-times across the water
Just another reason to take it slow
Whistling along with the old, cool wind
Bless you Lord, for letting me walk this way
In the morning I'll wake up to the sun
And with a bucket, draw water for myself
With the racoons and squirrels watching me clean
Sitting silently, with an offer to help
And, God, I've traveled these roads so many
times before
Never knowing why or what for,
Just that they were there.
I
.,.
rich stephens
"Where has the Man in Me Gone"
Where has the man in me gone?
Did he lose his way in the wind
Just a shadow of the man he was
last
night
Or is he pretending to be blind?
Can a candle's light melt away
Or can it forever burn its light?
A man with a heart turned to stone
Lost in his eyes of rust
Where has the man in me gone?
Has he flown towards the desert to dig his grave
Or
is
he looking,
looking
for the sun?
Where has the man in me gone?
Say something that will be sweet to my ears
So that I can hear-and understand-and believe.
Last night there was one;
In the morning there was none-
Tell me, where the man in me has gone?
Tonight there cries a lonely man
Sleeping with his world of dreams
The ground is a long way down tonight-
Maybe tomorrow he'll land.
21
23
john witter
24
Late March
While digging
this dull sod runs
drab into c
i
nnamon
grave green leek
lead gray straw spins to gold
glancing up I see
two brittle-brown
summer-leaves-sault me
and pause
with the point of
my shovel
the shadow
returns
To Work
Sun beats the road
3/18/78
to a long gold band-
makes my eyes ring
old snow
winter's ash
forms a scab down the shoulder
yesterday's left a dry note
on the glass
thru this I read the morning
j
john witter
3/16/78
Footloose petals fell
melting to mud all morning
by three
the March had barely stretched a hand past noon
every tree and bush bloomed white
Mid-December
Only shadows grow
shadeless
our slice of earth
frosted white
squints under the weight of a dull sky
the sun yawns
an empty barge shivers
shrinks toward the bridge
the river bares its ribs
25
dot
rb
dotegerton
26
/
'
r '
!"
'
\
..
.
I
1\
dotegerton
27
pau/ nunziata
28
pau/ nunziata
29
kathy growney
30
Call me Ishmael. Really, a guy named Herman Mellville deserves credit for that line,
but it worked so well for him that I just had to borrow it. Now that I've got your
atten-
tion, my name is Sherman. At the time I was born my mother had something about either
tanks or anti-trust acts, and hence the origin of my unusual name. But that was my
mother's problem, and if you want to know her bizarre tale, task her psychiatrist. This
is my story.
This is an honest to goodness, guaranteed-or-your-money-back account of what it is like
to be an ass-hole by a leading expert-myself. Now you may say to yourself, "Surely this
guy doesn't mean this. He doesn't realyl think he's an ass-hole." Wrong. I always believe
what I read on bathroom walls, and especially in my own house.
I have to admit, my physical appearance doesn't help my image any. I'm five feet eleven
inches tall and weigh about one hundred and thirty five pounds. To make matters worse,
I have perpetually greasy hair and terminal acne. People take one look at me and they
immediately think to themselves, "Doormat." Take tonight for instance.
I work at the Uncle Floyd's Southern Fried Poultry Palace down by Briarwood High
School. You know the place, it has the big plastic smiling chicken out front. I'm the chief
and only chicken frier five nights a week. A real prestigious job, believe me.
Anyway, there I was, frying up the chicken with my usual flair and just waiting for the
crowd that usually shows up around 9:30. Friday nights are especially busy because thats
when the high school B-ball games are played. The kids come in after the game and try to
decide what to do with themselves for the rest of the night. It's usually the only time I
see everyone from school in any sort of social setting. It's just the highlight of my week.
I was standing there, trying to re-assemble a chicken and trying to figure out where the
third wing went, when I thought to myself, "Self, why don't you go up to the register
and start an intelligent but light conversation with that new perky sophomore-type cashier.
Who knows, maybe she'll realize your inner beauty." And of course, like a fool I listened
to myself.
"Hello." I said, draping myself on the counter with a casual, senior like air. "How's
everything up this end of the store?"
"Don't lean on the counter, I just washed it. You're getting flour all over the place.
And aren't you supposed to stay in the back anyway?" She said all this in a slightly
annoyed tone. It must have been the "Doormat" effect.
"Oh, I like keeping an eye on all aspects of the business," I said as I brushed the flour
onto the floor. "Business really interests me. My name's Sherman, What's yours?" No
response. "Ah, I can see by your little Uncle Floyd wing pin that your name's Patti (with
an i no less-I should have known). Well Patti, you seem a little disturbed tonight. Is
anything the matter? Come on, you can tell Uncle Sherman."
"Of course something's the matter, you fool. Tonight's the Briarwood-Lakeland basket-
ball game, and instead of being over at the gym I'm in a God-damned chicken store. Now
if you don't get the hell in the back where you belong ...
"
Just then the manager Rob came out of his office and directed one of his typically kind
remarks to me. "Sherman, who do you think you are, the social director around here? Get
back to work." So back I went to my un-assembled chickens.
From my position at the deep triers heard the basketball team arriving with their usual
class and style. I was trying to think of some excuse that would let me go up front again,
when Patti stuck her head in the door and said, "Hey Sherman, Brian Walsh wants to talk
to you."
"Did I hear right?" I wondered to myself. "Brian Walsh, the athlete of athletes of my
high school wants to talk to me? This is definitely a first in my high school career. Maybe
I'm finally moving up the social ladder." Like a flash I was out at the counter, trying to
appear not out of breath.
"Hi Bri, how's everything down at the locker room?" I said.
31
32
"Yeah, fine Sherman. I just wanted to tell you I got back that History paper you loaned
me. I got an A on it." Saying this, he looked at the ceiling and floor and everywhere but
at me. "By the way, what did you get on it?"
"Well, I got a B on it, but that was last term. I guess they were marking harder then."
I tried to figure out how this mindless wonder got a higher grade than me on my own
paper.
"Yeah, well that's the way it goes," Brian said, as he pretended to do a lay-up shot at the
clock on the wall. "By the way, Mr. Nelson said that he's cracking down on people who cut
Science. I think he sent your name to the office after lab today. You'll probably get sus-
pended on Monday."
"Hey, thanks for telling me Brian
.
You just brightened up my weekend," I cracked.
"
Yeah, sure Sherman, See you around," Brian said, as he dribbled an imaginary basket-
ball out the door. Apparently he missed my sarcasm completely. As I turned to make my
way back to my chicken friers, I found my path blocked by Patti with an i.
"Oh Sherman, could you please give me a lift after work?" She asked this question
with one of those smiles that is ordinarily used on customers who leave tips. "I really
wou Id appreciate it."
"Sure Patti," I said, as my spirits began to climb out of my shoes. "Just let me clean up
in the back. I'll be with you in no time."
I cleaned up in a rush, my mind already on the conversation we would have on the ride
home. I thought to myself, "Patti must have experienced some sort of awakening tonight,
a minor miracle at least. She has removed her blinders and now sees me as the warm,
sensitive person I really am. She's actually making an effort to get to know me. Maybe
she'll even want to stop at the diner on the way home." I immediately began to calculate
how much money I had between my wallet and the change in my glove compartment.
"Ready to go?" Patti said as she appeared with her coat.
"Sure, sure, sure," I said as I swept a pile of flour under the frier.
"Would you like to stop at Carla's Kitchen on the way home?" I said as we got into
my nice but admittedly not cool car.
"Well, I'm in a bit of a rush," Patti said.
"No problem," I said altering my plans. We still could talk during the ride home.
"Which way?"
"Go up to the light and turn left onto Highview Avenue. We stay on Highview for
about a mile and a half. Then turn left onto Colonial Court. Stop at the third
..
