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THE MARIST COLLEGE LITERARY AND ART MAGAZINE
Spring
1984
















~
THE MARIST COLLEGE LITERARY ANO ART MAGAZINE
uvu[Q]~~D~
Spring 1984
Editorial
Staff
Li
ter
a
ry
So
c
ie
ty
Editor-in
-
Chief ... Steve Eastwood
President
..............
.
Meg Adamski
Associate
Editor
...
Santa
Zaccheo
Vice-President
........
Je
r
ry
L
evans
Art Director
...... Stephanie
Miller
SP.cretary ..................
Pat
Nichols
Treasurer
..........
Rosanna Schepis
Editori
a
l
B
o
ard
Meg
Adamski
Renzo
Ll
orente
Pat Nichols
Marie
Esperancilla
Carl
MacGowan
Patrice Sarath
F
a
cu
l
ty Ad
v
isor
Milton
Te
ichman
Cover photograph
by
Debbi
Jean
Zegel
"The
Mosaic" is
a
publication of
the Marist College Literary
Soc
iety.







Before I
say
anything
else, I would like to thank all who sent
sub-
missions to
"
The
Mosaic" this year. I
was
surprised not only by the
quantity
of contributions, but by the quality as well. Literature and
art
are not
dead
.
Looking
through all the submissions this year,
I found
myself asking
the same question over and over. Why do we write? There are quite a
few
answers
to
that.
Some people say they write for recreation.
Others
write because of some
i
nexplicable
compulsion
telling them
to
write.
And there are t
h
ose few who say that they write for money.
But I
think that
one
of
this year's
contributors to
"The
Mosaic"
has
the
answer.
With his collection of poetry,
James Kurke
la
sent
the
following.
"Probably the most d
i
fficult times of
our
l
ives
are spent
trying
to come to terms with our
deepest feelings.
This
is why
I
wrote the
following poems."
Maybe that's why we a
ll
w
r
ite what we do.
And
now,
turn the
page,
and begin an
incredib
l
e
adventure. It's
your magazine. Enjoy.
Steve
Eastwood
Editor
-in-C
hief








There
is no need
to cry
.
There
is no need to
fear the future.
Be yourself.
Go your own
way
.
Be careful,
but be happy
.
Know
what
you want,
get it, and
enjoy
it,
for
it
is
yours.
Know peop
l
e.
Know w
h
o they
are,
what t
h
ey are.
Recognize
their
hidden
feel
i
ngs,
t
h
eir
inner beings.
Live
I
ife to its
ful
l
est.
Dream dreams,
and
h
e
l
p
fulfi
l
l
them.
Share,
live and love
because
there
is hope.
by
Jane Stanka









Th
a
t Fr
es
hm
a
n
Yea
r
I graduated
the
other day.
They gave me
a
genuine, certified dip
l
oma
-
not
th
e phony
kind
that they give
you
in
kindergarten.
And
my parents were
so thrilled that I had mastered my A, B, C, D,
and
F's
that
they spared no
expense to
celebrate. They even
rented
out
my uncle's house for
the
occasion.
A
l
ong
with
all the family
fr
i
ends whom
I
don't know, a
l
l my relatives
were
there. Even my sister
managed to
make
it.
Kate goes to college
in
the
Midwest, but didn't come home
right away
last month;
she wen
t
to
her
friend's
house
in
Florida.
We
hadn't seen her
in
six months.
"Chucky!"
she
excla
im
ed in
a p
i
tch
so high the
wine
glasses were
stirri
ng
.
"How are you doing? How does
it
feel to be out
of
high
school?"
I wasn't quite
sure
how to answer t
h
at, which
was
just as
well
since
my
s
i
ster
has the hab
i
t
of answering her own questions.
"I bet you 're all set to go to college."
"We
l
l,
school doesn't start for another
two
months," I said.
"Don't
worry
about
it.
College
isn't
as tough as
they
say it
is."
Somehow
t
hat
didn't seem credible coming from a person who
giggles when she
talks.
"You'll meet lotsa new friends," she asserted.
"Lotsa
great parties,
too."
She
apologized
for her appearance and
went
off to say he
l
lo to
someone
else.
I didn't really want a graduation party, but my parents
insisted
on
it.
Anyway,
it
gave me a chance to see my cousin, Tom. Tom has been
out o
f
schoo
l
for a year now. I couldn't remember where he had
gone.
"Green haven State," he answered.
"Oh, yeah. Where are you
working now?"
Tom
proceeded to tell me all about his many interview sessions. The
happy ending was that he got
a
job at an
insurance
consulting
firm
in
the city.










,;It's
not a great job, but it's a living."
"Wou
l
d you
rather
be working or still
in
schoo
l
?"
"Hey," he expounded,
"college
is
n't
all fun and games at Green-
haven State. You work at Greenhaven."
Tom always was a
litt
l
e different.
I
l
ike his parents, my aunt and uncle. I made my way over
to
the
kitchen where they were telling my parents about the flowers they saw
on their trip to Maine. After a while, Aunt Anne decided I was getting
bored, so she changed the subject.
"So, Joe High School
is
going to college. Oh, that first year is
tough!
Our Joe had to work so hard so he could run track in the Spring
.
..
"
She went on for about two hours before my uncle could get a word
in edgewise. Uncle Rich
is
the type of guy who nods his head with every
-
thing you say and says "Yes, that's
very
true."
In
this case,
he
e
l
abo
-
rated
on that premise for me.
He said, "You should do very well
in
school, Charles."
The aforementioned Joe is the pride of
the
family. He's really going
places. My parents want me to be
like
him. They don't actually say so,
but I'm sure
that's
what
they're
thinking.
Joe's a nice guy. Besides being super
-
intelligent,
he
knows
a few
things, too
.
"The thing about college that struck me, even in med school, was
that everybody was constant
ly
running around
all
over the place, trying
to do their own thing. And they were all do
i
ng
it
together."
Now
that
was interesting! But before I could give it much
thought
,
he was saying someth
i
ng else.
"Living in a college dorm
i
s a great experience, because with all
those guys p
l
aying guitars with varying degrees of
i
nadequacy, and
making up words to go with the music, you
get
an
idea
of where
seventy
-
five percent of the music you hear on the radio comes from."
And with those words, the
party
adjourned.
I
feel I gained some
-
thing from the experience
-
120 dollars and change
.
by
Carl
MacGowan









A
Daughter Lea
v
ing For
College
Jea
n
ine has
gone
a way
from home
a sile
nc
e
not like
any
past
emanates
in
waves
of hate
from the
room
that she did
vacate
in
other t
i
mes
w
hen
she had
left
it was
as if
she had
no
t
gone
for we knew
she
would
return
even
tr
ips
across
an ocean
I
eft a presence
in her
room
to
w
h
ic
h
she would
return
not so this time
for
her
father
must a
l
low
the girl
to remain
the silent
scream of mem'ry
prepare mysel
f
for the
vis
i
t
of a
woman
by Bob Vivona

