.
no
fourth house on the right."
"Oh, the Betsy Ross Development. That's a nice area. Have you lived there long?" I
tried to get the conversation started.
"Oh, no, I don't live there. I live over in the apartments on Wilshire Boulevard."
Now I was totally confused. As I made the left onto Colonial Court, I ashed, "Well
then, who lives here?"
"Brian Walsh. A whole bunch of people from school are hanging out over here. You
know, no big thing. Brian said he'd take me home later. Well thanks a lot Sherman. I'll
see you next week." And with that she got out of the car and made her way to the
party within.
I sat there in momentary shock for a few seconds, trying to figure out where I went
wrong. Then drove home, getting a ticket from a no-shit cop in the process because my
rear tail light was out.
You have to understand that this isn't the first time that something like this has
happened to me.
I
don't know
how I
do it, but / a/ways manage to set
myself
up for a
kick in the pants. So you see, / really must be an ass-hole.
33
34
35
p.
mason
36
Winged Fantasy
If I could burst this
brass-barred womb
Free to emerge
I would choose my sphere
Swooping, soaring, scaling, peeling
North to Northeast
Tripping over tidal caps
Skimming the water's edge
Look at me!
An airborne hobo
Measuring infinity.
Primavera
The crocus gently lifts its sleepy
lide -
in apology.
p.
mason
Before Exit Signs
Before exit signs,
Toll booths,
Speed traps and
Citizen band
Before tape decks,
Dual exhausts,
High-priced gas and
Optional equipment
Before NFL,
Meet the Press,
TV Specials and
Commercials
Sunday afternoon was
simple fare
A ride in the Model A
Choked
Cranked
Ready for the open road
With a wide-eyed, gingham-wrapped
child finding poetic wonder
at "Burma Shave" spaced out
.
37
connie buckley
38
Having swept the beard
from your age ...
The walks
fast to your house
fitting conversation
in between the houses.
Telling you
only you
of the rape.
I've hugged you
with the intensity
10 times your weight.
The nights
I kept you on the phone
reading poems
picking fights
all the time pleasing ourselves.
Your brother
Your resentment
made my dinner cold
vacant of taste.
The cold walk home
brothers so different.
Yet, time wears differently
Having swept the beard from your age ...
christopher faille
Descent of Frost
Only frost bites as hard as this fear wholly mine
That the sun when it sets is eternally gone;
Only God can prevent death of all hope of dawn,
So the frost shall still kill of my heart what is left.
All such fear of the dark packs a powferful fine,
For the once-born must then always know their first death.
If the span of our life is duration of hope
And the frost I have spoke of has widening scope -
Then the flicker dies out to the clamor of crime.
39
lark landon
40
41
melinda bowen
The Memory Class
It was on the same type of sultry afternoon that the event flashed back into my mind.
I was stranded in a seemingly endless class, staring dolefully out the window. The sun was
just nearing the point of calling it a day. As the professor buzzed on with her sleep-
rendering lecture, I noticed four beams of light coming into the room full of stale air.
"Gee, they must have it good." I thought as I watched dust float effortlessly through
one beam of light to another. A picture rushed through my mind, as my eyes lingered on
the dust. It was of children playing on a tiled floor, very much like the tile on this floor.
"There was dust floating in the sunlight that day too," I thought. The image lasted no
longer than that of a flashbulb going off on a camera. Yet it brought back events that I
hadn't thought about in years. It was a memory, like so many others, that get pressed
into the recesses of your mind. Now that that one image was brought back to light, my
curiosity had to replay the whole scene.
I remember being no more than seven when the event took place. The grown-ups of the
family sat around the rickety oak table
,
conversing in concentrated undertones. There
were furrows in my father's forehead, while I watched my mother chew on her nails. My
grandmother looked down into her tea, seemingly whiter than the dust that floated
through the light. Every few minutes I would catch one of my aunts or uncles glancing
towards the little black box on the opposite wall. They would purse their lips as if in
anger, then take another sip of coffee, completely avoiding the pasteries laid out before
them.
My cousins and I sat in the middle of the floor engulfed in a menagerie of toys brought
from the different houses represented. Even we, as children, sensed something terribly
wrong. We weren't told exactly what it was. (We were never told about any of the things
that really mattered.) All we could tell was that this wasn't the usual Saturday afternoon
at grandma's. We played separately, trying to avoid the inevitable quarrels that were had
when together. For my part, I was more upset at not being able to sit with the adults
then trying to find out what all the mystery was about. I stared at the dust in front of
me thinking:
"I'm not a baby! I shouldn't have to sit on the floor with all the rest. I'm bigger, I'm
almost in second grade. They're not even in kindergarten yet!" The more I thought
about it, the more I pouted. "Grandpa never treats me like this. Grandpa lets me sit
at the table. He lets me play poker when they play. He even lets me wind his cuckoo
clocks sometimes! He doesn't even let any of the grown-ups do that."
As I thought of the clocks I looked to each corner of the far wall. One was delicately
hand carved to represent a hunting scene. The other was a plain brown with two birds
cut on either side. The pendulums stood motionless. The chains had not been pulled to
wind them in days.
I went over to my mother, putting my arm around her neck. In a whining sing-song
voice I asked: "Mom, can I wind grandpa's clocks up? He lets me do it 'cause I'm big
enough, and no one does it any more."
All the faces around the table went white. They looked at me with wide eyes, knowing
what I had said was said in blind innocence. Yet each wanted to stuff something down me
so I wouldn't ask anymore harmful questions. Their eyes quickly left me and glanced at
my grandmother. All the faces showed equal portions of anxiety and piety. It was finally
my grandmother who cleared her throat and answered: "Stephanie, why don't we wait
until grandpa comes home to wind them. You know how he doesn't like anyone to though them."
42
"When will Grandpa be home Gram?" I asked, not knowing the pain I was inflicting
with each syllable. "I miss him."
If there was a whiter shade of pale, the people around the table had certainly reached
it. My grandmother calmly pulled me away from my mother, putting her arm around my
waist.
"Soon, Stephanie. Very Soon." She answered without hesitation. "We
all
miss him
dear ... very much. We miss him because we love him, don't we?"
"Yes." I answered staring down at the floor, fearing I had done something wrong.
"Well then if we love him we have to respect his things while he's not here. You
wouldn't want Georgie playing with your things would you?"
"NO!" I answered shaking my head with emphasis.
"Well, that's why we can't touch Grandpa's clocks. We love him, so while he's not here
we won't touch, O.K.?"
"O.K. Grandma." I answered: now satisfied that I had established myself as an adult.
My mother, being the resourceful creature she is, took a pastery off the table and
offered it to me.
"Here
.
" She said. "Go over there and play with your Etch-A-Sketch. Grandma's busy
right now."
I went back to my corner of light with an adult reward none of my cousins had. I was
pleased at my accomplishment and played contentedly until dinner. The evening meal
only helped to reaffirm my conclusion that I was now thought of as an adult. Out of all
the cousins present, only / was allowed to sit at the oak table for dinner. I was sure that
this was proof positive of my coming of age.
As the dinner plates were cleared to make way for dessert, my father went over to the
box. He talked for a few minutes only to have deeper furrows on his face after he walked
away. The family at the big table talked in whispers, while my cousins sat at the kiddy
table playing with cold vegetables. My strained ears could only catch bits of the secrets
they were tel
l
ing.
"Any time now."
"Five hours?"
"They'll call."
"What
i
s it?" I wondered. "What is it that they're not telling me? I'm a big girl now
.
"TE LL ME!" I thought. However, instead of asking I just listened trying to act like
knew. I was hoping one of them would slip and talk to me about their dark secret.
Dessert passed in silence
.