Septembe
r
3
0
t
h
All
I
ha
ve of
you
i
s
a
Faded photo, torn and frayed
Around the
edges.
And Daddy, that
'
s all
I'll
ever
have of
you;
A dim memory t
h
a
t
is
constan
t
ly
Becom
in
g
ever
more d
is
tant
.
H
ow
I
wish t
h
at
I
could just
Hold
your
hand
or
hear
your
voice.
But that
is
forever lost to me
And all that I
'II
ev
er
have of you
Is
a
photo that has faded
Until no
image
rema
i
ns
But an
ache
and a
void
.
..
A
void that will
never
be
filled.
by
Jo Ann Sopko
























1
'
Do you
See me? Or am
I a ref
l
ection
in
your eyes, one more facet
of you?
by
Sue
Jones
I f
-
~
~
..
.
-
-
~
-
~~
•
~
'
~
~
by
Don Eustace














Sav
i
ng
t
h
e
World
Twenty feet
into
the
hotel ventilation
duct,
she
knew
she was
making
a
tremendous
mistake.
Kate
paused for a moment in the
dark-
ness,
trying
to
gather her
scattered
wits
and
lost nerve
,
leaning
against
the
wall with her legs stretched out in
front of her. The large
rif
l
e
-
in
her
inexperienced mind she called it
THE
GUN,
heedless
of
the
jumble
of
letters an
d
numbers
that made
up its
identi
ty -
jammed uncom-
fortably in
her back. W
h
e
n
she had bought
it,
with the
loan from
C
i
tibank
ostensibly
to buy
a
car,
she
had to ask how
to put
it
on
safety,
how to
load and unload,
how
to
aim
and
fire. The nameless
seller, faceless
in
the
shadows
of the dingy
room, had seemed
amused
by that.
H
e hadn't asked a
n
y q
u
estions,
though, and
she
had
practiced
over and over
again
in
her
little
studio,
until
even when she
wasn't
touching
it,
her forefinger
remained perpetually, nervously
crooked
around
an
imaginary trigger. Her legs
were
trembling
in
the
cramped
space
and her
eyes
stared i
n
to the darkness
as if
trying to
see by sheer
will power.
What am
I doing here?
she asked herself
miserably.
And ano
t
her part
of
h
er
mind,
the
part
she
had
always thought her rational, sane,
methodical self in all
this madness, answered
seriously.
You're
going to save the world.
After that
it was easy.
She had
never had
delusions
of grandeur,
never
been
of a
megalomaniac
character,
had
in
fact been rather lazy,
wasting
her potentia
l
on a
safe and
unimportant job, that required no
great effort of thought
or action
on
her part. She was manager
of one
of
a
chain of local bookstores.
It
was no
outstand
i
ng
potentia
l
, either,
that t
h
e world
had been
cheated of, just one more person atrophying
of
their own choice and preference. But
now
-
she resumed
her
crawl,
the spindle
of string
with
meters metic
u
lously
knotted off,
trailing
behind
her. Mad
though
it was, she
had
no intentions toward godhood,
which made the deed
even more insane. No, she was
do
in
g
what she
thoug
h
t was rig
h
t,
as she
had been taught,
as every nice
Jew
is
h
girl of
her
acquaintance
had been taught, unti
l
the comfortable
feeling of
rightness settled like a warm electric
blanket
over
every action. This
felt
RIGH
T
,
like
watching
her
little brother
had felt RIGHT,
or doing
the dishes without being
asked or studying
in
the library long before
the exam instead
of on the night before.
Kate wondered
why she
felt no more than tha
t
particu
l
ar satis-
faction, and fear.
Maybe she
was
crazy
because
she had no more con-
viction, or fait
h
in her conviction,
than
a middle class morality gave
her.
She
t
ried not
t
o let
t
he thoug
h
t confuse her,
entrap
her
in
a
circular
argument
i
n
which
there
was no resolution.
Which was mad
d
er,
to be
sane
or
insane
when performing an
insane
act? S
h
e craw
l
ed
dogged
l
y o
n
wit
hi
n
th
e
hotel walls with the stubbornness
of one never
befo
r
e par
t
icularly
st
u
bborn.
She had
calculated
beforehand, to the best of
h
e
r
ability, t
h
e
d
i
stance
to travel before she reached the Suite L'Etoile; four hundred meters
str
a
ig
ht
in
an
d
o
n
e
hu
n
d
red to the right
.
The day before,
she
had
stood





with the crowd, gaping at the
huge
modern block that was the new
Geneva Hotel. She had gone to no pains to
d
isgu
ise
herself among the
November
tourists
-
no one
knew
of her.
Her
p
l
ans
d
id
not shout
themselves out from her blue jeans and hiking
boot
s,
or glaring yellow
raincoat.
There was no need even
to
ask questions and
risk
revealing
dangerous interest
-
the guide admitted freely that the START
t
a
lks
were to be held
in
that very hotel starting Wednesday. Another tourist
in
the group asked
which
suite, and
th
at,
coup
l
ed with
th
e
archi
-
tectural data the guide
reeled
off
impres
sively in
French, German,
Italian and English gave Kate all the information she needed
.
Really,
it was
too easy;
she
couldn't even back
out
anymore on the grounds
that her plans wouldn't work. The whee
l
s had been set
in
motion
without her; all she had
to
do was fo
l
low the path laid before her.
Now she wondered what the other tourists'
in
terest
was in the
hote
l
. A giggle we
l
led
up behind her clamped lips as she pictured her-
self dropping out of the ceiling on another gunman and a third beh
i
nd
her. It was like something out of "Get Smart". Missed him by that
much, she thought, and had to stop again, holding her sides
in
the
agony of silent laughter.
I
n her present state of mind, she almost felt
relief
at this sign that she was,
indeed,
crack
in
g up.
The triple knots that slid through her fingers
in
the darkness signaled
that she had made
it
,
if all went as planned, to
the
Suite
L'Etoil
e.
She began to feel around for
the
opening grate to the room below. She
was no longer in hiking boots; instead, she was wearing soft moccasins
and
gloves. She lightly padded her hands and feet a
l
l about her
in
the
cramped space, feeling for the opening. She found it, a ridged
uneven-
ness
in
the right wall. She placed a thin piece of cloth over the first
screw, to
prevent any sound of metal on metal
when
she
loosened
it
with
her screwdriver. It turned easily.
Half an hour later, the 2 foot square grid was free. Again stuffing
cloth under the
edges
to prevent any sound, she paused before pu
l
ling
it
away. It would all have to be done fast, so fast if she were to take
them by surprise. She I
istened
a momen
t
to the
l
ow murmur of voices
that
rose up
through
the grate past the blood beating in her head. They
had been a constant background as
she
worked, now louder, now softer,
but always unintelligible, until she had lost al
l
awareness of
them. I
hope this
is
the right room, she thought as she pulled the
g
rid
away
an
d
dropped through; THE GUN caught a moment on the lip of the
open
i
ng and she hung for a split second,
then
fel
l
painfully on her side.
In an
instant,
she was up, rifle in hand and backed into a corner as if
she were the one menaced by
the
astonished group of dark-suited men
instead of the other way around. There were more people than she had
e
xp
ected
and they a
l
l
look
e
d
alike. She almost didn't recognize
Schultz. Gromyko, too,
looked
nothing
like
his pictures. A movement
to her
left
caught her eye and she swung THE GUN
toward
it.
The man
stopped in his tracks and all of a sudden Kate realized she had not yet
spoken, made herself clear.
Idiot,
she thought, embarrassed.
"All right,"
she
said, "all right." She gestured with THE GUN. She
swallowed
-
something was wrong
-
if she
didn
't
conc
entrate,
she






knew
al
l
that would come out of her mouth
was
the silly phrase
"All right."
"All
right,
listen," she said.
"Listen to me," she p
l
eaded
.
"Listen,
please
listen."
She
shook
her head to free it of its echoing. "Please
listen. I don't want to hurt anyone. So you, all of you aides,
please
l
i
e
down on the
floor
over there
and
everyone
e
lse k
eep
your
hands
on
the
table.
I
f anyone moves, these two men die." Gromyko and
Schu
l
tz sat
close enough together to make the threat
a
possibi
l
ity. It was done.
"Now." her throat hurt and she
f
e
l
t like
cry
ing.
"Please. I don't
want to hurt anybody. But you
-
you have the power
to
kil
I
whoever
you want. I don't want that.
I
want
it
to stop. Please." She fe
l
t dimly
that she
shou
l
d explain to these silent, astounded men, so they wouldn't
think
she was crazy and would listen to
her
.
"Listen," she
said
.
"There's too much dying. Too many boys getting
killed. It has to stop."
Her
voice began to
rise
uncontrollably. "I
want
to live,
not die because
-
because of something going wrong. Don't
you see how wrong it all
is? I
don't want to d
i
e because of your
stupidity
-
and your pride!"
she
shrieked suddenly, making everyone
jump. "How dare you make me suffer because of your stupidity and
ambition! Or anyone else
for
that
matte
r!
How dare you . . .
tell
me,
how
you have the gall
.
..
"
sh
e
choked herself off. Careful,
Kate,
she
thought. You're scaring them with
these
mood swings.
"Please, miss ...
" someone said gently.
"Liste
n to
me!" she cried. "How
can
you stand yourselves? How
dare you contemplate the destruction of my wor
l
d!
Ho
w
dare you!
I
t's
not yours! You have NO RIGHT!"
"So, listen," she began calmly. "You're
go
ing
to decide
r
ight
now.
No one
wa
l
ks
out again, do you hear me?" and she looked straight at
Gromyko.
"No
more temper tantrums." She looked at Schultz. "Here
are the terms."
"No
Persh
ing
missiles
in
Europe.
They are to be recalled at once. No
more American
nuclear
warheads
in
Western Europe. No more Russian
nuclear devices
in
any of the Warsaw Pact
nations
except in the USSR.
No nuclear submarines.
No more
nuclear war devices
buil
t
.
No
neutron
bombs. No atmed satellites or shuttles or
ro
cke
ts
or space stations.
And
no more germ warfare
research
.
" She took a deep breath. "There,
simp
l
e,
is
n't
it?
Everyone wins
because everyone
l
oses. Write it up
and sign
it."
There were protests and babbling. "Shut up!" she ye
l
led. "Are you
people crazy? Don't you even understand what
it is
you're fighting
for?
How
can you want tha
t
?
How
can that be something desirable?"
She felt like sobbing. "It
isn't
RIGHT," she
sa
i
d.
"It
doesn
't
even
come close
to RIGHT."
There was a stunned silence. Then Schultz
nodded
calmly. "That's
a tall order, miss,"
he
said,
and nodded
again, his eyes glancing past her
momentari
l
y.
A
flicker of
alarm
raced
through her
mind and
was
gone.
Nervously,
she gripped the
rifle,
her eyes riveted on his pale face
as
he
continued. "And
I'm
sure you realize that
that
is just the
solution
our
countries'
leaders
have been working toward over thirty years now. And










I assure you that,
I ik
e
our predecessors, my colleague and I have
every-
one's best
interests
at heart. Your proposals are th9ught provoking,
but
it's
simply not feasible
to
initiate such a drastic program
into
the
world at this point
in
time."
Disgust flooded the back of
her
throat and spoke
through
her, now
no
l
onger tentative or hesitant.
"You
make me sick,"
she sa
i
d hoarsely.
"Well
,
the party's over, Mr. Schultz." She raised her chin proudly just
as he nodded for the third time. Full realization surged through her and
she whirled around to confront one of the
forgotten aides
rushing up
behind her. She swung THE GUN belatedly, as
if
she had forgotten
what
it
was for, when a team of security guards burst through the
ornate door sending
it fly
ing from
its hinges.
No, don't kill me,
please
-
but the
words
nev
er
made
it
past her
lips
and a short burst
of
gunfire
rendered
them
irrevocab
l
y
mute.
The
papers
all said that the struggle
was
brief and that none of the
diplomats were
harm
ed.
The terrorist's body was
identif
ied,
but her
motives and affiliations
remained
unknown. Schultz was praised by
both the Un
it
ed States and the Soviet Union for his quick thinking
and action, and politica
l
observers said
that r
elations
between the
two
superpowers
wo
uld
probably be strengthened by the
incide
nt.
China Doll
I must not
to
uch.
Though silken
robes
and porcelain skin
Lure me
and hold me
in
awe.
I
long
to
feel the beauty
and sheer joy o
f
touching
Just once.
China Doll
I
have
touched
.
The silken
robes,
soi
l
ed
and porcelain, shattered.
In my mind,
its
place is
h
eld.
The fragile, delicate beauty
of a
hollow
shell.
Foreve
r
destroyed
by the ecstacy of having touched
Just
once.
byJDH
by
Andrea Stohl










M
a
r
y
The Virgin
Ma
r
y,
She
stands on my tab
l
e.
Wooden,
but dign
i
f
ied.
She holds
her child
i
n
her arms.
Contently gazing into each others
e
yes
.
Softly, gently,
carved
as one.
The sun
sh
i
nes
brightly through my w
i
ndow.
Melting for a moment,
She
releases
her c
h
ild.
Christ c
l
imbs
down His
mother's robe,
Which f
l
ows
i
n the
bree
ze
from
the
window.
The brown co
l
or
of
the wood now
faded.
With
bright
e
yes
she watches
H
i
m,
He
l
ooks about
Then
turns around
And reaches up.
Mary takes
her child
back
into
her arms.
Holding Him,
Sh
e
glances
over her shoulder
We exchange
sm
i
les
Moth
er
and
child
Contently gazing
into each
other
's
eyes.
A
tear rolls down her
now
frozen face.
Wooden, but
d
i
gn
if
ied
.
She holds
her
child
in
her arms.
by
Allison Reck