I remember it happened when everyone resumed their positions of that afternoon. My
cousins were just put in the spare room for bed. They had cried and yelled, some even
screamed. Yet for all their troubles, in the end they were put to bed anyway.
"Just babies." I thought as I played at the table. "I used to be like that when I was a
baby. But now that I'm big I don
't
c
r
y when it's t
i
me for
me
to go to bed."
43
The conversation among the parents was clouded.
"It's been a long time."
"Do you really think they'll call tonight?"
"They said they would."
"How will we know if they're not going to?"
"We'll keep trying every few hours to find out." Everyone nodded at this in abject
agreement.
"Yes, that's a good idea."
"How about some more coffee?"
"I'll make some."
Just as the fresh pot of coffee was being served, it happened. There was a funny sort
of noise in the room. Each person turned their heads in the direction of the noise, and at
the stroke of eight, each bird simultaneously came out of the cuckoo clocks and counted
off the correct hour. The birds returned within their doors and the pendulums began to
swing, making that constant rythmic beat that had been unmistakably absent all day.
The family around the table reflected each other's open-mouthed amazement. As it
was earlier when I had asked my question, no one quite knew what to say. None of the
adults situated around the table wanted to believe what they had just witnessed. Yet none
of them wanted to truly disbelieve it either. Each person knew it as a sign of hope. Each
wanted to believe there was hope in the sign.
I turned to my grandmother with a smile, uttering everyone's thoughts. "Look Grandma,
Grandpa must be coming home soon! His clocks are ticking for when he does."
My grandmother turned to me with the first smile I had seen all day. "Yes Stephanie,
think it does." The others turned to her knowingly.
Not long after that, the black box on the wall rang for the first time. The crowd sat
on the edge of their seats, they watched my grandmother and I istened with intented ears.
"Hello, Yes this is Mrs. Kruppski."
"Oh, Doctor Hulahane we've been waiting for your call. How is . . . .
"
"No, I'm glad you called instead of coming over. Please tell me is Adam ...
"OH THANK GOD!" With that my grandmother sank into a chair, while the rest of
the room took a breath.
My memory movie ended there. The light went out and I was back in the classroom
once more. I glanced at the clock, "Oh good," I thought. "Only two more minutes of
class left."
As I collected my books, my mothers voice resounded in my ears. To her, that day,
October twenty-third, would always remain her "happiness day". Happiness because that
day had given her father three more years of life.
"It
was
my happiness
day
too,
mom." I told her in
my thoughts. "Happiness
because
I knew the answer -
I was big."
44
meryl samu
e
ls
Subway
The sun beat down like an angry old man
Descending into a precipise
Gripping a rock-like rail
Dim, dimming, dimmer, dimmest
Is this the tar pit of some formidable age
Or Hellwith it's immaginable smell of
a backed up toilet (and its equaling noise
of a flush)
1\-\\';, 'N
a~
1
G
,
n~
S
n\.\\\\
~
Yok, what grey stuff
Who left this remnant of a candystore
in such an odd place?
Oh, damnit, you broke my foot
I can't breath
Lifted in a crowd (of swines all eager to
eat the same droppings)
I find myself struggling to stay aloft
Cold, clamy pole
Fingers I hold in a death grip
Wouldn't want to fall on that drunk behind me
Put on that subway face to guard against
perverts and assorted wierdos
Surrounded on all sides.
45
meryl samuels
46
The Kiss
had long waited for the moment ...
Our lips touched, the pressure increased to a
(merged) union of flesh and desire,
A pulsing rhythmic tongue emerged into a foreign
realm of incisors, bicuspids, wisdom teeth
and tonsils
Giving way to the flavor of a certs,
Our lids became relaxed to the point of closure
and the dreaming began,
The dream of more kisses.
47
Editorial Comments
There is a strong need for students' art and literary talents to be expressed. What we have done
was merely to collect those works and group them into a magazine so others could also share and
learn.
The content-poetry, prose, and artworks, are all from students who have experienced some feeling
and then captured it into a form of expression.
We hope that all others who find themselves dabbing in art, doodling in ink sketchings, fiddling with
pad and pen, and writing poetry, will contribute their works to this magazine so that it will continue
to exist and represent Marist students' art and literary works.
48
The Editor
Rosie Nguyen
Marist College
Arts and Literary Magazine
.,
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I I
Illarist
college
arts
®
literary
Illagazine
Table of Contents
After Thoughts
2
Connie Buckley
A Word on Mother's
Up
&
Coming Marriage
3
Connie Buckley
Photo No. 1
4
Paul Nunziata
Photo No. 2
5
Paul Nunziata
The Library
6-11
Jane Sottile
Sketch No. 3
12
William Sweeney
Sketch No. 4
13
Wi
11
iam Sweeney
Drifter
14
Debbie Bowers
Beach Tides
15
Debbie Bowers
Occurance
16
-
17
Melinda Bowen
Photo No
.
5
18
Richard Barbara
Photo No. 6
19
Lark Landon
John Muir
20
Rich Stephens
Where has the Man
in Me Gone
21
Rich Stephens
Sketch No. 7
22
Kathy Butts
Sketch No. 8
23
Kathy Butts
Late March
24
John Witter
To Work
24
John Witter
3
/
16/78
25
John Witter
Mid-December
25
John Witter
Sketch 9
26
Dot Egerton
Sketch 10
27
Dot Egerton
Photo No. 11
28
Paul Nunziata
Photo No. 12
29
Paul Nunziata
Call Me Ishmael
30-33
Kathy Growney
Sketch No. 13
34
Kathy Butts
Sketch No. 14
35
Kathy Butts
Winged Fantasy
36
Pat Mason
Primavera
36
Pat Mason
Before Exit Signs
37
Pat Mason
Having Swept
38
Connie Buckley
Descent of Frost
39
Christopher Faille
Photo No. 15
40
Lark Landon
Photo No. 16
41
Rich Barbara
Memory Class
42-44
Melinda Bowen
Subway
45
Meryl Samuels
The Kiss
46
Meryl Samuels
Photo No. 17
47
Rich Barbara
Editorial Comments
48
cover photo by rich barbara
connie buckley
2
After thoughts
bring confusion
I am not the fighter
I am claimed to be.
The static
for all I know may well be the message.
My legs pitch forward
making
it
hard to stand my ground.
connie buckley
A Word on Mother's up and Coming Marriage
part I
Cutting through the park
to make the night pass in speed.
The library
stands
dark and unread.
Wednesdays
mother sat me
in the children's section.
Minutes later
I would be standing
beside her
in the adult book isle.
part II
The car lay wrecked
-
-
The children's doing.
The glass shattered - -
it held all reflections.
We are older now.
This is said as a statement
the bricks lay at our sides
motionless without reason.
The brass bed-pole
brought down
upon father's head
With all the violence
that our childhood reeked of.
part 111
My jealousy, fear
taking me back years;
mother holding
father's image
up as a cross,
shaking it
as if directing the wind.
My laughter, strength
as I laughed at father
thinking
he was all men.
part IV
Our God witheld no punishment.
Brash and bold
and in our own rite,
happiness is ours.
3
paul nunziata
4
paul nunziata
5
6
THE LIBRARY
by Jane Sottile
Lucy von Wagner opened the "p" drawer of the card catalogue. She leafed through the
cards: Profere, Peter
J.,
Proferral, Martha M.
"Damn," said Lucy.
She closed the drawer in disgust, and walked up to the librarian's desk.
"I can't find Marlene Profero in the catalogue," she said.
The librarian looked up. "Let me check," he said. He glanced at his check
-
out sheet.
"It's being used right now."
"Well, when can I have it?" she asked in annoyance.
"There's still two hours before it'll be cleared."