A
Littl
e
Tal
e
"Mrs. Hardcastle asked me
to
come and give
a
talk to her girls at her
house next
week,"
Jennifer Leigh told me at lunch the other day.
"I
did
n
't
k
now
Mrs. Hardcastle had any ch
il
dren
.
In fact, I
was
under
the
distinc
t
impression
that
t
h
e title 'Mrs.'
in
her case was a strict
l
y
honorary one,
with
none of the
usual
connotat
i
ons."
"Of
a h
u
sband, you mean? I don't
think
Mr. Hardcastle could be con-
sidered usua
l
in
any sense of
the
word. But no, the girls
in
quest
i
on
are
the
ones in her Ladies' Society for
t
h
e Prevention of Cruelty to
Something or Other, I forget what, and
they
have al
l
sorts of cult
u
ra
l
talks to d
r
ink their
coffee
with."
"Are you c
u
ltura
l
?"
I asked, somewha
t
dubiously I admit.
"Are
you kidding? I'm the
local
ce
l
ebrity
now. After a
l
l,
as you very
wel
l
know, I
just
got back from two miserable months in
I
ndia doi
n
g a
seminar with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. I haven't exactly been broad-
casting the fact, but when mom was out buying the fat
t
ed calf for the
return
of the prodigal daughte
r
, she
met
Mrs.
Hardcastle, who
natur
a
lly
enough
asked her
wha
t
the
occas
i
on was."
"Very
natura
l
, conside
r
ing it's
not
an eve
r
y day oc
c
urence
to
wit-
ness a
purchase of beef on the
h
oof
in
the vi
l
lage,"
I ag
r
eed.
"But are
your mother and Mrs. Hardcastle still fr
i
ends?
I
thought they had a
ma
j
or fa
l
ling
out some months ago, over Mahjong, wasn't it?"
"Scrabb
l
e. I came home
t
o f
i
nd them barely on speaking terms. O
h
,
they
had
plenty to say
about
each o
t
her, or at
least
mother did, but I
never felt it warranted much attention
.
So I was a b
i
t su
r
prised when,
for some
re
a
son, mom
was
only too happy to
reveal
a
l
l
to
the
old
-
and
Mrs. H
.
probably felt
it
h
e
r
duty
to take
some winds out o
f
the maternal
sai
l
s and ask me t
o
do something I
would
h
ate to do yet co
ul
dn't in a
l
l
decency refuse."
"F
i
rst culture
-
now decency?"
Jennife
r
ignored
that with
t
he
narrow
e
d concentration of one pick
-
in
g the
last
elus
i
ve garbanzo bean out of the depths of her salad bowl.
As she speared
i
t
wi
t
h a flash of sha
r
p
tines,
she remarked
,
"I
only
w
i
sh
I
k
new w
h
at mommie dearest was up to. I know there's something
go
i
ng on, but
I
can't put my
fi
nge
r
on
i
t
.
I don't begrudge my mother
her outside
i
nterests,
in
fac
t
I
encourage
them, but not when she drags
me
into
her schemes. She's
u
nscrupu
l
ous, she rea
l
ly
i
s."
"Do you have a
n
y idea what you'
l
l
t
a
l
k about?"
"No, that's another thing.
I
need
to come up with a topic. I was so
phenomenal
l
y bored and depressed
in
India, and I've eaten be
t
ter
authent
i
c
I
ndian food a
t
the
Brahm
in
Bull,
and then I got dysentary,
I
really wasn't up to appreciating
t
he
l
ocal flavor."
"
Y
ou could a
l
ways make something up,"
I
suggested. "After a
ll
,
the
range of intelligence
in
the LSPCS does not
encompass
anyth
i
ng farther
east
than Free
P
ort, Rhode Is
l
and. And then,
when
the usua
l
little
b
l
u
r
b appears
i
n the "Courie
r
" to a more k
n
ow
l
edgeable audience, s
u
ch
as the general public, about Ms.
L
eigh
'
s adventures on
a
tiger shoot
under the south w
a
ll o
f
the Taj Mahal - well, I'm
sure
you'll understand











the common
reaction.
mention this because I get the distinct idea
that revenge for getting you
into
this situation m
i
ght be a major factor
in
the
subject
of
your talk."
But Jennifer wasn't
l
istening.
I
nstead,
she gazed unfocussed in the
genera
l
direction of the table centerp
i
ece
for a moment.
I
cou
l
d
tell she
was caught by the idea. Gradually a sm
il
e crept about her lips and a
lig
ht
danced
in
her eye.
"Wel
l
,
of course,
everyone
knows
they
don't shoot
tigers
anymore,"
she sa
i
d.
I
saw nothing of Jennifer for the next few days. Whether she
was
rehearsing her speech, or simply hiding herself from sight like a bride
from the bridegroom,
I
never learned. B
u
t the day after her scheduled
appearance in front of the Ladies' Society, I got a call from her.
"Oh hi!" I exc
l
aimed.
"Rather
say
'bye'.
I'm
leaving."
"Leaving! But where to? Why?"
I
began to feel an
awful
premonition.
"Your speech ... "
"Went
off
I
ike a charm.
But
mother
never
told me she had always
wanted
to join the club
in
spite, or perhaps to spite, Mrs. H. and saw
my
speech
as a
ticke
t
in.
I'm going to Ca
l
ifornia
whi
l
e
the storm b
l
ows
over." She chuckled unrepentantly. "Send me a
copy
of
t
he 'Courier'.
I believe it was really my finest hour."
The
'Cou
rier'
never did print Jennifer's speech, which I fe
l
t was a
wise decision on Mrs. Hardcastle's part. But from what I knew of the
case, and the rumors noised about in str
i
ctest secrecy,
it
seemed she
never did recover from the shoc
k
of bloods
h
ed under the walls of the
Taj.
Couples
Hands
Interlocked
Making
two
one
Loving unity
f
lowing
From one to the other
Shared joys
Become
S
h
ared
l
ives
by
Patrice Sarath
by
Pat Nichols