"Well, can I
reserve
it?"
"Yes, but there are two people ahead of you."
"Goddammit. What kind of library is this? Everytime I come in here, whoever I want
is out. Haven't you ever considered duplicates?"
The librarian reguarded her in silence. "You know as well as I, or you should, that
there can only be one of each card in use per sector, or else the effects are diluted. Then
everybody's cheated."
"Of coarse I know that," she snapped. "What do you think I am, stupid?"
The librarian chuckled to himself. "Do you want to be put on the list?"
Lucy considered. "No. It'll take too long. I'll find someone else." Lucy turned, and
started toward the catalogue room.
"Wait a minute," said the librarian. "Maybe I can help you. There's a new card that's
just come in. Maybe you'd like to try it.''
Lucy hesitated. "I don't know. I don't like those new one's. They're all so
bland.
People just don't have much personality any more."
He lowered his voice. "I feel the same way. The men in here are so damn insipid. I
must have gone through the whole library - sampled almost everything.''
Lucy looked at him in surprise. "But don't you have a certain psychological match?"
"Oh
that,"
he said. "I don't believe all that stuff. But listen, I know what your problem
is. And there's a sort of ... well, innovation I've come up with."
"What do you mean?"
"Wei I, it's characters."
"Huh?"
"You know, fictional characters.''
"But that's impossible. You're just trying to make fun of me," Lucy said indignantly.
"Well I'm not
that
gullible. I went to school too. Libraries can only handle real people,
whose lives are well known. Fictional characters are too ambiguous. There's too much
room for imagination and innovation. Not enough predictability.''
The librarian waved her to silence. "Yes. I've heard all that. But it's not true. It can be
done. The only thing is that Technicians don't want it to be done. There's not as much
control
over fictional characters. The complexities expand enormously. People might do
anything. But I've made up a few fiction cards in my spare time." He paused, and brushed
the hair out of his eyes. "Anyway, I've tried them. And they're great. None of that
blase mediocrity you were complaining about. These cards are vibrant. No letdown at
all."
"Really?" asked Lucy in excitement. "It sounds neat. Lately I haven't gotten any
enjoyment at all out of Tranference. Can I try it?"
The librarian smiled. "A recruit at long last. But are you sure about this? You might
not like going back to real people."
"Well I don't like them now."
"Okay then. But you'll have to wait a while. I'm on duty, and I have to adjust the
computer outlay before you can use the card."
"This isn't
illegal
or anything, is it?" asked Lucy.
"No," said the librarian. "At lease not yet. I'm off at ten. Meet me outside the Study
Room, okay?"
"Sure."
Lucy walked into her apartment, whistling a John Philip Sousa tune. A tall man in
a dark brown robe walked out of the bed room. He looked at her uncertainly. "Hi,"
he ventured.
"Hi Ralph," she said. "It's only me."
He relaxed. "Oh, I thought you were going to the library."
"I did. But I didn't get anything."
He looked surprised.
"Aren't
you feeling well?" he asked.
"Of
course
I am." She laughed. "Is there anything so terrible about being myself
in my leisure time?"
"No. In fact, I rather like you," he said.
"Well I should hope so. After all, you did marry me."
Ralph smiled. "I did, didn't I? But you're hardly ever yourself when I'm home. You're
usually what's her name? Profero?"
Lucy nodded.
"Well god, it's nice to have Lucy for an afternoon."
"Oh Ralph. You know as well as I do, that Library Transference saved marriage as
an institution. Now people don't get bored with each other. They have a virtually
unlimited supply of people-to-become and people-to-meet."
"People got by before," Ralph said.
7
8
"Sure, they got by. But they were barbaric, full of self-hate. You know what things
were like back then. With all that leisure time on their hands people became dissatisfied
with spectator sports and mass communication as entertainment. They wanted something
they could actively
participate
in. And the library provided them with an interesting
safe diversion. Now people don't have to be themselves all the time. It's 'the perfect
answer to boredom and inadequacy.' "
"Well I'm just glad you're yourself today. I don't like those other people in my home."
"God Ralph, I hope you don't talk like this to other people. Transference is almost
a social necessity."
"Well I can't help it. I'd rather be myself. And I'd rather you be you," he asserted.
"Okay, Ralph, no need to get so upset. You know, I think it would do you good to
take a vacation from yourself, you're getting too introspective."
"Goddammit Lucy, don't psychoanalyze me."
"I was only trying to help. You see? We always have an argument when we're our-
selves. What's the use?"
"That's because you never even think when you're 'vacationing.' 'Good use of leisure
time.' What a farse. You're too busy being someone else all the time to have any real
emotions
.
You're a goddamn parasite."
"Ralph,
please.
I don't care to discuss it. Personally I think you should see a Transference
Technician."
Ralph bristled with anger. He took a breath and controlled his voice. "Well, why
didn't you Transfer today?"
"Because the person I wanted was out. I'm going back tonight to try someth
i
ng new."
"Oh."
"Maybe you'd like to come with me?"
Ralph stared at her incredulously.
"Well I was only asking ... "
Lucy walked into the library, her steps quick and firm
.
The librarian was leaning
against the wall outside of the Study Room.
"It's all set," he said.
"Thank god. I'm so fed up with everything. My husband is so damn old fashioned.
He doesn't even believe in Transference."
The librarian looked shocked.
"That's right. He's only tried it once or twice, and then only at my insistence.''
"What is he, some sort of manic egoist?"
Lucy shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. But I don't seem to be able to cope
with him anymore."
r
"What does he do for relaxation, for leisure?"
"He reads."
"What?"
"Yea, he's got a whole bunch of old monographs and microfilms."
"I think he needs counselling."
"So do
I."
"Did you ever
consider
bringing Freud home?"
"I don't dare. You should have seen how upset he got when I mentioned that he
should see a Technician."
"Well maybe he'll come around." The librarian glanced at his watch. "We better
get started. Would you mind if I Transferred with you?"
"Do you mean it?" Lucy asked excitedly. "I haven't done that in ages."
"Sure, come on."
The librarian unlocked the door to the Transference Room. He took two index cards
out of his inside pocket.
"Tonight you'll be Rose Cotton, and I'll be Sam Gamgee."
"Who are they?"
"Oh just two characters in some obscure twentieth century novel. But what's important
is our freedom of movement. Our (or their) ability to ad-lib."
"I really don't get all that 'freedom' stuff. Why is this going to be so different?"
"Well look, all the cards in here are real people, a myriad of talents, ideologies, and
physical makeups. But the major point is that all these people have existed, and their
lives are well documented. What each person did in real life, in response to real stimuli,
are used (by the computer) to extrapolate what actions and emotions that person wi 11
have now, in response to our stimuli. And the most popular cards allow the Transferee
(vis-a-vis the library patron) maximum leverage in handling new situations, all within
a predetermined margin of action.
"But fictional characters lives are never wholly known. Authors hint many times at
incidents and relationships which are never fully developed. Thus, the extrapolations
are too complex to be dealt with safely for mass usage. But fictional characters would-
and do-afford the best kind of Transference, because the very spontaneity involved
yields less stereotyped emotional responses."
"I see. So the Technicians, to insure everyone's safety, have to know within reasonable
limits what each Transferee might do at each moment, knowing that thousands of other
Transferences are going on at the same time."
"Exactly."
"So isn't what we're doing going to ruin the scheme?"
9
10
The librarian shrugged. "Two people? Out of all of those thousands? I don't think so.
What the Technicians are really afraid of is if everyone starts doing fiction. Then there
would be chaos. But for us it's safe. You ready?"
Lucy nodded.
When Lucy woke up, her husband was bent over her, his face lined with worry.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
Lucy sat up. She nodded her head slowly. "God, was that some Transference."