Cages
I am a monkey.
Peop
l
e walk by my cage and laugh at me. They call
me silly. Some feel sorry for me. They are sad because I am caged.
How
stupid
they are!
I
am not si
l
ly. I do not bog myself down
in
work. I
put
no stress on
myself. My days are carefree. My
troubles
are of the least importance.
When I
h
ave a problem, I hand
l
e
it.
I
do
not sit
and
ponder its com pl
i
-
cations. I do not worry about its outcome. These are things I cannot
control. Why should I burden myself?
Silly humans! Can
they
not see
that
they are encaged? They are
trapped by the worries and
frustrations
they bring
upon
themselves.
My cage has bars.
They
allow the sunlight to pass through.
It
fil
l
s
my cage with warmth.
The
bars on my cage are iron.
They can
be
broken down
,
although
not eas
i
ly. My
cage
also
has
a door. Friends
can come
in and visit. If
it
i
s locked, at
l
east they can reach through the bars and touch me
. I
know that I am not alone.
Human
cages are not made of any material.
They
can't even be seen
!
Their cages have walls, not bars. People box themselves
in
and don't
even know it!
I
t's funny how even though the walls are
invis
i
ble, they don't allow
the sunl
i
gh
t
to come through.
The
cages are cold and dark.
The inv
i
sib
l
e barr
i
er
i
s a
l
so strong. It is much stronger
than the
iron
in
my bars. It cannot be broken through.
There
are no doors. No one
can get
into
the cages.
No
one can reach
into
them to touch the person
i
ns
i
de. The person is tota
l
ly alone.
How sad I am for people. If only they could be happy like me. I
could t
e
ach them how. They could learn so much, so easily .
.
.
i
f only I
could ge
t
out of my cage.
byJDH










overlooked
have you ever felt I ike a pars
l
ey?
i know
i
have.
the one that's always over
l
ooked
no matter
how nice he is
or
how
good he looks.
just left behind
to be
tossed
out
with t
h
e
dirty
napkins
and empty potato
skins.
at least a parsley
doesn't know
it.
by
Sue
Jones







Desert
Empty
,
vast, and searching stands the horizon.
Flaws
caused by wind break the plain,
Only
to be swept away without a thought
,
Since permanency
i
s unknown here.
No path ahead, no remains behind,
Simply
suspended
in
Time.
A silent echo
is
heard from within;
"The wasteland grows ... "
No secret beh
i
nd, no promise ahead;
Dece
i
t and revenge feel soft underfoot.
Labor
forth
,
since no other path exists,
Or does there exist
another
way?
Empty, vast,
and
searching;
hollowness
within,
Except
for the
echo
resounding
"The
w
aste
l
and grows
...
Woe to him who
hides
wastelands within!"
by
Meg Adamski
by
Debbi Zege/












I
(
I
I
A Song for
Old
Comrades
Riders approached the fortress at
dusk
.
They
were just three dots in
the
gray-purple
tw
ilight,
almost
indistingu
ish
able
from the dirt road
that
wound
over the
uneven
terra
in.
Hidden by
the slopes
and
outcrops
of the
desert, they often
passed out of the lookout's I ine
of
sight,
only
to
return, closer,
but no clearer
.
It
was
becoming too dark for
tha
t.
N
ig
ht
would fall
before
they achieved the gate.
The
lookout alerted
t
he
watch and the fortress
prepared to
meet
the
riders.
The massive iron-banded gates were opened
barely
wide
enough
for
the
horses
to
squeeze
single file into
the
empty,
barren
square. Weeds
grew
up
in
the cracked and broken
flagstones.
Pitted ancient walls
rose in jagged opposition to the purpling sky. The fortress seemed
l
ife-
less, a des
er
ted
wasteland
ruin
.
Only a
skeletal watch remained
in
Tung
Fortress,
that
guarded the eastern borders of
R
es-SilhNar.
An
in-
significant
fortress
in a semi
-
arid
waste,
she had
yet
received her share
of
the bloodshed
in
the
grim
civil war that
had wracked her
country
barely a month since. Now,
in
an uneasy peacetime atmosphere,
Commander Shan did
not expect visitors (save
those unfortunate
soldiers
newly assigned
to
his
post),
and especially not those
wearing
the
Losfyr
's
crest, a silver gryphon. Shan stood with his soldiers when
the riders entered the walls
of
the keep
-
wondering,
speculating,
guessing.
The leader s
l
ipped from
her horse
and walked stiffly forward the
few
paces
to
meet him. Shan had time
to
think only that she has
b
een
riding
long and hard, and she
looks
familiar,
then
she slipped the
battered helmet
off
and he recognized
the
t
i
red
face,
eyes
and form of
Hanad. He just
shook
his head and grinned as they clasped hands.
"You!"
he exclaimed.
"
I
can't believe they sent
you!
"
Sh
e
shrugged
inside
the disfiguring armor.
"It's
a long and arduous story. Almost as
bad
as that ride,"
she
sa
i
d
.
"Let's go in.
I
'v
e got a lot to
tell
you."
Shan's office was a
shabby
affair. A huge wooden desk dominated
the chamber, hacked and gashed and standing
crooked on
four uneven
legs,
a
relic left over
from previous
commanders.
The stone
walls,
despite the desert temperature, sweated drops of cold
moisture
that
formed
rivulets in
all the cracks and
edges,
finally seeping back
into
the
stone floor. A small fire
in
the
brazier
flickered
constantly
in
an
attempt
to
combat the bone-deep chill. An
ill
-fit
ting
wooden door
led
to the
hallway; a tapestry blocked the
entrance to
his
private quarters.
Tall Hanad swept through
it
now, no longer in armor, but in the cloth
and leather of an ordinary warrior. Shan turned hastily from where he
huddled
over
the brazier, a
twinge
of shame
knotting
in his gut. That
she should see him like
that . . .
But, she made no sign. As she took a
deep breath and hesitated
befor
e
speaking, Shan raised a brow.
Ha
nad
was
usually the most straightforward of
women.
Quietly
,
he
sat
down
at his desk. She shook her head. "Bad,"
she
said
.
"The Losfyr's
dead
."
He looked at her
stunned,
unable
-
unwilling
to comprehend. "Yes.
She died
last
n
i
ght. They
-
doctors, courtiers
-
suspect
poison.
No one
had been very careful about food, what with the
Recining
uprisings,
but you know
of
all that." Shan's fortress had been struck
in surprise
attack
and the
saddest
thing had been the nearby
village
folk, victims
of their countrymen's rapacity and ignorance.







"Do they have
any
idea who's
guilty?
he asked, as a slow chill seeped
from his bones to
his
heart.
"
Everyone's
blamed
somebody
by
now,
but there's nothing concrete,
just court rivalries
.
It's all such a turmoil. There's no heir, no viceroy.
Faring has been
trying,
but
he's
on
l
y Senior
Councilor,
nothing but a
nursemaid al
l
his
life. And
I .
.
.
I was banished ... exiled."
"What
?" Shan
exploded out of his chair.
Hanad
smiled tiredly.
"I'm
just
a soldier,
Shan,
and not a particularly good one.
There's
been a
lot
of intrigue since you were established here.
I
got
invo
l
ved.
And
I
got discovered. I'm
running
now, trying to reach Frii Pass before
my time
is
up
.
I didn't think they'd catch up
to
me. There was so
much happening
in
Losfyr
riki
that I doubted they would send the
usual
hunters. But now
t
hat
the Losfyr's dead and
I
'm a
kno
wn
traitor,
I can't count of
tha
t.
I need to move fast."
"Then why
he
re,
Hanad? Th
i
s
is a
two week's
ride
out of your way.
I can't hide you here. If there are hunters, they
will
find you
in
no
time
.
You have a month's grace period. How much is left?"
Han
ad
got up from her chair and stood at t
h
e
fire, looking
into
the
f
l
ames.
She
was
silent
for
so
long,
he had time to real
l
y look at her
and
see
t
he
l
ong, straight back, hips w
i
de with chi
l
dbearing and the
muscular
limbs.
Her
face, softened by firelight, made
her
l
ook
like
the
young warrior
she had been when they had met twenty
-
five years ago
in
Losfyrrik
i,
serving together.
H
e
r
very youthfulness reminded
h
im
a
l
l
the
more poignantly of
t
he
passing
of time,
and their age. Fina
l
ly,
she
answered.
"One week."
"In
the
name of God," he cried, "It's only a day's ride from
the
city
to here. What
happened, Hanad?"
"There was something I had to do before I left, and
i
t took
longe
r
than
I
thought
it would."
Sh
e
crossed
the
room to him and took his
hand.
"Shan, I came to you knowing
I
wou
l
d
lose
valuable time,
because
I need your
help
.
"
He shook
h
is
head.
"I'
l
l do
what
I
ca
n,
but, the hunters, Hanad.
Plenty of
warriors
out of work
now,
fresh horses, food. My God," he
whispered. "It'll
take a miracle to save you."
She
l
aughed a
little
.
"Not
a miracle. A
little luck to
add
to
my own,
and a fresh
horse
if
you can spare one. But
I
'm not asking for myse
l
f.
I'll make
it.
I'm
sure of it
. It'
s
Carem
.
She's
in
prison."
Shan
sat
back
down
in
his
chair.
"You
certainly are
the
bearer of
bad tidings today,"
he
said
slowly. "Why?"
"Everyone
in the
city
connected with me - and don't
worry
,
you're
as safe as
a
person can be
th
ese days - is
suspected of,
well,
you don't
need to
know my crimes; my daughter naturally most of a
ll
.
Peop
l
e
know how
c
lo
se we are.
They know
t
h
at no
cell
would
hold me. This
way,
they could be
sure
I
wou
ld
either
be dead or out of the way
-
far
away. But she's
innocent,
Shan. She knows nothing of
t
h
is.
I swear
it.
Perhaps
she had
plans of her own.
I
don't know. God knows
Losfyrriki is boiling over
with schemes
and
ambitions. I
searched
for
her
the
moment
I was
sentenced,
practically.
Thr
ee weeks
ago,
I
thought
I
still had time for that, until the
Losfyr
died.
I
didn't know
where she was
.
I
thought she
was
still
at large.
We don't
exactly
keep a
close watch
on
one
another, and I
assumed
she had been
unto
uch
ed
.











I didn't want to leave before
she
knew of my banishment, and a
ft
er
making
inquiries
I discovered she had been arrested. They don't last
long
in
the
Losfyr
's
dungeon. Shan, I'm asking you to get her out,
or
if
you
can't do that,
I
jus
t
don't
want it to
be unknown where she
i
s.
If
you could
get word
to
someone you know, who can be
trusted
.
I don't
want her to disappear -
to
become
ano
ther
mystery."
Shan pressed the palms of his hands over his eyes.
"Al
l
right,"
he
said
at
last
.
"Now I know. And
I'll
do my best. But
I
can't promise
anything.
I
can't
leave
the fortress and just jaunt
into
the city."
"
Jus
t
so you knew, Shan,"
she
rep
l
ied quietly, her gaze unreadable.
"That's
a
l
l I wanted." Yet he felt a twinge of shame at his reluctant
response
to her plea. Shan looked away. "And about
those
two warriors
I rode with, they're
with
me, but
th
is
is as far as they go. Their sentence
was
only
l
ife
long
service at
Tung
."
Shan cursed.
"A
ll
they give me
are
outlaws and conspiritors. I can't
run
a post
with
soldiers like that!" Hanad
looked at
him, and
now
h
e
could see the questioning
wonder in
her eyes. Aga
i
n he looked away
uncomfortably. "It's different now, Hanad
.
That's
a
l
l.
We aren't kids
p
l
ay
ing
war games anymore. Now,
I
'm
running the games, and you
...
"
You
shou
ld
be running from me, he thought. Grief and shame washed
over
him
.
"We're both too old,"
H
e
said it very soft
l
y. "Don't
you
wonder what
it's all for? You've borne
four
children, and only Carem
i
s
left
n
ow.
God knows I don't even
h
ave a child. Not the
way
a
woman
has. What do
we
li
ve for anymore?"
"I
live,"
Hanad said quietly, "as I always have ... without thinking,
I
know, but
with
self-doubt. I may be too old to be
a
warrior, Shan,
but I am
no
t
too old
to
be human.
I
only wish
that now I could have my
chi
l
dren, but
life
i
sn't like
that. So,
I
'm going to run like
th
e
devil is at
my
heels for
F
rii
Pass. Frii and freedom, cry the out
l
aws!
If
I die at the
hands of the hunters, then ballads
will
be written of me and my
warrior's
soul
will
be satisfied. If
I
l
i
ve
...
we
l
l,
I
start
all
over
again,
Shan. Want to come?"
"I'll get you a horse," Shan
said
as he pushed back h
i
s chair
and
stood
up.
Shan stared
at
her in
the
dim
room.
"No," he sa
id
f
inally
and
wa
l
ked out.
The night
ha
d
gotten c
l
oudy.
The restive horse chomped
h
i
s bit and
pawed the
courtyard
floor.
Clad in armor once again, broadshou
l
dered
now,
Hanad sat on the horse
easi
ly
,
soothing h
i
m
with
voice
and
hand.
Saddlebags bulged with
food.
She
looked
down at Shan. This
time
they
were the
on
l
y
two
in
the
courtyard. Their
l
eavetaking
was formal,
stra
i
ned.
She kn
e
w then that their old friendship, seemingly so strong,
had been
breached by
t
i
me
and events,
much like the old crumbling
fortress
around them. She grieved as he
reached
out his hand and
clasped
hers, briefly.
Shan
stepped
back.
"Good
l
uck."
"It's
the
on
l
y k
i
nd
I
have." She
turned
the
horse and
trotted through
the gate.
Shivering a little,
he
turned back and
loped into the fortress
.
The
n
ights were
cold
now
in
the deser
t.
It
wasn't unti
l
he
was in
h
is
quarters that h
e
remembered
her response
was
the tradit
io
na
l
war-
rior's rep
l
y. As
he sp
l
ashed cold water
from
the
bas
i
n onto his face, he
wondered
i
f she really
could
stil
l
be
l
ieve it.
by
T.
H.
Anatos