"I should say so," said a man sitting behind a long oakwood desk. "Just what did you
mean by taking that trip?"
Lucy started. "Who are you?"
"He's a Technician," said Ralph. "He's the one who helped get you back."
The Technician looked down at a report on his desk. "You're lucky to be back here
at all. As it was, your husband had to recall you. It seems your character didn't want to
let go."
"I don't know about that, but what a fantastic transference!" I've never felt such
emotions before."
The Technician leaned forward. "Are you aware of the consequences of this type of
Transference?"
Lucy shrugged her shoulders.
"Don't you know why fiction isn't used in Transference?"
"Because of the complexities involved in predicting mass behavior."
"That's part of it. But the major thing is that these characters grab hold of you."
"Huh?" Lucy asked puzzledly.
"They capture your imagination. You become so absorbed in the character's emotional
responses and attitudes that you become submerged."
"I don't quite ... "
"Look," said Ralph impatiently, "What you term a good Transference is one where
you, Lucy, are at a maximum distance
-
a spectator. You feel, hear and see through
your Transferee. But with a fictional character (especially one who presents an unfamiliar
perspective) you can become
lost."
"But I wasn't aware of anything like that happening."
"Of course you weren't," said the Technician. "But you were Transferred for almost
five days before we found you."
"Oh, but I hardly think I was in any danger. I was having a great time. I never had
such a complete Transference. I think you're just trying to scare me."
"The trouble with you," said Ralph, "is that you don't
care.
You're all to anxious
to become somebody else. To submerge yourself in someone else's psyche. You should
try exploring your own emotions sometime. You might get off on it."
1"
"You should talk, Ralph. You're too caught up in yourself to even try Transferring."
Ralph stood up
.
"See if you can talk to her," he said to the Technician. "I'm going
out for a walk."
"Well," said Lucy, after Ralph had left, "what are you going to do? Throw me in jail?"
The Technician laughed. "No. But now I hope you're aware of the real danger of
fiction. In the future, restrict yourself to the library catalogues for Transference. You
came dangerously close to losing yourself
.
"
"What happened to Sam ... I mean the librarian?"
"Oh he's being briefed too. But I'm afraid he's lost h
i
s job
.
It's too sensitive a position
to a
l
low him to remain there. He's being placed elsewhere in the library, in the History
and Restoring section I believe
.
Well you can go now. If you have any further problems,
come see me."
"Thanks," said Lucy, "I will. Goodbye."
"Bye now."
During the following weeks Lucy frequented the library, taking out Ghandi, Jong,
Le Guin, Sexton, trying desperately to recapture her "trip". But nothing worked. She
found all the Transferences dull and trite in comparison. On her husbnad's urging, she
even tried it "Straight" for a while, just being herself.
Lucy sighed, then got up from the couch. "I'm going out for a walk, Ralph," she said.
"Oh, you want some company?"
"No. I
'
d like to be alone - to think."
Ralph smiled. "You know I'm really glad you stopped using the library. You've
started becoming a person again, instead of some unthinking receptacle."
"Well it does take getting used to."
"I know it does. But stick with it."
"Sure honey. See you later."
Lucy stepped outside and onto the sidewalk. She walked aimlessly at first, but soon
found herself outside the library. She hesitated briefly, then walked inside. In the basement
she found a small door marked "History and Restoration." She knocked.
"Come in," a voice called.
Lucy entered the room
.
The librarian was seated behind a metal desk. He looked up,
and seeing Lucy, smiled self-consciously.
"Oh, hi! Are you okay?" he asked.
"
Yea, sure. That was a neat Transference we had."
"Sorry I got you in trouble
.
"
Lucy shrugged. "Oh hell, it was worth it." She paused
.
"Listen, do you have any
of those fiction cards left?"
11
12
13
debbie bowers
14
Drifter
She untangled her long legs
And sat straight up on the bed
Visions of Antony and Ceaser
Danced in her head
She said, "Don't take it that way.
The places I've been,
I've done nothing
Except try to win."
Silently her words fell
Like darkened drops
On the walls of the bedroom
Or the streets in the dark.
Softly, with ease,
The girl moves away.
Lost for eternity?
No
,
only a day
.
She closes the novel
And sits straight up in the chair
.
Delilah murdered Samson
But he really wasn't there.
Surrounded by sorrow
Of the days gone by.
What's left to do?
Only
l
augh and cry.
She untangled her long legs
And danced up a storm
With all the street men - - -
Keeping them warm.
She said, "Don't take me that way.
With whatever I've done,
Nothing more or less
Than try to have fun."
..
debbie bowers
Beach Tides
You say the sun has bleached your hair
And sand is in your shoe
You act as if there's nothing new.
Your life should have some meaning
Something you can be
My love, is your sun sinking into the sea?
I ask that you remember
Al I you've ever done
California's settled
Not in you, but everyone.
You say that rain is seldom
And it never comes at night
You say you feel you did it right.
Left when all the signs said stay
In someone you didn't need.
Set yourself free
.
I ask that you conceive of
What has yet to come
California's settling
In you and everyone.
15
16
THE OCCURRENCE
by
Melinda Bowen
I found the answer to my question among the dust-ladden shelves of a library in the
village of Kermonk
.
I had asked myself over and over agin, "Was what we saw that night
real? Did it ever happen?" There in the library among the local area history, lay a sallow
colored journal holding my answer. The journal held a brief account of the sudden
unexplained death of Polly Hooker. It was reported by a forthright fellow puritan named
Samuel Simons who had found her, merely by chance, on a morning walk. It is dated
November 1, 1676, and he speaks of finding her after morning prayers. It reads:
"Taking my morning leave from the temperance house I passed the waterfalls
in order to better understand God's will in bringing us to such wilderness.
There in the small alcove, I spied little Polly Hooker, just married this past
year to young Cain Hooker, floating in the pool beneath the cascades. Up
until that moment, the cascades had always seemed like a piece of Eden
God had allowed to remain after the unpardonable sin. I took the limp form
of gentle Polly back to the temperance house. The rest of the day was spent
in prayer with the other good people of our modest congregation.
In my own mind, though, I have not said this to the others, I wonder how
a gentle godly creature like Polly received the bruises and scratches that appear
on her face and arms. In my own mind I wonder If some misdeed has not
befallen so innocent a creature. Yet I know God, in his wisdom, had reason
to call Polly forth unto his Kingdom. She was a good Christian
,
and I am
sure God has seen to it that she is in a better world. I am happy for her. I
pray that God may be as merciful to me when called forth on Judgement day."
This is where the story of young Polly Hooker ends. Or does it? Six months ago, after
the incident first happened, I thought it to be the wine acting in my system. Had my
friends not been there to see what I had, I doubt I would have mentioned it to anyone.
Now, after months of constant searching, I have found this reference in a journal as a
clue to my strange sighting.
The night of the occurrence itself had a certain cryptic quality to it. It was All Hallow's
Eve, the air was crisp and biting, the moon, an unoticed sad, full face. A handful! of
adventurers and myself, had driven up to a secluded spot in the Catskill Mountains known
as High Falls. The falls can only be found by following a pathway through a densely
wooded area for approximately
.
a quarter of a mile, at which point the stream, at the
right side of the path, opens to a fifteen foot waterfall. The water cascades down into
a pool which, in parts I have been told, is some twelve feet deep.
Upon arrival at our destination each traveler stood for the first few seconds aghast.
The falls had taken on an appalling irradiance. We could see through to the far wall
of the horseshoe-shaped alcove, yet there was a glow to the water that fell, almost as if
you were looking at it through a soft lense of a camera
.
Quickly explaining away our fears, we laughed at being so easily shaken by such a
trivial thing as the reflection of the moon
.
Sitting down upon the rocks next to the
pool's edge, we pulled out the warmed May Wine and set about our business of seeing
who could tell the most frightening stories. We had decided earlier that whoever told
the best story was a free dinner out, paid for by the rest of the participants. The winner
of the most unusual tale, however, was never taken to dinner.
It was about half way through the second bottle of wine that our little group of story-
tellers heard a scream come from the top of the falls. The May wine, we later decided
must have deadened our nerves, for we merely lifted our heads in the direction of the
cry. There before us, stood what appeared to be a young couple struggling with each
other. From where I sat I could barely make out the form of a young girl no more than
twenty years old, in a floor length print dress, with white petticoats underneath. Her
hair was tightly bound to the back of her head, and from where I sat her facial features
seemed drawn and taunt. Yet they were not of a sterile, prim nature, but rather had
the tinness of frame that comes with youth.
"NO! NO!" I heard her screech, "No Cain, please leave me go, I have done nothing
wrong. As God as my witness I have not!"
After this I saw a form from behind her clasp her arms and hands tightly, as before she
seemed to have been fending him off. He looked to be a young man also in his twenties.
His hair was long yet in an outmoded style. His style of dress was that of a farm hand,
yet the material seemed much more coarse than what workers use today. The only pre-
dominent feature I could see in his face from where I stood, were his eyes. They were
dark, forbidding eyes that seemed to pierce everything they focused on, specifically the
woman he now grappled with. He slapped her two or three times open-handedly acrossed
the face, afterwhich I heard his deep resolute voice say authoritatively:
"YES! YES! You have Polly. I heard it from God on high. He came to me in a vision.
My wife hath laid down by another."
At this he became raving as if in some delirious fever.
"Now I'm going to purge you of your sins. God has shown me the way!" Lifting up
his head he screamed to her: "Look up high unto the heavens and pray God will be
merciful with your unworthy soul." He wrenched her head upward towards the sky.
Then suddenly looking down he added in a resounding voice, "Now look down unto that
black murky deep water which is the pit of hell!"With his last statement he grabed her
tighter to make her look down the fifteen feet to the pool, at the bottom of the falls.
She squirmed. He lost his footing. His grab seemed more like a push. The woman, already
battered, lost her precarious balance and fell over the falls. As she did so the silhouette
of her body seemed to fade away until it became part of the water. When our eyes
looked
to the spot where the falls and the pool met, all we saw was the irradiant glow around
the water, a three hundred year old halo of forgiveness.
Now in the saftey of daylight, I have found the little passage from Samuel Simons
Journal. Until now I have questioned my own stability. Everyone I have mentioned this
occurrence to has rationalized my question away. They have said it could have been
just the effect of the night, or the wine, the stories told before the occurrence, or a
combination of all of these things. However, it's strange that the one possibility no one
has allowed to enter into their mind is that it might have been
true.
17
richard barbara
18
I
i
1
lark landon
19
rich stephens
20
"John Muir"
The creek runs smoothly in the morning sun
Just moving in a slow, lazy pace that sparkles
while the river runs.
And next to this watery
line
runs its cousin
The one made up of broken dirt and rocks that
roughen it up, toughen it up
Making it a rather difficult road to walk
But because it is there and I am here
I have no choice but to walk its way
It winds and rolls-up and over the hills
Talking all the while
Bluejays cry, rocks ramble, and the trees
grow higher and higher
Crowning the woods in a deep and scenter green
Throwing rocks over and into the river
Seeing them skip-3-4-5-times across the water
Just another reason to take it slow
Whistling along with the old, cool wind
Bless you Lord, for letting me walk this way
In the morning I'll wake up to the sun
And with a bucket, draw water for myself
With the racoons and squirrels watching me clean
Sitting silently, with an offer to help
And, God, I've traveled these roads so many
times before
Never knowing why or what for,
Just that they were there.
I
.,.
rich stephens
"Where has the Man in Me Gone"
Where has the man in me gone?
Did he lose his way in the wind
Just a shadow of the man he was
last
night
Or is he pretending to be blind?
Can a candle's light melt away
Or can it forever burn its light?
A man with a heart turned to stone
Lost in his eyes of rust
Where has the man in me gone?
Has he flown towards the desert to dig his grave
Or
is
he looking,
looking
for the sun?
Where has the man in me gone?
Say something that will be sweet to my ears
So that I can hear-and understand-and believe.
Last night there was one;
In the morning there was none-
Tell me, where the man in me has gone?
Tonight there cries a lonely man
Sleeping with his world of dreams
The ground is a long way down tonight-
Maybe tomorrow he'll land.
21
23
john witter
24
Late March
While digging
this dull sod runs
drab into c
i
nnamon
grave green leek
lead gray straw spins to gold
glancing up I see
two brittle-brown
summer-leaves-sault me
and pause
with the point of
my shovel
the shadow
returns
To Work
Sun beats the road
3/18/78
to a long gold band-
makes my eyes ring
old snow
winter's ash
forms a scab down the shoulder
yesterday's left a dry note
on the glass
thru this I read the morning
j
john witter
3/16/78
Footloose petals fell
melting to mud all morning
by three
the March had barely stretched a hand past noon
every tree and bush bloomed white
Mid-December
Only shadows grow
shadeless
our slice of earth
frosted white
squints under the weight of a dull sky
the sun yawns
an empty barge shivers
shrinks toward the bridge
the river bares its ribs
25
dot
rb
dotegerton
26
/
'
r '
!"
'
\
..
.
I
1\
dotegerton
27
pau/ nunziata
28
pau/ nunziata
29
kathy growney
30
Call me Ishmael. Really, a guy named Herman Mellville deserves credit for that line,
but it worked so well for him that I just had to borrow it. Now that I've got your
atten-
tion, my name is Sherman. At the time I was born my mother had something about either
tanks or anti-trust acts, and hence the origin of my unusual name. But that was my
mother's problem, and if you want to know her bizarre tale, task her psychiatrist. This
is my story.
This is an honest to goodness, guaranteed-or-your-money-back account of what it is like
to be an ass-hole by a leading expert-myself. Now you may say to yourself, "Surely this
guy doesn't mean this. He doesn't realyl think he's an ass-hole." Wrong. I always believe
what I read on bathroom walls, and especially in my own house.
I have to admit, my physical appearance doesn't help my image any. I'm five feet eleven
inches tall and weigh about one hundred and thirty five pounds. To make matters worse,
I have perpetually greasy hair and terminal acne. People take one look at me and they
immediately think to themselves, "Doormat." Take tonight for instance.
I work at the Uncle Floyd's Southern Fried Poultry Palace down by Briarwood High
School. You know the place, it has the big plastic smiling chicken out front. I'm the chief
and only chicken frier five nights a week. A real prestigious job, believe me.
Anyway, there I was, frying up the chicken with my usual flair and just waiting for the
crowd that usually shows up around 9:30. Friday nights are especially busy because thats
when the high school B-ball games are played. The kids come in after the game and try to
decide what to do with themselves for the rest of the night. It's usually the only time I
see everyone from school in any sort of social setting. It's just the highlight of my week.
I was standing there, trying to re-assemble a chicken and trying to figure out where the
third wing went, when I thought to myself, "Self, why don't you go up to the register
and start an intelligent but light conversation with that new perky sophomore-type cashier.
Who knows, maybe she'll realize your inner beauty." And of course, like a fool I listened
to myself.
"Hello." I said, draping myself on the counter with a casual, senior like air. "How's
everything up this end of the store?"
"Don't lean on the counter, I just washed it. You're getting flour all over the place.
And aren't you supposed to stay in the back anyway?" She said all this in a slightly
annoyed tone. It must have been the "Doormat" effect.