H
eroes' Gate
" ... because any roll call of heroes must, of necessity,
read I
i
ke a rouges' gallery."
Th
ere is
a place on the edge of
T
ime,
Where heroes sit and drink their wine.
Men and women strong and bold,
All of
them
thousands and thousands years old.
This
is
the tavern ca
ll
ed Heroes' Gate,
Where heroes
s
et
off to meet their fate.
There are stories here of songs and brawls,
Drinking bouts and drunken falls,
Dicing, gambling, extravagant lies,
Insults, punches, blackened eyes.
This
is the tavern
call
ed
Heroes'
Gate,
Where
heroes
set off to meet their fate.
Cuchula
i
nn straddles a
stool
at the bar,
Fionn watches him warily from afar
Where he stands, one eye on Dick's treasure
chests,
The other on Boadica's breasts.
Kidd
and Gawain are
compa
ring
notes,
Robin and
Jesse
roar over each other's jokes.
Nearby Anne and Mary sharpen their knives
And mutter over their choice
in
dives.
Beowulf and Deb come walking in after,
Both faces f
l
ushed, eyes dancing with
laughter.
He
pulls
the
rough
homespun
tucked in
at her waist,
Her
shirt at her
throat
gapes wide and unlaced.
Likewise
Achilles
and Patroclus feel no disgrace,
The
ir
arms are entwined in
a
casual embrace
.
Hypolita
turns
a
jea
l
ous
face;
Seeks out Athos for so
l
ace.
There
is
a p
l
ace on the edge of
T
ime,
Where heroes sit and drink
their
wine,
And fight and lust and so
it
goes,
For where heroes meet are no heroes.
by
Judith Rose
Felice








Ragnarok
Candle burns on oaken p
l
ank,
Sheepskin f
l
aps in doorway.
Red coals darkly gleam on hearth,
And dim sleeper, ragg'd and sorry.
Who calls
Odin
from
h
is rest?
Broken
bulb
hangs hagg'd, askew,
Toilet overflowing.
Window scummed in glassy glare,
Mold on old food growing.
Who calls
Odin
from his rest?
Throbbing
'neath the aching skull,
Mad fire leashed in power.
Thund'ring
climbs to hurting pitch,
Crazed
I
ight
leaps
from
the
tower.
Who calls
Odin
from
his
rest?
And
all
the gods
rise from their s
l
eep,
A
wolf gulps down
the
sun.
The
golden horn
cries
bass
despair,
And
Ragnarok
is done.
by
A.
C. E. King










Toys
A young
l
ady
with
all her boys,
much like a child with all her toys.
After a while
this
one's no fun.
Now
it's
t
ime
for another one.
Bang! Bang!
Smack
it
around.
There's always another to be found.
Smash!
Crash!
Another
broken
toy.
T
i
me
for a new
one
;
jump for joy.
Thrown
i
n the garbage
l
eft out
in
the rain.
Not to worry, toys feel
no
pain!
The
toy is
gone, another
takes
its
place.
Th
e
child
is
a brat
.
It's seen
in
her
face.
Boys and
toys,
often treated I
i
ke dirt.
But unlike a toy, a boy feels the
hu
rt.
The toy she had forgotten; she now wanted around.
But
it
was too
l
a
t
e,
it
would
neve
r
be found.
Th
e
g
ir
l
cr
i
ed a thousand tears.
Her heart was broken and drenched with
fears.
Whatever she did,
whatever
sh
e
could say,
it
was
too late.
The toy was
lost
away.
This
is
what happens to boys of today.
Caught
in
these times,
lost
in
all ways.
by
Bird









The ultimate weapon
Surpasses all others in its power.
It beckons, as well
as
repels.
It commands attent
i
on and
perfection.
All
else is meaningless
as
it utilizes
its ability
.
It weakens every thread
of resistance and rebellion.
Long,
Smooth,
Hard,
In command.
The _
_ _ _
, the downfall
of all
womankind.
by
Santa Zaccheo
by
Meg Adamski








i
wish
just
for once
i
could write
something sad,
and caring,
and
very
beautiful
for you.
it would warble
like a songbird;
notes trembl
i
ng
on the
golden
edge of dawn
.
Or explo
d
e
in the molten g
l
o
r
y
of the high
-
t
i
de hey-day
in the noon-day sun.
Or
sing
down
the
moon
through night's
silver-threaded skies.
yet
h
ere
i
sit,
another stilled
tounge
in an
ocean
of s
i
lence;
but
always here.
by
Sue Jones








You are what gives me I ife;
What holds me together
.
You are the essence of it al
I.
You are what chee
r
s me up,
what holds me close,
when tears begin to fall.
You are my rescuer
when I'm drowning
in the sea of life.
At
t
he edge of a mountain,
beyond its edge
a dee
p
and fiery death
,
you grab my hand
when I'm about
t
o fal
l.
You are
t
he essence of it all
.
You are what gives me hope
when I'm lost and can't get out.
You are the light
at the end of a long dark road.
Y
ou are what gives me
co
n
fidence a
n
d reassures
me to stand
t
all
.
You are the essence of it a
l
l.
You are what restores
my faith
when I've just about given up.
You are the one who freed me
from beh
i
nd that dreaded wall.
My friend,
You are the essence of it a
ll
.
by
Jane Stanka











Of
apples
there are
many
kinds
And
I
will tell you some.
They have
skins instead of
rinds.
In French their
name is pomme.
Lad
i
es, they are little
And delicate and sweet.
When
served with
l
adyfingers
Lady apples
make
a
treat.
Crabs are best when left alone
Hanging on
a tree
Small
and
tart and sour
With taste they disagree.
Delicious apples bring delight
When
served
w
i
th
wine and cheese
And even when they're by themselves
Delicious apples please
.
Macs are the kind of apples
That
make your mout
h
go
crunch.
They are so good for eating
I once ate s
i
x for lunch.
Of
Rome and
Cor
tl
and
there are
so
many
Yet
in fact these are
but
few
Of the kind of cook
i
ng appl
e
s
That go into apple stew.
Not a
ll
apples need be red.
Some prefer them green instead.
Granny
Smith
and
Golden
Yellow
Taste
quite good
in apple
jello.
Winesaps
also
come in
handy
When preparing
apple
brandy.
Of apple types and
apple
kinds
And
apple trees, I know
no more.
And as I close this app
l
e
poem,
Remember not to eat
the
core.
by Amy
Weitzner









Th
e Master We
n
Ling
Po counts
the
hours
on
her
fingers,
ha
l
f as
l
eep in the silent room
where the moon
I
ight
spins
the
shadows
into
Time.
In
her dream
the white
rose
beside the teacups
gl
i
stens
with tea
-
smoke
,
and the reeds from
the
river
are woven
into
prayer
mats.
There
is nothing
to do
but wait for her
h
u
sband
to
bring f
i
sh home from the harbor.
She
smiles in
the
darkness
at his com
i
ng.
Had
there been
more time
there is no telling
what the painter, Master Wen,
cou
l
d
have
told.
by Alan Steinberg