"Oh, I like keeping an eye on all aspects of the business," I said as I brushed the flour
onto the floor. "Business really interests me. My name's Sherman, What's yours?" No
response. "Ah, I can see by your little Uncle Floyd wing pin that your name's Patti (with
an i no less-I should have known). Well Patti, you seem a little disturbed tonight. Is
anything the matter? Come on, you can tell Uncle Sherman."
"Of course something's the matter, you fool. Tonight's the Briarwood-Lakeland basket-
ball game, and instead of being over at the gym I'm in a God-damned chicken store. Now
if you don't get the hell in the back where you belong ...
"
Just then the manager Rob came out of his office and directed one of his typically kind
remarks to me. "Sherman, who do you think you are, the social director around here? Get
back to work." So back I went to my un-assembled chickens.
From my position at the deep triers heard the basketball team arriving with their usual
class and style. I was trying to think of some excuse that would let me go up front again,
when Patti stuck her head in the door and said, "Hey Sherman, Brian Walsh wants to talk
to you."
"Did I hear right?" I wondered to myself. "Brian Walsh, the athlete of athletes of my
high school wants to talk to me? This is definitely a first in my high school career. Maybe
I'm finally moving up the social ladder." Like a flash I was out at the counter, trying to
appear not out of breath.
"Hi Bri, how's everything down at the locker room?" I said.
31
32
"Yeah, fine Sherman. I just wanted to tell you I got back that History paper you loaned
me. I got an A on it." Saying this, he looked at the ceiling and floor and everywhere but
at me. "By the way, what did you get on it?"
"Well, I got a B on it, but that was last term. I guess they were marking harder then."
I tried to figure out how this mindless wonder got a higher grade than me on my own
paper.
"Yeah, well that's the way it goes," Brian said, as he pretended to do a lay-up shot at the
clock on the wall. "By the way, Mr. Nelson said that he's cracking down on people who cut
Science. I think he sent your name to the office after lab today. You'll probably get sus-
pended on Monday."
"Hey, thanks for telling me Brian
.
You just brightened up my weekend," I cracked.
"
Yeah, sure Sherman, See you around," Brian said, as he dribbled an imaginary basket-
ball out the door. Apparently he missed my sarcasm completely. As I turned to make my
way back to my chicken friers, I found my path blocked by Patti with an i.
"Oh Sherman, could you please give me a lift after work?" She asked this question
with one of those smiles that is ordinarily used on customers who leave tips. "I really
wou Id appreciate it."
"Sure Patti," I said, as my spirits began to climb out of my shoes. "Just let me clean up
in the back. I'll be with you in no time."
I cleaned up in a rush, my mind already on the conversation we would have on the ride
home. I thought to myself, "Patti must have experienced some sort of awakening tonight,
a minor miracle at least. She has removed her blinders and now sees me as the warm,
sensitive person I really am. She's actually making an effort to get to know me. Maybe
she'll even want to stop at the diner on the way home." I immediately began to calculate
how much money I had between my wallet and the change in my glove compartment.
"Ready to go?" Patti said as she appeared with her coat.
"Sure, sure, sure," I said as I swept a pile of flour under the frier.
"Would you like to stop at Carla's Kitchen on the way home?" I said as we got into
my nice but admittedly not cool car.
"Well, I'm in a bit of a rush," Patti said.
"No problem," I said altering my plans. We still could talk during the ride home.
"Which way?"
"Go up to the light and turn left onto Highview Avenue. We stay on Highview for
about a mile and a half. Then turn left onto Colonial Court. Stop at the third
..
.
no
fourth house on the right."
"Oh, the Betsy Ross Development. That's a nice area. Have you lived there long?" I
tried to get the conversation started.
"Oh, no, I don't live there. I live over in the apartments on Wilshire Boulevard."
Now I was totally confused. As I made the left onto Colonial Court, I ashed, "Well
then, who lives here?"
"Brian Walsh. A whole bunch of people from school are hanging out over here. You
know, no big thing. Brian said he'd take me home later. Well thanks a lot Sherman. I'll
see you next week." And with that she got out of the car and made her way to the
party within.
I sat there in momentary shock for a few seconds, trying to figure out where I went
wrong. Then drove home, getting a ticket from a no-shit cop in the process because my
rear tail light was out.
You have to understand that this isn't the first time that something like this has
happened to me.
I
don't know
how I
do it, but / a/ways manage to set
myself
up for a
kick in the pants. So you see, / really must be an ass-hole.
33
34
35
p.
mason
36
Winged Fantasy
If I could burst this
brass-barred womb
Free to emerge
I would choose my sphere
Swooping, soaring, scaling, peeling
North to Northeast
Tripping over tidal caps
Skimming the water's edge
Look at me!
An airborne hobo
Measuring infinity.
Primavera
The crocus gently lifts its sleepy
lide -
in apology.
p.
mason
Before Exit Signs
Before exit signs,
Toll booths,
Speed traps and
Citizen band
Before tape decks,
Dual exhausts,
High-priced gas and
Optional equipment
Before NFL,
Meet the Press,
TV Specials and
Commercials
Sunday afternoon was
simple fare
A ride in the Model A
Choked
Cranked
Ready for the open road
With a wide-eyed, gingham-wrapped
child finding poetic wonder
at "Burma Shave" spaced out
.
37
connie buckley
38
Having swept the beard
from your age ...
The walks
fast to your house
fitting conversation
in between the houses.
Telling you
only you
of the rape.
I've hugged you
with the intensity
10 times your weight.
The nights
I kept you on the phone
reading poems
picking fights
all the time pleasing ourselves.
Your brother
Your resentment
made my dinner cold
vacant of taste.
The cold walk home
brothers so different.
Yet, time wears differently
Having swept the beard from your age ...
christopher faille
Descent of Frost
Only frost bites as hard as this fear wholly mine
That the sun when it sets is eternally gone;
Only God can prevent death of all hope of dawn,
So the frost shall still kill of my heart what is left.
All such fear of the dark packs a powferful fine,
For the once-born must then always know their first death.
If the span of our life is duration of hope
And the frost I have spoke of has widening scope -
Then the flicker dies out to the clamor of crime.
39
lark landon
40
41
melinda bowen
The Memory Class
It was on the same type of sultry afternoon that the event flashed back into my mind.
I was stranded in a seemingly endless class, staring dolefully out the window. The sun was
just nearing the point of calling it a day. As the professor buzzed on with her sleep-
rendering lecture, I noticed four beams of light coming into the room full of stale air.
"Gee, they must have it good." I thought as I watched dust float effortlessly through
one beam of light to another. A picture rushed through my mind, as my eyes lingered on
the dust. It was of children playing on a tiled floor, very much like the tile on this floor.
"There was dust floating in the sunlight that day too," I thought. The image lasted no
longer than that of a flashbulb going off on a camera. Yet it brought back events that I
hadn't thought about in years. It was a memory, like so many others, that get pressed
into the recesses of your mind. Now that that one image was brought back to light, my
curiosity had to replay the whole scene.
I remember being no more than seven when the event took place. The grown-ups of the
family sat around the rickety oak table
,
conversing in concentrated undertones. There
were furrows in my father's forehead, while I watched my mother chew on her nails. My
grandmother looked down into her tea, seemingly whiter than the dust that floated
through the light. Every few minutes I would catch one of my aunts or uncles glancing
towards the little black box on the opposite wall. They would purse their lips as if in
anger, then take another sip of coffee, completely avoiding the pasteries laid out before
them.
My cousins and I sat in the middle of the floor engulfed in a menagerie of toys brought
from the different houses represented. Even we, as children, sensed something terribly
wrong. We weren't told exactly what it was. (We were never told about any of the things
that really mattered.) All we could tell was that this wasn't the usual Saturday afternoon
at grandma's. We played separately, trying to avoid the inevitable quarrels that were had
when together. For my part, I was more upset at not being able to sit with the adults
then trying to find out what all the mystery was about. I stared at the dust in front of
me thinking:
"I'm not a baby! I shouldn't have to sit on the floor with all the rest. I'm bigger, I'm
almost in second grade. They're not even in kindergarten yet!" The more I thought
about it, the more I pouted. "Grandpa never treats me like this. Grandpa lets me sit
at the table. He lets me play poker when they play. He even lets me wind his cuckoo
clocks sometimes! He doesn't even let any of the grown-ups do that."
As I thought of the clocks I looked to each corner of the far wall. One was delicately
hand carved to represent a hunting scene. The other was a plain brown with two birds
cut on either side. The pendulums stood motionless. The chains had not been pulled to
wind them in days.
I went over to my mother, putting my arm around her neck. In a whining sing-song
voice I asked: "Mom, can I wind grandpa's clocks up? He lets me do it 'cause I'm big
enough, and no one does it any more."
All the faces around the table went white. They looked at me with wide eyes, knowing
what I had said was said in blind innocence. Yet each wanted to stuff something down me
so I wouldn't ask anymore harmful questions. Their eyes quickly left me and glanced at
my grandmother. All the faces showed equal portions of anxiety and piety. It was finally
my grandmother who cleared her throat and answered: "Stephanie, why don't we wait
until grandpa comes home to wind them. You know how he doesn't like anyone to though them."
42
"When will Grandpa be home Gram?" I asked, not knowing the pain I was inflicting
with each syllable. "I miss him."
If there was a whiter shade of pale, the people around the table had certainly reached
it. My grandmother calmly pulled me away from my mother, putting her arm around my
waist.
"Soon, Stephanie. Very Soon." She answered without hesitation. "We
all
miss him
dear ... very much. We miss him because we love him, don't we?"
"Yes." I answered staring down at the floor, fearing I had done something wrong.
"Well then if we love him we have to respect his things while he's not here. You
wouldn't want Georgie playing with your things would you?"
"NO!" I answered shaking my head with emphasis.
"Well, that's why we can't touch Grandpa's clocks. We love him, so while he's not here
we won't touch, O.K.?"
"O.K. Grandma." I answered: now satisfied that I had established myself as an adult.
My mother, being the resourceful creature she is, took a pastery off the table and
offered it to me.
"Here
.
" She said. "Go over there and play with your Etch-A-Sketch. Grandma's busy
right now."
I went back to my corner of light with an adult reward none of my cousins had. I was
pleased at my accomplishment and played contentedly until dinner. The evening meal
only helped to reaffirm my conclusion that I was now thought of as an adult. Out of all
the cousins present, only / was allowed to sit at the oak table for dinner. I was sure that
this was proof positive of my coming of age.
As the dinner plates were cleared to make way for dessert, my father went over to the
box. He talked for a few minutes only to have deeper furrows on his face after he walked
away. The family at the big table talked in whispers, while my cousins sat at the kiddy
table playing with cold vegetables. My strained ears could only catch bits of the secrets
they were tel
l
ing.
"Any time now."
"Five hours?"
"They'll call."
"What
i
s it?" I wondered. "What is it that they're not telling me? I'm a big girl now
.
"TE LL ME!" I thought. However, instead of asking I just listened trying to act like
knew. I was hoping one of them would slip and talk to me about their dark secret.
Dessert passed in silence
.
I remember it happened when everyone resumed their positions of that afternoon. My
cousins were just put in the spare room for bed. They had cried and yelled, some even
screamed. Yet for all their troubles, in the end they were put to bed anyway.
"Just babies." I thought as I played at the table. "I used to be like that when I was a
baby. But now that I'm big I don
't
c
r
y when it's t
i
me for
me
to go to bed."
43
The conversation among the parents was clouded.
"It's been a long time."
"Do you really think they'll call tonight?"
"They said they would."
"How will we know if they're not going to?"
"We'll keep trying every few hours to find out." Everyone nodded at this in abject
agreement.
"Yes, that's a good idea."
"How about some more coffee?"
"I'll make some."
Just as the fresh pot of coffee was being served, it happened. There was a funny sort
of noise in the room. Each person turned their heads in the direction of the noise, and at
the stroke of eight, each bird simultaneously came out of the cuckoo clocks and counted
off the correct hour. The birds returned within their doors and the pendulums began to
swing, making that constant rythmic beat that had been unmistakably absent all day.
The family around the table reflected each other's open-mouthed amazement. As it
was earlier when I had asked my question, no one quite knew what to say. None of the
adults situated around the table wanted to believe what they had just witnessed. Yet none
of them wanted to truly disbelieve it either. Each person knew it as a sign of hope. Each
wanted to believe there was hope in the sign.
I turned to my grandmother with a smile, uttering everyone's thoughts. "Look Grandma,
Grandpa must be coming home soon! His clocks are ticking for when he does."
My grandmother turned to me with the first smile I had seen all day. "Yes Stephanie,
think it does." The others turned to her knowingly.
Not long after that, the black box on the wall rang for the first time. The crowd sat
on the edge of their seats, they watched my grandmother and I istened with intented ears.
"Hello, Yes this is Mrs. Kruppski."
"Oh, Doctor Hulahane we've been waiting for your call. How is . . . .
"
"No, I'm glad you called instead of coming over. Please tell me is Adam ...
"OH THANK GOD!" With that my grandmother sank into a chair, while the rest of
the room took a breath.
My memory movie ended there. The light went out and I was back in the classroom
once more. I glanced at the clock, "Oh good," I thought. "Only two more minutes of
class left."
As I collected my books, my mothers voice resounded in my ears. To her, that day,
October twenty-third, would always remain her "happiness day". Happiness because that
day had given her father three more years of life.
"It
was
my happiness
day
too,
mom." I told her in
my thoughts. "Happiness
because
I knew the answer -
I was big."
44
meryl samu
e
ls
Subway
The sun beat down like an angry old man
Descending into a precipise
Gripping a rock-like rail
Dim, dimming, dimmer, dimmest
Is this the tar pit of some formidable age
Or Hellwith it's immaginable smell of
a backed up toilet (and its equaling noise
of a flush)
1\-\\';, 'N
a~
1
G
,
n~
S
n\.\\\\
~
Yok, what grey stuff
Who left this remnant of a candystore
in such an odd place?
Oh, damnit, you broke my foot
I can't breath
Lifted in a crowd (of swines all eager to
eat the same droppings)
I find myself struggling to stay aloft
Cold, clamy pole
Fingers I hold in a death grip
Wouldn't want to fall on that drunk behind me
Put on that subway face to guard against
perverts and assorted wierdos
Surrounded on all sides.
45
meryl samuels
46
The Kiss
had long waited for the moment ...
Our lips touched, the pressure increased to a
(merged) union of flesh and desire,
A pulsing rhythmic tongue emerged into a foreign
realm of incisors, bicuspids, wisdom teeth
and tonsils
Giving way to the flavor of a certs,
Our lids became relaxed to the point of closure
and the dreaming began,
The dream of more kisses.
47
Editorial Comments
There is a strong need for students' art and literary talents to be expressed. What we have done
was merely to collect those works and group them into a magazine so others could also share and
learn.
The content-poetry, prose, and artworks, are all from students who have experienced some feeling
and then captured it into a form of expression.
We hope that all others who find themselves dabbing in art, doodling in ink sketchings, fiddling with
pad and pen, and writing poetry, will contribute their works to this magazine so that it will continue
to exist and represent Marist students' art and literary works.
48
The Editor
Rosie Nguyen
Marist College
Arts and Literary Magazine
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