But
that
was because
we
were young .
.
...
I could talk to you and
tell you of my dreams. Sitting
up
in
th
e loft, we
shared
so
many laughs,
a
nd
so ma
n
y tears. But
that
was because I was
eight
and you
we
re
ten.
We used to play "truth or dare" up in
that
o
l
d
hayloft.
I would dare
you to jump from the top step of the
r
ic
kety
ladder, and
I
always
flinched as you stepped off
that
rung to
l
and
in
the m
i
sty haypile
below. I
worried
about you
.
But you did your share of worrying,
too,
for you knew I could
never turn
down a dare. You dared me to swing
from
the
old rope outside
the
door of the barn. When the rope frayed
and
broke, and I crashed to
the
ground, you were
by
my side
instantly,
p
l
eading for my forg
i
veness, and promising never to ask me
to
do some-
thi
ng
I didn't want to do aga
i
n. I hated you unt
i
l I saw the
tears tra
il
ing
down your face. You were more scared than
I
was, weren't you? But
that's
because I was
ten
and you were twelve.
When I was thirteen,
I
stopped putting my
hair
in
p
i
gtails, but we
were
still young.
Our
l
oft games became battles to prove who was more
mature. Yo
u
knew
I
still could not refuse a dare, so you dared the
u
l
timate; you dared me to kiss you.
I
was scared, but you
l
ooked so
proud
of yourself for "beat
i
ng" me. So I accepted your chal
l
enge.
But
that's because we
we
re
so young.
Soon our loft games turned to sharing games. You shared with me
your knowledge and
exper
ience
.
But
you never asked me
to
do anything
I didn't want to do. Maybe that's
because
you were sti
l
l afraid of
yourself.
You
l
eft fo
r
col
l
ege
the
day I turned sixteen. I d
i
dn't feel very
young then. My
insides
hurt with the most adult pain I've ever felt. I
knew that when you came home for Christmas, playing
ch
i
l
dish truth
or dare games would not be
enoug
h
for you, and
I
was r
i
ght. We s
p
ent
a week
in
our
l
oft, just talking,
because
I was sixteen, and you were a
man. But we were both so very young.
Two years later, I
went
off to school as well. I felt so old,
b
ecause it
i
s only old people who
l
ose track of their friends.
I
met someone
th
ere
who
reminded me of you. He said he never wanted to dare
me
to
do
anything
I
didn't want to do. But tha
t
was because we were so young.
No, not young
as
individuals,
but young as
a
pair.
Is that what happened
between
you and I?
D
id
we get too old
together, or were we just not enough old
to
realize how young we
really were?
If that is the case, then please
. . . . .
accept my dare. Please call
m
e
..... p
l
ease
...
..
I dare you. We really are so young.
by
Tara
Scanlon










U
ncertain Cloud
Standing on
the
shoreline,
The man w
i
th
a
m
illion
faces
Calls
to me.
But
the water feels
Cold and unfamiliar,
So I
retreat.
He
appears
in
a
field,
Bursting forth from the daisies
With
a
glint in his eyes.
Pointing
upward,
he hints
of
The
Unknown.
But feeling unsure and insignificant,
I run
Leav
in
g
crushed
flowers
in
my
wake.
Like
an uncertain cloud
I dr
i
ft about
Sometimes evading his questioning glances
But
never forgetting
h
is
presence
.
by
Jennifer Nash










Dateline: Rhinebeck
{RH
I
NEBECK)
-
Po
l
ice today report sightings of what t
h
ey describe as
a h
i
deo
u
s
fla
me/smog breath
i
ng creature schlepp
i
ng
a
rou
nd
in the
Hudson River near the town of R
h
inebec
k.
The sigh
t
in
g
s reported
l
y started abou
t
a week ago accord
i
ng to
po
l
ic
e
an
d
area
r
esidents. A conf
l
icting
report comes from
H
oward
,
the
"Town Drun
k
", who claims that the monster has been around for years,
a
l
though
h
e admits tha
t i
t used to
h
ave "four
l
egs,
a trunk and a pinkis
h
pallor, and
i
t
a
lways
used
t
o
h
ang around t
h
e Main Street area."
Howard cou
l
d not e
x
plai
n
the creature's sudden affinity for water.
I
n
an attempt
to
dispel the rumors of the so-called "Hudso
n
River
Monster"
yesterday,
t
he Mayor of Rhinebeck was quo
t
ed
as say
i
ng
"There
is no such thing as this so
-
called 'Hudson River Monster',
and
to
prove it,
I'm gonna go for a swim in the
river
myself."
Town elections
wil
l
be
h
eld in
two days
to replace the recently
missing
mayor following his as yet
unexpla
i
ned disappearance
late
yesterday.
He was
reportedly
last seen by
two
fishermen currently be
i
ng
treated in
St. Francis Hospita
l
in
Poughkeepsie for
i
n
juries
incurred
after
a boating accident on
t
he Hudson R
i
ver
near
Rhinebeck
last
evening.
The men wish to remain
unidentified.
One
of
the
fishermen,
E
l
gin Stern, 53, of Rhinebeck, sa
i
d that
he
saw the
former mayor step
into
the
river
at approximately
5:37pm yesterday,
swim around
casually
for a while, then
scream
"AAAAAUUUUUGH
!" before
disappearing suddenly
beneath the
surface of the river.
"Damnedest
thing I
ever saw," Stern said
as he
turned a
pleasing
shade
of
blue and vanished.
"Damnedest
th
i
ng I ever saw,"
said
Stern's friend, Robert Donahue,
51, of
Great Bottleneck,
New
Jersey. "Elgin
usually turns a rather
attractive
red before he vanishes."
by
Steve Eastwood









T
he B
r
eak
U
p
Qh
the
l
ove spat
!::!eaven
l
y couple
now
separate
§he said it was he
!::!e said
i
t
was she
Jndep
endence
is
so lonely
Iheir honor wil
l
not al
l
ow amends
Jmpossible to return
Ioo bad
§ad story
Qmnicient
is
the observer
yecto
r is
the pride
_sternal
scar
Remember?
Anonymous








P
a
trons
The Marist
Co
l
lege Literary
Society
w
i
shes to thank our patrons who
helped
us
publish
the
1984 Mosaic.
Frank
and
Joyc
e
Adamski
Kar
en
But
k
ovich
I
rma
E
astwood
Fred
and
Nancy Downing Gainer
Marianne
G
entile
B
ruce and
Edith Go
l
dste
i
n
Mark Leach
Aldo
and
Jean
Llore
n
te
Mi
k
e Lowe
n
Andrew Molloy
D
ennis
J.
Murray
Debb
ie
O
l
in
Sue Palmer
Diane Perreira
L
i
nda
Scorza
Milton
Te
i
chman
the V
ivona
family
Michael Wa
r
d
Brad
Webber
Fel
ic
i
a Zaccheo
M
r.
and Mrs.
J. Zaccheo








The Mosaic
Published by
T
he Marist
College
Literary
Society
Printed by Maar
Printing
•
Poughkeepsie, New York


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